Warcross
Marie Lu
A bubble pops up in my view. My level jumps by two.
Official Wardraft Participant! Congratulations!
+20,000 Points. Daily Score: +20,000
You leveled up! You’re on fire!
Level 28 | N30,180
You earned a treasure chest!
The front rows of the stadium are half full of wild-card players. As the guides usher me into a row, I scan the crowd around me and try to match up some of these people with their Warcross personas. My eyes register a few faces. Abeni Lea, representing Kenya. She’s ranked in the top fifty worldwide. Then there’s Ivo Erikkson, representing Sweden. Hazan Demir, a girl from Turkey. I swallow, wondering if it’d be silly to ask for their autographs.
Time to work, I remind myself. Quietly, I make an up-swipe gesture with two fingers and bring up my shields, then hunt for the security that blankets the dome. Hideo gave me a special ID to get past it all, offering me access to the basic information that Henka Games stores about each user, but using the ID will also allow Hideo to track me more easily, something that might leave me vulnerable to hacking from Zero or another bounty hunter. So instead, I’ve edited my access to keep me off the grid. It’ll help me work better. If Hideo has a problem with that, he’ll just have to take it up with me later.
Soon, numbers and letters appear in random places around the dome, highlighting the areas where the code is generating bits of virtual reality over the actual scene. An overlay of the stadium’s blueprint hovers faintly over everything. Most importantly, basic data appears about every person in the arena, in tiny blue digits over each of their heads, so many that the data seems to blur into streaks.
Finally, I get to my seat. Behind us, the stadium lets out another piercing round of shrieks as the giant screens show a montage of Team Phoenix Riders’ best plays from last year.
“Hallo.” I turn as a girl nudges my side. She has reddish-blond hair tied back in a low, messy tail, and a smattering of freckles across her pale skin. She gives me a lopsided grin. When she speaks again, I see the transparent English translation in my view. “Are you Emika?” Her eyes wander up to my rainbow hair, then down to my arm of tattoos. “The one who broke into the opening ceremony?”
I nod. “Hi.”
The girl nods back. “I’m Ziggy Frost, from Bamberg, Germany.”
My eyes widen. “Right! I know you! You’re one of the best Thieves out there. I’ve watched so many of your games.”
I can tell she’s rapidly reading the German translation of my words that’s showing up in her view. Then she brightens until I think she might pop. She reaches forward and shoves someone sitting in the row in front of us. “Yuebin!” she exclaims. “Look. I have a fan.”
The guy she shoved gives an annoyed grunt and turns around in his seat. He smells faintly of cigarette smoke. “Good for you,” he mutters in Chinese as I read my translation of his words. His eyes shift to me. “Hey—aren’t you the girl who glitched into the opening game?”
Is this how I’m going to be known forever? The girl who glitched? “Hi,” I say, stretching a hand out. “I’m Emika Chen.”
“Ah! The American,” he replies, shaking my hand once. “You speak Mandarin?”
I shake my head. My dad knew exactly five Chinese phrases, and four of them were swears.
He shrugs at my response. “Ah, well. I’m Yuebin, from Beijing.”
I smile. “The top Fighter in the rankings?”
His grin widens. “Yes.” He reaches over and nudges Ziggy once. “See? You are not the only one with a fan.” Then he looks back at me. “So, you are a wild card now? I mean, congratulations, that is really great—but I don’t remember seeing you in the top rankings this year.”
“That’s because everyone wrote her in at the last minute,” Ziggy pipes up. “Hideo himself approved the nomination.” Yuebin lets out a whistle. “You must have really impressed him.”
So, the rumors about me have spread. This is not how I want everyone in Warcross to know me—the girl who glitched into a game out of sheer stupidity, then got into the Wardraft as a wild card because my stunt got me written in. What if Yuebin suspects that I’m in this draft for another reason?
Don’t be so obvious. To him, you’re just here to play Warcross, I remind myself. I force a smile back at Ziggy and shrug. “It probably doesn’t matter. I bet I’ll be the last one picked.”
