THE PLAINS OF Eridanus Prime glistened, light from its twin red suns reflecting off the glossy, lilac grasses rustling in the breeze. An Eridanian interstellar cruiser hung in the stratosphere. Flashes of light popped around it—explosions from the low-orbit battle. Hidden among the grasses were Eridanian death squads; Lexlitha used to be one of them, a Praetor. As Derek Storm cautiously brushed aside the lavender blades with his rifle, walking at a crouch, he wondered if Lexlitha felt remorseful being back on her home world, stalking her own people.

Derek pulled up his long-range sensor readout and was practically blinded. It was saturated with the blips of opposing forces. (Every squad in the game was on Eridanus Prime tonight. A text alert had gone out earlier in the day announcing a major event. Now, over a million players from all over the globe were online. Because the game was so clogged, his squad couldn’t go to the capitol as they’d planned. Instead, they had been spawned on the plains, with warnings of other squads in the area. While Timothy’s squad was on a secure channel, others could communicate directly with them via the chatroom.)

Derek tightened his radar’s range. Lexlitha’s representational radar blip was just ahead of him. Occasionally, her purple curls bobbed above the periwinkle waves. Derek ached with the need to tell her how he felt, to proclaim his love. It was as though a flesh-eating slug from the mercury mines of Tucana III had burrowed into his ear, tunneled its way to his chest, and was lunching on his heart. But every time he attempted the conversation, some internal barrier stopped him. Why couldn’t he tell her how he felt? What was wrong with him?

The twin suns, Jaxrintha and Xaxtygimoth—named for the twin goddesses who, according to Eridanian mythology, created the universe—were setting above them. The stars, twinkling in the blue-black sky, were joined by gray plumes of smoke from the skirmishes in the capitol. At the sight of the smoke, a fire grew in Derek.

“I’m seeing five squads ahead of us,” he said. If he was too much of a coward to tell Lexlitha he loved her, he would pick a fight with another team, redirect his anger and frustration.

“Stick to the mission parameters,” Lexlitha said.

“Let’s engage one of them. That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Yeah, let’s go full-on hack and slash,” Stan said. “I brought my flamethrower. I could sneak around behind them and light up the grass, chase them toward you.”

“Eridanian grass is highly flammable and toxic,” Lexlitha said. “You’d kill us all. Remember the plan. We’re here to practice turtling.”

“There are no positions here to defend,” Derek said. He took out his knife and sliced the grasses. “What are we protecting, the Eridanian wicker basket market?”

“Wicker baskets are a huge part of the Eridanian economy,” Lexlitha said. “It’s one of our leading exports.”

“I’m sure wicker baskets can compete economically with planet-killing starships.” Above them, flashes of light continued around the massive vessel.

“Dude?” David said. “You just low-key disrespected wicker baskets.”

“Yeah, sorry, Lexlitha,” Derek said. “We all love wicker baskets.”

“What’s gotten into you tonight?” she asked.

“I’m just bored.” (Timothy punched himself in the thigh. Another opportunity missed.)

An alert came up on the chat, directed at his squad.

It was Mexticlus, captain of Choke Hold Money Squad, one of the many random teams that had also been spawned on the plains.

Mexticlus: Are you guys gonna stand around all night, or do you want to fight?

Derek checked his long-range scanner. Mexticlus and his squad were three klicks away.

“Here’s the fight you’ve been looking for, Derek,” Lexlitha said. “What do you think?”

“If they’re looking for a fight, I brought more than enough with me tonight.”

Lexlitha typed into the chat: Mexticlus, if you want to be reunited with the goddesses, we’ll send you to them.

“Let’s do maneuver F-7,” Derek said.

“I’ll take point,” Lexlitha said.

Mexticlus: Oh, we got a lady in the chat tonight. Nice avi! Do you have big tits? How’s about you come over here and let Papa Mexty motorboat those big ol’ titties.

“Fucking asshole griefer.” Lexlitha ran straight for the opposing squad.

“He’s just trying to agitate you, make you lose your focus.” Derek circled around to flank them.

“It’s like this every time,” Lexlitha said. “When will these toxic assholes shut up and leave me alone?”

Mexticlus: Why so silent, Lexy? You got a dick in your mouth?

Derek: M, if you keep this up, I’ll report you to Cape’s Standards and Practices for harassment.

Under a tree of magenta leaves and mulberry fruit, an Eridanian warrior, a member of Mexticlus’s death squad, aimed his laser rifle at the waving grass.

Mexticlus: That’s a bitch move, bro. I’m just joking around.

