The Fourth — Chapter 3

Case Atriedes
Aug 24, 2017 · 17 min read

Read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 first.

Chapter 3

“Fuck!” Bron exclaimed, arms wide out in feigned anger like some over-exaggerated anime character, whacking a person in the head. “This rain is messin’ up my drone cam, man!” he motioned to the passers-by in the street. An older woman stumbled out of his way — a combination of fear and annoyance on her face. He made his hand into a gun, pointing at his drone cam, and mimed shooting it. The guy he had whacked in the head, still rubbing his throbbing cranium, looked up to see the drone skirt through the wet air down to Bron. Grabbing it, he pirouetted around so the camera lens faced up into the sky. The miniature HUD in his shades showed the view from the lens mounted on the front: his slicked back red hair, shaved sides, badass gold and black glasses, black leather jacket emblazoned with his various sponsors, and the grey yellow sky of Boston in the background. Bron thought he had the iconic grin of a celebrity, and took a screenshot of the scene to commemorate.

“Let’s go to an ad break my Trippies!” If you were watching the stream from the camera it would have cut to an advert for some shit clothing line that Bron was probably wearing.

He fetched another drone out of his back pocket and threw it over his shoulder. At the top of it’s trajectory small black blades sprang open, span up, and then the thing was floating instead of falling. It took a second to locate Bron and focus the camera on him. This drone made a poor quality image, but it was water proof. Bron hit a button on the first drone, He plugged the first drone into charge from a wire in his pocket and stuffed it in his jeans.

“Welcome back to Bron Von Vee! It’s a little wet here in Boston so I switched to water proof mode.” He winked at the new machine circling around his head. The guy he’d hit was still stood there, and Bron spoke to him — “Let’s go see what the Flesh Recyclers be doing, enfet?” The guy looked at him with the confusion of a person suffering a minor concussion. “Wha?” He asked, but Bron was already sauntering down the street like he owned the place.

“Douche”, Bron thought, “obviously doesn’t know who I am”. This was his street; his ‘hood. Bron was an Enstar: a world famous Vuw star broadcasting the life of him and his Trippies in Boston. His Vuw bio promised raw action from the mean streets of Boston, through the eyes of the nastiest group of Trippies you’ve ever seen. He didn’t get as much attention as Jamar or Luciel but with over three thousand monthly viewers he did get enough ad money to cover the rent his parents made him pay (never remind Bron that he lives with his parents on his feed chat, you will get banned). Bron wouldn’t ever admit it, but he isn’t that famous, or that popular: life is hard, especially on the East Coast. There isn’t much of an industry or work available here. Fame and stardom is one of the only ways to get out. At least, that’s what social media tells Bron. “…or, you know, learning a technical skill and moving the fuck away to F.C. or something. Then who’d pay rent for that shitty room?” he once complained to his Mum after a long argument (which wasn’t broadcast so he didn’t lose any viewers for being mean to his ‘rents). Instead of working Bron spent day and night trying his hardest to grow his Enstar following. He was constantly switched on to what’s cool, constantly streaming (expect when he’s in chill time with Aliza, or when Razor sends him on a Mish’). As soon as he turned sixteen Bron dropped out of the school his Mum and Dad put him in and he started rolling with a local gang called the Flesh Recyclers, his “Trippies”, just to make his Enstar show exciting enough to gather attention. Bron’s parents weren’t exactly okay with this entrepreneurial decision so they watched his show from time to time to make sure he wasn’t getting into too much trouble. “This gang is pretty fuggin’ hardcore. You know what Flesh Recyclers do?” Bron once asked his viewers (618 at that exact moment in time). He had his arm slung around Aliza, on the back of a jacked car cruising on the freeway. “I’ll give you a clue: it involves flesh, and recycling.” He grinned a grin that said “figure the rest out”. In a time where organ replacement is about as common as getting your teeth straightened: a lot of people will pay good money for top quality organs. Two weeks later, Bron, high as fuck again, would be on Enstar at 4:43am, to 898 viewers. Here in a ruined diner on the side of an old industrial estate he sat eating dirty eggs with some random dude he met at a rave that night. He was spilling out secrets to the guy like he was high on truth serum or something: “-because they’re cheaper than artificial implants, and I shit you not, they’re often marketed as “artisanal” and stuff like that. People love that shit, will pay top coin for it. Worth the risk of stealing it from the hosts. Know what I mean by hosts? Figure it out.” You gotta take risks to get famous, and Bron is all about getting famous. “Ain’t no other way to make it in this world, enfet?” Bron didn’t even realise the guy had fallen asleep.