Ziggy just gives me a good-hearted laugh and pats my shoulder. “What is that saying? Never say never?” she replies. “Besides. Do you remember one year when that player—Leeroy something—actually got drafted into the Stormchasers, even though he always just charged in and messed up his entire team’s play? My God, he was terrible.” Too late, she realizes she’s accidentally insulted me again. “I mean, not that you are as bad as Leeroy! My point is that you never know. I mean—well, you know what I mean.”
Yuebin gives her a wry look before smiling at me. “You will have to forgive Ziggy,” he says. “She never says the right thing at the right time.”
“You’re never the right thing at the right time.”
As they forget about me and fall into bickering, I quietly review what data I can see about each of them. Their full names and addresses, their travel schedules, anything that could help me notice something suspicious about their behavior—I download all of this and store it away for later analysis. But even from a quick glance, neither of their profiles seems odd. No basic shields of any sort to protect their data. Yuebin even has a virus installed on his Link that’s slowing it down.
Then again, maybe they’re both hiding behind this façade. It’s hard to tell without breaking into all of their info—personal emails, private messages, stored Memories—encrypted things even Henka Games isn’t allowed to have access to. I need a way in, a weakness, like how I’d stolen the power-up during the opening ceremony game. I need another break in the pattern.
The stadium’s main lights dim, and the sweeping lights change color. All of the seats are filled now. The audience’s cheers grow louder. I look down the line of seats and follow it around the edge of the central arena, trying to recognize some of the other wild cards and match them up with the top-ranking players I know. Beside me, Ziggy and Yuebin finally stop arguing and sit up straighter in anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
The lights now sweep to the center of the arena, where an announcer wearing a Warcross logo T-shirt stands. “Warcross fans around the world!” he says in a booming voice. “Welcome to the Wardraft! We’re about to add some wild cards into the mix of your favorite Warcross teams!”
The audience roars with approval. My heart is beating so fast now that it leaves me feeling weak.
“Let’s introduce the most important person in here!” he points up at the same time the colorful spotlights shift to focus on a roped-off section of the stadium, a fancy seating area encased inside a glass box. Hovering over the box is a virtual sign that says Official Seats, meant to be for Henka Games studio executives. Inside, a young man watches, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass. Two bodyguards flank him. Around us, the holograms change to show his face. “The one who made it all possible—Hideo Tanaka!”
The stadium explodes into the loudest cheers I’ve ever heard, followed by a thunderous chant of “Hih-day-oh! Hih-day-oh!” that makes the arena tremble. Hideo lifts his glass to toast the crowd, as if this level of insanity were perfectly normal, and then sits back down to watch. I force myself to look away.
“There are sixteen official Warcross teams,” the announcer now goes on. “And each team gets a total of five official players. We’ve already chosen the returning veteran players, but every team tonight has at least one open spot—and we have forty wild cards for them to choose from. By the end of the draft, all forty will belong on a team.” He waves a hand at our front-row seats. “Let’s do a quick introduction!”
The spotlight changes to focus on the first wild-card player, and the music in the stadium shifts
to a new song. The player is a boy with brown hair, who blinks at the sudden light on him. “Rob Gennings, representing Canada, Level 82, who plays as a Fighter. He is ranked sixty-sixth in the world.” Cheers erupt from the audience. When I look up at the crowds, I can see posters waving enthusiastically, with Rob’s name scrawled on them.
Through my own view, I scroll through some basic data on Rob Gennings. Full name: Robert Allen Gennings. Valedictorian of his high school. Last flight: Vancouver to Tokyo, on Japan Airlines.
“Next, we have Alexa Romanovsky, representing Russia, a Level 90 player known for her lightning-fast Thief attacks.” Another round of cheers. The music shifts to a song that she’d chosen for herself. I study a scrolling list of her info. Full name: Alexandra Romanovsky. Birthplace: St. Petersburg. A former competitor in the Paralympics. She was disqualified for picking a fight with a fellow teammate, so she switched her obsession to Warcross after that. She lifts her head high now and nods at the dome’s crowd.
