I stare at my brother from across the waiting room. Carlos looks determined from his sitting position on the ornate couch. Does my face look the same? I wonders as I wait on the opposite couch. The lawyers have been at it for a few hours now, and still the murmurs from the adjoining room are audible but not discernible. Carlos idly scratches at his head, causing the hologram to flicker slightly. His current look, like mine, marks him as part of the lower class despite our lineage. The server only provides a meager pittance of a polygon count to new accounts, so it takes some real creativity to make ourselves look better than wearing painted cardboard. We both are currently using our avatars like rudimentary cloaks, which almost look like real fabric if the lighting is bad enough, while we conceal our dull textiles beneath.
I don't know how these deliberations will go. Father was an asshole to leave the inheritance up to chance, while well aware of the historical significance of his own avatar. The look of a regal duelist from the European Renaissance, clad in dark blues and with a shaded face. It's a striking figure that has been present in the mix of battles that ended in decisive victory, but more importantly is part of the commemorative photos for every diplomatic event since Silicon Hell grew over the network core. Whichever of us gets his avatar will continue a family tradition that reaches back over five-hundred years, serving as a symbol of impartiality in negotiation as they mingle with ambassadors. The other will probably need to get a job at one of the megaflora farms, and never hope for anything better.
Our youngest brother, Fred, is already out of the running. He realized that he was the least likely to inherent father's account, even in the current legal toss up Carlos and I are in now. Bankrupted himself looking into rumors of the old server access points then disappeared into Silicon Hell. Nobody makes it out of the deeper parts of that artificial labyrinth, but many people try for the desperate chance to upgrade their own account enough to have avatar privileges on par with the legacy accounts. It's been six months since he left, and it was four months ago when a scavenger party last saw him in the upper levels. It pains me to lose a sibling, but I also still have the occasional nightmare that Fred succeeds and uses his newfound status to enact retribution against us. I wonder if Carlos feels the same.
The door knocks, signaling that we can enter the office. Carlos shows a flash of growing menace as he stands up. If he loses, then he'll hate me as the brother who took what he thinks is rightfully his. If he wins, then he'll hate me for being a peasant with the gall to have a blood relation with a prestigious diplomat. These legacy account inheritances are cruel for turning families into mazes of burnt bridges, but if the one between me and Carlos has to be on fire then I'll be sure to stand on the greener side of the ravine when it collapses.
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