Bron heard something special was going down this afternoon; the Flesh Recyclers had a special Mish. He wasn’t allowed to go if he was gonna broadcast though — Razor would get mad as fuck if he did that. Apparently this was some proper serious stuff: not a normal jump. Bron wanted to go ask questions and get some scoop because that might push his viewer count past 2,000. It was currently at 891. His devices (he had like 8 or something) all buzzed at once and for a second he was a human push notification. The message popped up on his HUD: “Nous fin Bron, come meet us at the hangout. Mad sit to rep — Legz” Legz was a good guy, always let slip on the tasty gossip.

“See that viewers? Legz got some primetime salty beef to share with us. Let’s go see what’s happenin’ on the streets tonight shall we?” It was day time but no one mentioned that in the chat feed.

He jumped onto a bus, skipping the queue, ignoring the pay device, and sat down right at the back. These dingy old human-driven contraptions were a kaleidoscope of sheet metal and graffiti. The driver and everyone on the bus knew better than to bother Trippies wearing their mad-maxer gear, so for Bron it was a free ride. He smirked, enjoying his own royalty.

Mid journey, he whipped out his PMD, hit a few on-screen buttons, and waved to the drone cam outside, the dirty window giving Bron a sepia tone through it.

“Mighty fine location-blocking tech here. App called Hide Me Yo. Recommend it. Flesh Recyclers base is wicked secret, wouldn’t be able to operate without it. Even though the Poh’s let us do what we want. You know: ‘cus we fucking rule.” Winking at the drone. He would get instantly paid for that endorsement. His watched his viewer count go up to 913.The person sat in front of him crossed his arms, making a deliberately loud huff.

“Got a problem normie!?” Bron jumped up, sitting down next to the guy. He had dirty overalls. “What are you doin’ lookin’ like you work labour? Robots too good for your boss?” He threw his arm around the guy’s shoulder, who started making obvious efforts to ignore him, wincing at Bron’s brash attitude and comments. “Know what I recommend? Getting the fuck out of dodge and getting a real job. Like me, enfet!” In Bron’s glasses the map showed them heading under a large overpass. He got up, stumbled to the front and whacked the driver on the shoulder. “Yo driver, stop this heap of trash.” He had to shout up here because the old diesel engine of the bus sounded like it was about to die. “You can’t stop here, it’s not a-”

“Do I look like I give a fuck man? You know who I am?” Bron slapped him on the back of the head. The driver slammed on the breaks. Bron fell forward, whacking his head against the dirty front window. “Poutain man! You a shit driver.” Bron kicked open the door and jumped out into the street, the bus driving away as soon as he hit the ground. Viewer count: 1,047.

Born turned around a corner from where he was dropped off. He was met with a procession of old arches; a metal framework supporting an ancient highway overpass. Each arch was covered in an orgy of colour. Some of the graffiti was animated. Various scenes of gore and violence were etched between graffiti tags that were probably older than Bron. This place was like a cathedral to underground art. People used to come from all over the old U.S. to visit it: sometimes they were artists, sometimes they were just tourists. Now no one visited. Like an old empty church: a now-ancient, forgotten religion of spray cans and neon. One of the arches wasn’t covered in graffiti. Instead a big set of steel doors filled the gap. A Mad-maxer, Broozer, stood at the entrance to the Flesh Recyclers hideout.

“Ain’t gon let yoo in wit tha flyin’ ting Bron. Yoo no tha roolz” When he wasn’t being a doorman, Broozer was a tool for ending negotiations quickly and violently. Bron had never seen anyone best this guy in a fight, but give him a simple jigsaw puzzle and he might catch fire. “Come on Brooz, smile to the camera, I got one kay on the line right now. That’s mad coverage!” Broozer started waving, following the drone as it hovered around the large metal doors. “Soz Bron. Roolz is roolz” He spoke with tempo of an idiot trying to explain things to a sloth that had learning problems.