The announcer continues down the row at a rapid pace. The spotlight inches around the opposite end of the arena, the music changing with every player. All of these players are well-known and highly ranked. I’m only at Level 28, because usually I’m logged in as an encrypted, anonymous account, and none of my activity or wins get properly recorded.
“Renoir Thomas, from France, is better known as DJ Ren—”
The audience bursts into a deafening round of cheers. I search for him—but the spotlight lands on an empty seat. The music playing for him is one of his own tracks: “Deep Blue Apocalypse,” a song with a soul-shaking bass and addictive beat. There’s no question that he’s the most popular.
“—is currently busy preparing to host the first Warcross party of the year. But rest assured, you’ll see him soon!”
The introductions go on. There are a couple of other wild cards dressed up in gray-and-white outfits—Demon Brigade fans, probably hoping their clothes will warm them up to the official team. Others are wearing shirts declaring their favorite professional players. Still others look nervous and out of place, lower-ranking players or players that will probably be drafted last. I fly through the reams of data for each of them, downloading and storing, organizing them into folders. Be careful of those nervous ones, I remind myself. It could be a disguise to hide a hacker—
“Emika Chen, Level 28, hails from the United States of America!” the announcer shouts. I jump as the spotlight swings to me, and suddenly everything is blindingly bright. A burst of cheers comes from the stadium. “She plays as an Architect. You may remember seeing her in the opening ceremony game—although you probably didn’t expect to! In fact, she was so popular that our viewers wrote her in as a wild-card nominee!”
I wave hesitantly. When I do, the cheering turns louder. Look genuine, I remind myself. I widen my smile, trying to show some teeth, but from the giant projection of me in the dome, I look like I ate a bad batch of oysters. I wonder if it’d be noticeable if I crawled under my chair right now.
When the announcer finishes introducing the wild cards, the spotlights sweep to the area of the stadium where the official teams are sitting. Screams go up as the announcer introduces each of the teams. My eyes stay fixed on them. I recognize the Demon Brigade’s distinct, white-and-gray outfits. Far from them sit the Phoenix Riders already chosen for this year’s team, led by Asher Wing, their flaming red hoods and jackets prominent. They utter a bunch of howls and whoops when the announcer says their name. Then come Team Andromeda, in hues of green and gold, and Team Winter Dragons, in ice-colored blue. Team Stormchasers, in black and yellow. Team Titans (purple), Team Cloud Knights (sapphire and silver). Even as I continue downloading information, I find myself distracted as the spotlights sweep over each team, hardly able to believe that I’m in the same space as them.
Finally, the announcer finishes. The stadium turns hushed as an assistant hands him a sealed envelope. “This year, the team who gets first pick of the wild cards is . . .” He pauses while he tears open the envelope in as dramatic a fashion as he can. His microphone picks up the sound, magnifying it until the entire dome sounds like it’s tearing apart. He pulls out a silver card, holds it up, and smiles. The holograms shift to show what the card says. “Team Phoenix Riders!”
In the official team section, the Phoenix Riders let out another round of whoops. Sitting in the middle of them, Asher Wing is looking down at our arc of wild-card seats with quiet concentration. My heart is hammering so hard now that I’m afraid it’s going to break my ribs.
The announcer waits for a moment as the Phoenix Riders exchange a few words between each other. The silence seems to stretch on forever. I catch myself leaning forward in my seat, eager to hear who they pick. Finally, Asher waves a hand once in front of him and submits his team’s pick to the announcer.
The announcer stares at their pick in his view, blinks a few times in surprise, and then waves his own hand once. The selection appears in enormous letters over his head, rotating slowly. Every hologram broadcasts it at the same time.
It’s my name.
10
“Emika Chen!”
