Location: The Grindstone Pub, Deptford
Time: 13:00 PM
Weather: Heavy Rain
The pub announced itself without enthusiasm.
A flickering hologram hovered above the door, low?resolution and looping. A pickaxe struck rock. The image juddered, reset, struck again.
THE GRINDSTONE.
Inside, the air carried stale beer, damp wool, and the sharp tang of burnt electronics. Screens along the walls replayed decade?old matches with commentary drifting out of sync. Cheap lager. Sticky floors. No polish anywhere it wasn’t earned.
Cameron pushed through the door.
The room was full.
Not tourists. Not pros.
Grinders. Long?shift players with worn gear and tired eyes. The ones who ran sewer routes for hours just to stay solvent.
Conversation slowed.
Heads turned.
The pause wasn’t reverence. It was measurement.
Cameron kept moving. A booth waited against the back wall, patched together with duct tape and neglect. Tony followed, helmet still on, shoulders tight.
“They’re clocking us,” Tony muttered, fingers brushing the edge of his HUD that wasn’t there anymore.
“Sit,” Cameron said. “You’ll live longer.”
They slid into the booth. Arthur immediately wiped the table with a sanitizing pad, expression pinched.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“The bacterial ecosystem here is thriving,” he murmured. “I suspect a leadership structure.”
A service drone drifted closer.
“Two lagers,” Cameron said. “Apple juice. And whatever passes inspection.”
The drone blinked and retreated.
Eyes stayed on them.
A man rose from the bar.
Leather armor stretched over a frame built for hauling crates. A scar cut through his beard. Hands like blunt instruments. A Farmer.
He crossed the room without hurry.
Tony stilled. Cameron’s fingers hovered near his staff.
The man stopped at the booth.
“You’re Team DPS.”
Cameron met his gaze. “We are.”
The Farmer looked them over. The hammer. The vest. The hazmat suit.
“I lost fifty Coins on Bastion.”
“Rough,” Lenny offered.
The Farmer slammed his palm on the table.
Arthur flinched.
Then the man grinned, metal teeth catching the light.
“Worth it,” he said. “Watching Kensington get launched into low orbit paid for itself.”
Laughter broke loose around them.
The room erupted.
“They got cheesed!”
“Hard reset!”
“Physics engine W!”
The Farmer clapped Cameron on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt the booth.
“You rep the Defaults,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for someone to make the Meta bleed.”
He turned toward the bar.
“Drinks on me!” he roared. “For the Glitch Kings!”
Cheers detonated. Beer appeared. Hands slapped shoulders. Faces turned toward them, worn and watchful.
Not hype.
Something heavier.
Cameron felt it settle.
Tony leaned in, whispering through apple?juice foam. “This is traction.”
“Momentum,” Cameron said. “And momentum attracts friction.”
---
The Message
The noise swelled. Tony signed beer mats. Lenny swapped contact details with three different hustlers.
Cameron slipped away.
The toilets hummed under fluorescent lights. Digital graffiti scrolled across the tiles, half?erased and looping.
He locked a cubicle. Reached into his pocket.
The gold circuit lay cold in his palm.
He slotted it into the staff. Dialed to [Au]. Fed a thin thread of charge.
The hum stuttered.
“…Cam…”
Gaz. Strained. Breaking.
“…can’t hold this… janitors are patching…”
“We’re clear,” Cameron whispered. “Bracket’s clean.”
“…no… you lit up the stack… they’re watching…”
Cameron exhaled. “Let them.”
“…not rules… code…” The signal warped. “…Tuesday update… they’re coming for you… frequency—”
The circuit flared red.
Cameron dropped it. The tile hissed as smoke curled upward.
Silence.
He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror.
Orange vest. Hollow eyes.
They weren’t background noise anymore.
They were indexed.
---
The Bracket
The pub had gone quiet.
Every face turned toward the main screen.
[TOURNAMENT UPDATE]
[ROUND OF 16 DRAW COMPLETE]
Tony stood rigid. Arthur’s grip tightened around his thermometer.
Cameron looked up.
Top slot: TEAM KENSINGTON versus a Trash Tier seed. Routine.
Bottom slot resolved.
TEAM DPS
OPPONENT: THE VANGUARD
A black shield. A red eye.
A breath moved through the room.
“They’re admins.”
“They don’t play.”
Cameron felt the weight land.
“They aren’t here to win,” he said. “They’re here to audit.”
Arthur’s thermometer slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Tony swallowed, fingers tightening around the Bass?Driver.
“Be straight with me,” he said. “Can we crash a Game Master?”
Cameron flexed his hand. Gold dust still warm on his skin.
“We’re about to find out.”
End of Chapter 12.