Before Bron could reply the door opened and Razor stepped one foot out. He was topless, had leather jeans on and had a cheap neon tattoo design over his chest. The first time Bron topped 900 viewers was when he streamed Razor getting that tattoo done. “Bron: inside now. And turn that fucking thing off.” He had the literal opposite accent of a real Trippie: Bron reckoned he was from some mega rich family but chose to hang out with the gang for fun and profit. “Man, I got mad viewership right now. Stop killing my-”

“Don’t make me ask twice Bron. You can fill them in afterwards. This is serious shit.” An orchestra of noise started from behind the doors and Razor pulled the door shut behind him, looking at the cameras carefully. “Bron: now.”

“Back in a bit folks, we got some nasty merde happening right now. Too grim for you, know what I’m sayin’?” Bron posed, finger in the shape of a gun at the camera. The drone flashed and span down to his hand, palm opening to let it land softly.

“Get in here.” Razor walked into the black between the doors. Inside it was dark, which was odd. Usually the lights would be up, the couches covered in leather clad trippies getting high, playing games, drinking, or just milling around waiting for a Mish. Black MIDI dub metal would be playing in the background somewhere. Now it was silent, except for the noises in the distance. “Where the fuck is ery’?”

“I told you: this is serious. We had to jack someone, bring them to a client. Problem is she had a fucking Angel on her. She hurt Aimz real bad and it sounds like the bitch is trying to get out again.” Razor was moving through a series of warrens separated by portholes, their metal doors ajar. Each warren was plastered floor to ceiling in newspaper clippings, neon lights, and old gig posters. The sound of the ruckus growing louder as they ventured deeper into the complex. “What I’m gonna show you has to be kept top secret Bron.” Razor turned, giving Bron a steely eyed gaze that backed up his statement. He opened a chunky door and stepped through. Aimz, Legz and Mike were in a fighting stance, surrounding a dark haired woman in the corner. She was smaller than everyone else and was dressed like she was from Europa or something.

“She got out of her fuggin’ restraints boss” Mike explained without turning around. “What do you want with me?!” The woman sounded extremely tired “Let me go or I’m calling the police!” Razor stepped forward assertively, a metal rod suddenly appearing in his hand, Bron must have not noticed it. “Calm the fuck down. You’re in a faraday cage. Can’t call shit inside here. One of our friends wants a word with you. Comply or we’ll knock you out.”

“Try it bozo” she couldn’t sound intimidating, and Bron stifled a laughter. “You know how an Angel works? It uses the glucose in your body to power it. It will burn you out before it stops. If you keep fighting you’ll pass out. We have patience. Do you?” Razor could always talk himself out of things, it made him a good leader. “Who wants to see me? Why?” The woman was starting to look less panicked, probably believing Razor’s calm manor. “A friend, you’ll find out soon. Just sit the fuck down and wait.” The woman slid her back down the wall “just stay the fuck away from me” her voice was quiet, timid, and resigned. A nod from Razor and the Trippies in the room settled down too. “Keep an eye on her. Use the tranq if you have to.” Razor pointed his metal pole threateningly at the woman for a second, then began to walk out, whacking Bron on the shoulder as he did: “Come. I need you to do something for me.”

Outside the room, with the door closed, Razor explained the situation: “This girl’s got an Angel. Kind of like a security device, in her neck. It wrecked Aimz when we tried to grab her, and it’s still got charge. We don’t want to risk bringing her along and hurting the client. I ne-“

“Who the fug wants to see her? Who’s the job for?” Bron interrupted. “That’s for me to know, not you. Don’t interrupt. I need you to go back to yours, jack into the Vuw and contact a fence. I’ll send you the details. He’ll give you some wetware: I want you to send it to me immediately. Understand?” Bron would be doing fist pumps if he was alone right now: Razor was finally sending Bron on a solo-mish. Was it time to break into his good books? A pang of regret hit his throat — not being able to capture this moment on camera was a missed opportunity, like, thousands-of-viewers missed opportunity. Fuck, he really needed some of that AR ‘ware. Act cool Bron, ask a smart question, he thought: “Can’t you just tire her out?”

“We need to kill her Angel so we can make sure she doesn’t hurt anyone again. Can’t take her to the client like that. No time for tiring her out. She’s got a plane to catch.”

“Absolutely boss” Bron raised his hand, and Razor grabbed it: bro-fist not-lame handshake style. Worthy of a highlights reel. He definitely needed some AR censoring stuff.


