“I’m looking for a guy called Chribba,” I said, and watched as the eyebrows of the other poker players rose. By all accounts, these were Bad People I was dealing with. Scoundrels, backstabbers, the lowest of the low. That’s right – EVE players. Everything I had learned about this incorrigible species of interstellar riff-raff had taught me not to trust a single one of them. EVE was the kind of game where you spent three years making a new best friend, only to steal all his money and crash his favourite space-Porsche into a moon. EVE is a game for villains. Which is why I needed to find Chribba so badly.
“Who did you say?” asked a well-dressed American to my left. He toyed gently with his poker chips and glanced at my press badge.
“Chribba,” I said, “Do you know him?” The three players in earshot began to chortle.
“Oh, yeah. Everybody knows him.”
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