“Okay, Tiger,” BlackHawk says, “how about pressing your circle button twice to reholster. Octagon and L3 to pick up offered items. Inhale and exhale through your mic to puff.” I follow his instructions, feeling like a teenager smoking for the first time. “Take it you’re new to the game?”

“Pretty obvious, huh? It’s my son’s game,” I say, before realizing I might be talking to someone younger than Eli. “Wait, how old are you?”

“Forty-six. Best advice: Take it slow. Biggest mistakes are made when you’re panicking or trigger-happy. Check out that asshole.” SemperFi4976 is by the café. He pulls a man off his chair and puts his boot on his head, then presses the barrel of his gun to the old man’s temple. “I fucking hate that player. I’ve been on two missions with him so far. Doesn’t care about gaining points, just wants to slaughter civilians every time. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

BlackHawk leads me down a side street where two kids are playing ball against the side of a bakery. “Where are you playing from?” I ask.

“Santa Cruz,” BlackHawk says, and flicks his cigarette. I can’t figure out how to flick mine which is getting dangerously close to my avatar’s fingers. “Triangle and R3 to put things down. Shit, you really don’t know how to play, do you?”

“I skipped the tutorial,” I admit, and locate the two buttons. My avatar flicks the cigarette to the ground. “Where’s all the action?”

“Sometimes you get towns like this. There’s one or two terrorists hiding in this whole place, but really it’s a sniper playground. You get assholes like SemperFi back there sacrificing valor points to watch civilians explode. I’d take him out if they let me, but we can’t shoot our own. Go ahead and try.”

“What?”

“Take your handgun by pressing G, point it at my head, pull the trigger.”

“I’m not about to do that.”

“Fucking try it already, you’ll see what I mean.”

So I unholster my gun and point it at BlackHawk. The kids have stopped playing ball and are watching us. “Now what?”

“Press the triangle.”

I push the button but nothing happens. I press it again. My avatar won’t even move his finger. On the screen a red message flashes: Invalid Target.

“Like I said, I’d blow that guy’s head off, but they don’t let you. I’m Brogan.” He reaches out for a shake.

“Paul,” I say, but my avatar just stands there looking at Brogan’s extended hand.

“Triangle and L3,” Brogan instructs, and my avatar reholsters his gun and shakes his hand. “Tell you what, this mission’s bullshit, let’s get a car and I’ll take you outside the city. We can detonate some C4, handle Claymores, practice some basic gameplay.”