The suburbs: Rusty. Run down just as much, if not more than, the City. Bron’s semi-detached house was a decaying wooden abode touted as the perfect family home over a hundred years ago. Housing developers probably didn’t imagine highly pollluted air to have an opinion on that claim, or maybe they didn’t expect their houses being up for one hundred and fifty years. Dad had retrofitted the worst surfaces and retaining walls with girders he’d salvaged from the Great Trash Heap outside New York City. The aftermath of that major episode providing enough scrap steel for most of the North East coast for decades. Only caveat was the radioactivity, which wasn’t really a big deal when you weighed it up.

Mom was sat in her usual spot: hooked into the Vuw with her cheap headset, stained yellow headphones and whatever-the-fuck she was eating for lunch all over her chest. “I’m home Mom.” Bron’s lack of enthusiasm apparent to even the worst sociopath. She continued to drool with her mouth wide open. “Fallin’ asleep in the Vuw is bad, enfet?” He shook her and she startled awake, looking around despite the headset over her face. “It’s such a nice day, I fell asleep in the park.” she muttered. He yanked the headphones off her head. “Nah Mom, you’re in the Vuw again. You fell asleep.” Bron couldn’t be bothered to deal with this. He started to make his way upstairs to his room.

“Bron? Is that you?” His Father voice came from the kitchen. “I’m busy Dad”

“I need you to come in here, it’s serious”

“Not fucking now it isn’t.” He tossed his denim jacket onto his stained bed. Reclining back in his tattered chair, a hand-me-down from his Grandfather, he removed his glasses, checking his subscription rating just before he did: ten more subscribers today. Not enough. “Gonna need to rob someone or something tonight” he muttered to himself. He yanked the old headset down from the ceiling and plugged in. His vision blotchy white and black like ink in water spreading in reverse, revealed the Vuw to him.


The wind swept his hair back, and he felt the cold sting of speed as his avatar continued where he had left it: riding a motorcycle down an empty highway, the sun setting off to his left. He could run his Enstar show in the Vuw, so he jacked into his stream and his avatar performed the same type of stylish poses the real Bron did earlier that day in the street. “What’s up my Trippies? Got some deals going down, thought you’d like to bum along with me.” The viewer count spiked to 342 —but they were probably just regular viewers and bots. He balanced up on his bike, the machine continuing along on it’s own. His avatar poised and flipped backwards. Bron felt the world flip upside down, his inner ear perfectly fooled by the simulation. The sun set around him, the bike popped away. A cobbled street full of other avatars appeared. He landed on his feet with his knees bent. As his hand slapped the floor virtual fireworks popped around up him in red and black explosions. Stylish as fuck entrance? Check. Bron looked around, straightened up his classic biker jacker, and sauntered on down the street. Here in Italia you could be anything: one of the people startled by Bron’s entrance had blue skin and wore neon discs of light covering her modesty. In a café to Bron’s left a humanoid T-Rex laughed with his hairy accomplice. An eight armed man next to them reading two newspapers at once. A few giant eagles flew overhead as Bron brushed through a clique of Japanese school girls in barely any clothing, dancing together to an invisible Japanese EDM track. They were all probably dudes in real life. Bron had fallen for that once.

Italia was a public Vuw World: an entire planet in the style of old Italy, designed as a meeting space to chat and hang out. No violence allowed. Supposedly PG-13 (though the Japanese school girls would take their clothes off behind a back alley if you asked nicely). This world was one of a thousand provided for free by the Vuw Company. It’s popularity also made it the best place in the Vuw to smuggle illegal ‘ware without anyone noticing. So much data slipped down the pipes here it was basically pointless to analyse it all. Not even a group of A.N.I. could easily detect malicious content passing through.

Bron turned into a café marked by Razor as his meeting point. Passing through the shadow of the door the Vuw perfectly mimicked the way eyes have to adjust when going from bright to dark. The place was pretty empty with barely a handful of people inside. Well, two people, and a few weird avatars in the corner. Bron grabbed a wooden chair, sliding it out from under the table. Way back, Bron had appreciated the little sounds of virtual wood scraping virtual slate, the way the wood felt old and used on his hands, the haptic feedback vibrating exactly like it would in the real world. He had wasted too much time appreciating the little things. Now Bron only focussed on the big things: like being famous and successful. This job was a step up for him and he was determined to do it stylishly.