On Derek’s right, machine-gun fire blazed through the prairie grass, the first phase of his squad’s maneuver. Derek activated his cloaking device, making him invisible to radar.

Derek: It’s not a joke. Women make up 45 percent of the gaming community…bro.

Derek aimed down his sights, the Eridanian warrior in his crosshairs, and fired. The warrior’s head exploded, and his body fell to the ground before it disappeared and returned to its spawn point.

Something rustled behind Derek. He spun in the tall grass. Mexticlus had crept up on him, his battle axe drawn. Derek flinched. Mexticlus was huge. He was an Eridanian Primus: an elite warrior marked by his tusks and garnet red skin. An Ophiuchusian buffalo skull protected his right shoulder. He was too close for Derek to draw his pistol. As Mexticlus raised his axe, Derek lifted his arm and activated his shield to block it. Mexticlus’s double-bladed axe glowed with a power boost upgrade, giving it enough juice to slice through Derek’s shield and arm.

The suns’ final slivers sank behind Mexticlus, the red twins resting for the night. Derek closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, readying his soul to meet the goddesses. (Timothy flung an empty neXt-Level can across the room, furious that a clown like Mexticlus had gotten the drop on him, and that he hadn’t been able to defend Lexlitha’s honor.)

Then Mexticlus collapsed, smoke rising from his back. Lexlitha stood where the Primus had once been, her pistol raised.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” she said.

“Someone needed to let that guy know his comments were inappropriate,” Derek said as Mexticlus’s body vanished from the game.

“You’re always doing that, stepping in. You need to stop being a white knight.”

“But I like sticking up for you.”

“That’s part of the problem. Every time you stick up for me, which is just about every time we’re online, it reinforces these assholes’ opinions about me: that I shouldn’t be gaming. And that’s not true. I belong here as much as anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said. “I thought I was being chivalrous.”

“You need to change the way you think.”

Without warning, the ground began to shake, and a dazzling light flashed in the sky. Above them, the ship orbiting the planet cracked into two pieces.

“Did you see that?” Stan ran up to them. “Someone must have taken out the planet killer. They’re going to get massive points for that.”

The defeated ship sank into the atmosphere. Breaking free from the hull, metal chunks plunged, trailed by yellow streams. They struck the capitol, igniting new fires.

“I bet you’re glad you’re not in the city now, Derek,” David said.

“Everyone in the capitol’s going to die,” Lexlitha said, sorrow shading her voice. The loss of life would be catastrophic.

“Is this the event?” Stan asked.

“No, I’ve seen this before,” Derek said.

A brilliant, blinding light filled the sky. When it faded, Derek and his squad stood on a cobblestone street. People in tunics pushed carts past them, staring. Roman legionnaires jogged toward them with their pilums lowered.

“Holy shit,” David said.

“We’ve been warped to ancient Rome,” Derek said.

“Just like Season 2, Episode 12.”

“This was the event,” Stan said. “Sweet!”

“The starship’s engine,” Lexlitha said, “it was powered by experimental tachyon particles. When it exploded, it must have triggered some sort of tachyon pulse that sent us here.”

“You there,” a legionnaire said. “Halt in the name of Emperor Nero!”

“These graphics are sick,” David said. “But the devs need to hire some better writers. That dialogue was weak as fuck.”

“We need to find cover,” Derek said. “This way.”

They ran down an alley, leading to a set of stone stairs. Behind them, laser rifles cut through the Romans.

“Looks like we’re not the only gamers who were sent here,” Lexlitha said.

Derek kicked open the door to a one-room apartment overlooking the street.

“Let’s hold this block.”

“Looks like you get to practice your turtling after all,” Stan said.

By the time Timothy logged off, several hours had passed. His squad had survived the event; they were running like a tuned-up Cygnusian G7-9a land cruiser. But despite their success in the game, Timothy still felt like a failure. He leaned back in his chair and tried to scratch the sickness from his belly. Why couldn’t he tell Lexlitha how he felt? It would have been so easy. All he had to do was type: Hey, I think you’re amazing or Hey, I’d really like to get to know you outside of the game. Something like that. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had any opportunities. There had been a lull in the action. The Roman Centurions had halted their rush, and the other squads used the time to boost their inventory by visiting local shops, trading gold coins for weapons the game’s designers had deposited there. He’d even heard Stan and David calling to their moms for pizza pockets and cans of neXt-Level.