A chorus of surprised gasps echoes around the arena. There are people cheering around me, someone’s shaking my shoulders, and someone else is shouting enthusiastic words in my face. I just stare in shock. I know Hideo wanted to hide me in plain sight—but I didn’t think he would make me the number one draft pick. This has to be some sort of mistake.
“This is no mistake!” the announcer calls out, as if answering the thoughts in my head. He turns in a circle with his arms outstretched. “It seems this year’s number one draft pick will be an untested, untried, unranked wild card”—he pronounces each word slowly, with huge emphasis—“who nevertheless impressed us all with her disruption of the opening ceremony game!” He rambles on, joking that perhaps Asher Wing of the Phoenix Riders—well-known for unconventional draft picks—has figured out something that the rest of us haven’t.
I just find myself staring blankly in the Phoenix Riders’ direction. Asher has his eyes trained on me, a smug grin spreading across his face. He’s one of the most intuitive captains out of anyone—he would have selected someone he could count on, experienced players who are ranked high. He wouldn’t pick me just for the spectacle. Would he? Did Hideo force his hand?
Is he Zero?
My gaze shifts up to the private box, where Hideo is still standing, looking straight toward me. Maybe he’d given the Phoenix Riders a command to choose me as the first pick. Maybe it really is for ratings. Maybe it’s to throw the hacker Zero off my scent, because I’m so publicly exposed. Or maybe it’s to throw off the other bounty hunters. Whatever the reason, I find myself wondering when I’ll get to talk to him again, to ask him the reasoning behind this.
Someone’s shaking my shoulders so hard that I can almost feel my brain sloshing around. It’s Ziggy.
“Do you understand how big this is?” she shrieks in my face. I'm unsure of how to respond. “It means you will get used to being followed everywhere for the next few months and being on every news outlet. Heilige Scheiße!” She shrieks the phrase so wildly that the translation doesn’t even try to interpret it. “Some people have all the luck.”
I finally manage to give her a faint smile, then settle in to try to watch the rest of the draft. My thoughts whirl as the announcer pulls a second set of cards and reads them out. The Demon Brigade chooses Ziggy, while the Phoenix Riders nab DJ Ren. The Titans get Alexa Romanovsky. The show continues, but I feel as if the spotlight is still on me. The flashes of light going off in the audience make me dizzy, and I wonder how many people have their glasses trained on my profile, hunting and digging for anything they can find out about me.
“Hey.” Yuebin nudges me. “Look, up there.” He nods toward the private box. I follow his gaze, ready to see Hideo.
But Hideo is gone now. Only the rest of his company heads are there, chattering among themselves. Hideo’s bodyguards have left, too.
Just to see me drafted, the way he wanted me to be. My thudding heart sinks a little, and I feel a strange sense of disappointment without his presence in the arena. I’m about to look back down—but something shifts in the corner of my vision. My eyes dart up to the ceiling.
I freeze.
There, crouched high in the ceiling’s maze of beams, is a dark, virtual figure.
I can’t see anything else about him except static. The silhouette of his head is turned down, watching the draft take place. No name floats over his head. Everything about his posture looks tense, alert.
Like he’s not supposed to be here.
A chill runs down my spine, turning my hands ice-cold. At the same time, my bounty hunter instincts kick in—screenshot, record a screenshot. I blink, right as the figure vanishes from sight.
“Hey,” I blurt out, looking over at Ziggy, who is cheering on a wild card drafted by the Stormchasers.
“Hmm?” Ziggy replies without looking at me.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?”
But it’s too late now. The figure is gone. I scan the ceiling again and again—perhaps the lights have blinded me so much that I can no longer see him—but he’s nowhere to be seen now. The lattices of metal and lights are empty.
He wasn’t actually here. He was a part of the virtual reality, a simulation. And only I could see him because of my hack. Either that, or I just experienced an insane hallucination.
Ziggy frowns, squinting skyward. “See what?” she repeats with a shrug.