His stream was up to 878 viewers, and Bron replied to a few questions he was being asked in chat. “When u gonna stream some naughty time with Aliza?” — “Never bozo” Bron blocked that pervert.

“Go start a fight Bron!” — “None of these peeps could handle me, wouldn’t be fair!”

An avatar sat down in front of him. He was barely modified from the default model; an average heighted dark skinned man but with blue eyes. The default had hazel. “Are you Bron?”

“Who’s askin’? What do you want noob?”

“I have something for Razor.” The avatar opened a hand on the table and a floating translucent letter drifted into the centre of the table. “Oh shit. Why didn’t you say so? Reckoned a fence would have some whack avatar not this default crap”

“I did not design my appearance.” The fence replied statically. “Wuh? You on someone else’s account or something bruv? Good way to be discrete, I guess.”

“In the future please ask Razor to meet us in person next time we call him. We do not like dealing with middle men.” The fence replied. “Yo man that weren’t me, Razor asked me to do this. Favour for the boss is a way into the good books, know what I’m saying? Enfet?” The fence stood up and walked out of the café, not replying or acknowledging him. “Fuggin’ weird” Bron relaxed back into his chair and called up the chat window. He dialed Razor. In front of Bron a window appeared, providing a view back into the real world, and Razor’s topless self filled most of it. “I got your stuff man, sending it over to you now. Fence was whack. Who is this guy?”

“Don’t worry about that Bron. Thanks for getting it for me — I’ll see you later alright? We’ve got some work to do.”

“Anything for the Flesh Recyclers, boss.” He hung up the call. “Alright my loyal viewers, gonna cut to an ad break, but we’ll be back for some Vuw hustlin’ afterwards. Super Cycle 2401 or HyperOne? You decide in the chat.” Bron set a poll running for his viewers and then pulled himself into his chest, through the realm of nothing, and back into his chair at home.


Removing the headset, a fuzz lingered in his fingertips, his hair stood on end; frisson from the stimulation. He rubbed his eyes, and he felt like he was incredibly tired. Gotta keep things up for the audience though, he thought.

He made his way into the kitchen downstairs, ignoring his Dad, who sat with his arms crossed and not moving. Bron poured some cloudy water into a dirty glass and took a big gulp. “Bron, we need to talk with you, your Mother and I.”

“Mom is in The Vuw Dad. Like she always fucking is” Bron spat angrily, turning, to find his Mother sitting there too. “We have some news. You should sit down.” he Dad spoke sternly. A look of seriousness on his face.

“What are you on about? What news? You dyin’ old man?”

“No Bron, I’m not dying. Please sit.” His Dad pulled out a chair. Bron did his absolute best to show he really didn’t want to sit down, but complied anyway. “Remember the lottery we entered? For Relocation? Well Bron. We’ve won.” His Dad smiled.

“What?”

“We’ve won free passes to Mars. We’ll have to work the land, but it means we can start anew, in the New Red World, and make something for us. Something more than we would have here.”

“Are you fucking kidding? What about my show?”

“Your Mom is excited, she has spent some time in the Mars Vuw simulation. Haven’t you dear?” Dad looked over at Mom, who looked back at them both, an unfocussed gaze in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. It was very Red.” Her brain was basically like overcooked pasta at this point, Bron thought. “But what about my fucking show?”

“The lottery says we must go as a family — families cope better together on the frontier and can provide better as a group. We can’t go without you. Listen Bron; it’ll mean so much for us. It’ll be go-“

“No. No fucking way. What about Aliza? What about my fucking show.” He stood up and dropped his glass onto the floor, dirty water smoothing out in all directions. His Mom jumping and twitched, grabbing the thin hair on her head. He burst out of the room and ran upstairs. Slammed the door of this bedroom.

Fuck that, leaving Earth? His girlfriend? His friends? Fuck that.

He realised he was breathing fast, almost hyperventilating. The fog of confusion subsiding slowly into a buzzing sound — one of his drone cams floating in his bedroom. He must have forgotten to turn the adverts on. Fuck, his viewers watched the entire argument! He grabbed his glasses and threw them on. He tried to turn the averts on, but he stopped.

Right above the button his viewer count read: 4172.

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