Timothy’s chest had tightened as the opportunity opened before him. This was his chance to tell Lexlitha he was in love with her, that he’d loved her from the moment they met, fighting their way through a small village of B’Modfolious on Cygnus VII. But he was bombarded with doubt. He didn’t know what she’d think, if she’d feel uncomfortable and log out, then never play with them again and dash their chances at competing in the Chicago tournament. Or if she’d be creeped out by his declaration. They’d been playing together for two years. Maybe when they first met, he could have said something. He had been attracted to her from the beginning—her mastery of the game and her knowledge of esoteric Cape Canaveral trivia. After their first interaction, Lexlitha had paused, as though she were expecting him to ask her on the game’s version of a date, but he didn’t. He just said he’d see her later and logged off. That was more than two years ago, and since then, Timothy wished he could go back to that moment and be the courageous person his avatar intimated. But he knew if he were sucked into a wormhole and traveled back in time, he’d handle the situation the exact same way. In the game, he was Derek “The Quiet Storm” Storm, a superstar squad leader, but in real life, he was still Timothy Henderson, the guy in the background, easily forgotten because he never took a chance.

The hallway lights had burned out a week ago. Timothy needed to change them but kept putting it off. He’d told Deborah he’d get to it, but he was hoping stumbling through the darkness would motivate her to change them, to change something.

From the living room, the TV blared the staged lives of real people. It was Deborah’s favorite show—a family of high-end real estate moguls who constantly bickered over each other’s privileged lives. She was passed out on the couch. On the coffee table was an empty bottle of chardonnay, a half-eaten chicken salad, and an empty box of curly fries. Timothy estimated she’d been asleep for about twenty minutes and wouldn’t wake until three o’clock in the morning, when she’d crawl into bed smelling of fermented grapes and fried grease.

Deborah drooled on a throw pillow. The remote was nestled underneath it. Timothy wiggled the remote from under the cushion and turned off the TV.

“Hey, I was watching that,” Deborah mumbled, eyes closed.

Timothy pulled the blanket over her shoulders and turned to go to bed. “You’ve had a lot to drink,” he said. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“Don’t patronize me like I’m one of your dumbass students.”

“I’m not patronizing you.”

“What’s in Chicago? I heard you talking to those losers you play that game with. What’s in Chicago?”

“They’re not losers.”

“They spend hours playing a video game. They’re losers. And before you say, ‘But, honey, I play that video game for hours. Does that make me a loser?’ Don’t. You already know my answer to that one. So what’s in Chicago?”

“A tournament. The winning squad will take home one million dollars.”

“For playing video games? Not likely.”

“E-sports are the fastest growing sports in the country.”

“You are the furthest thing from an athlete.” She pointed to Timothy’s round frame.

“It’s going to be streamed live to over fifty million viewers.”

“On ESPN?”

“On Capestream.”

“Is that one of those non-HD channels in our cable package no one watches?”

“It’s an IPTV channel operated by the company that owns the rights to Cape Canaveral.”

“So it’s not real.”

“It’s real to me.”

“Well, you’re not going.”

“That’s not fair.” Timothy felt as though he were still a child, and his parents had just found his drawings.

“What are you, six? You can’t go. I need the car that weekend.”

“I never said which weekend I’ll be gone.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll have errands to run, things to do. Our life doesn’t just stop because you want to run off to Chicago and compete against a bunch of middle schoolers.”

“If you’re talking about Team Panda Murder Cult, they actually won’t be there. One of their squad mates is having his wisdom teeth removed that weekend.”

“I can’t believe this is my life.” Deborah waved her arm around, knocking over her empty wine glass. It fell against the coffee table and shattered, the smaller pieces becoming embedded in the carpet fibers at her feet.

“See what you made me do?” Deborah plucked pieces of broken glass from the wine-stained carpet.

“What are you doing?” Timothy said. “You’ll cut yourself. I’ll get the vacuum.”

Timothy vacuumed the rug while Deborah stood next to the couch holding the larger shards and the unbroken stem and base. Her eyes glazed over as drunkenness flowed over her again. Timothy thought she was going to pass out, broken glass in hand. Then her inebriation ebbed, and she came back, full of energy, recharged.

“Timothy,” Deborah said, “right now, you probably think I’m being harsh, but I know how this will end. You’ll go up to Chicago and compete against a bunch of kids—kids who don’t have jobs and only play this game—and you’ll end up losing. Then you’ll come home crushed and heartbroken because you’ll have wasted years on something that was never meant for you.”

Timothy lowered his head, defeated. She was right. He was being delusional thinking his squad stood a chance against professional teams.

Deborah wrapped an arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? I’ll be in in a second.”

While Timothy brushed his teeth, Deborah sat on the couch and buried her toe into the carpet, digging for missed pieces of broken glass.