Free [Brackets] by David Sloan

felt some doubts. He wonde red if their plan was too simplistic, or not relevant enough. As he did w henever he needed to think, he de scended to his office, stood before the window, and gazed.
    It was night in Kaah Mukul. The moonlight was visible bu t diminished by the brilliant lights of the skyscrapers, the street l amps , and the occasional bursts of gunfire. To the north were the ruins of the old city, the complex of stone pyramids and rusty red plazas that was carefully preserved but scarred with history and war, surrounded on one side by the wall that had so miraculously held off the Conquistadors. To the east was the massive, sheer dome of the Montezuma Arena, the second-most dominant building in the city and the flagship arena for professional Ullamaball. Shifting clusters of green specks were the helmets of the Ahtzon, the Kaah Mukul police, patrolling the streets and getting into occasional fights. People flooded in and out of the arena, the plaza, the streets, all heading off to one adventure or another. He knew that many of them would die that night, some several times, but that was fine because everyone came with the understanding that the city was a place where failure had no meaning , where there were no lasting consequences. That was untrue , of course, but it was to his advantage not to let people know. Actions always have consequences.
    The Chinese project was a welcome respite from the lesser, more mundane demands that were the curse and price of creative success. His real office was bombarded with stacks of requests from developers and advertisers, most of them uninspired. Some merely wanted access to ChangZhang technology, others some piece of the city itself. There was a Belgian company offering an absurd amount of money to rename a street after their product. An entomologist wanted to release virtual cockroaches into the city to observe their dispersal patterns. A company in the U.S. was asking for permission to install a new wind-powered technology onto the surface of one of the skyscrapers—that one was vaguely interesting. And, of course, there were the incessant requests for consultations from his own government. But these requests were from people who didn’t really understand his company or his motivations. So h e was thankful that the Chinese had come along. They understood the games of reality and the seriousness of fantasy.
    Even as he stared, ideas began t o come, as they invariably did. He looked through the glass, seeing past his dark, partial reflection, and set loose an untethered thought.
    A game within a game within a game within…
    A subtle ding from his desk brought him back to the video monitor. His a ssistant reminded him that he ha d a meeting with an American who wanted to integrate ChangZhang technology into a grand facility that was being built. Noh had nearly forgotten about it.
    As he prepared to leave, he heard the muffled, anguished cries of someone getting his chest ripped open with an obsidian knife, and the dull thudding of a body being thrown down the stairs, right past his southern wall. He pushed a button on the controller in his hand . As his mind began to return to his own body in Seoul, where it was the middle of the day, he allowed one last gaze at his creation and smiled to himself. In a moment, it all vanished into blackness.

[ West Division : First Round]
    [Friday, March 20]
     
     
    Perry Lynwood sat in his parked car, only forty feet from the strip mall’s cov ered walkway. All he could see was a warped blur behind the steady flow of torrential rain drops on the windshield. The closest parking spot he’d been able to find was next to a large, well-polished black pick-up truck that had been parked just a little over the line. Perry’s tiny Ford had barely squ eezed in. He clutched his duffel bag and umbrella in his lap, preparing for a quick series of maneuvers. The plan was to open the door, open the umbrella, hop out, close the door, and jog a rapid