Warcross

  As the game continues, the notes bet on each team changes in my view in a live display. Obsidian Kings, who started out with more bets than the White Sharks, are now falling behind. As their Architect is taken down by an Icicle power-up (temporary paralysis), the Sharks go up even higher.

  I sigh. Nothing unusual has happened, other than Ren’s unusually low bet. What if I’m just wasting my time in here, and Ren is a giant red herring?

  That’s when I notice a new gambler enter the Pirate’s Den.

  I would have missed him, were it not for my hack. Most people around me don’t seem to notice his presence—except for a few. Like Ren, who turns to stare at him, too.

  In the midst of all these hulking avatars, the newcomer is inconspicuous, a lean shadow. His face is hidden completely behind a dark, opaque helmet, and he wears a fitted suit of black body armor. Lean muscles ripple as he moves, outlined by the Den’s neon lights. And even though I have no info on him at all, nothing to tell me who this person might be, a chill runs through me from head to toe, some sixth sense of certainty. This is who Ren has been waiting to see. This is who Ren is meeting.

  It’s Zero.

  16

  You don’t know that for sure, I remind myself. It could be anyone. But everything about him—his sense of command, a confidence that betrays how often he comes here, the fact that there is nothing, nothing I can read about him—makes my heartbeat quicken.

  I shouldn’t feel this surprised to see him here. But still—bumping into Zero face-to-face makes me forget myself for a moment. I barely react quickly enough to move out of his way as he cuts through the crowd.

  Abruptly, Zero pauses. His head turns in my direction—but more specifically, he sees me.

  I’m not supposed to be able to see him, I realize. That’s why no one else in the crowd seems to notice. In fact, he is probably supposed to be invisible to everyone except the people who already knew he was coming, those who he knows are his supporters. Zero had noticed me trying to get out of his way. He knows I can see him.

  Can he tell who I am? What if he’s staring at me through his own hack, downloading all of my info? Questions fly through my mind. If I exit now, it’ll be obvious that I saw him.

  Ignore him. Just stand still and look at the game. He isn’t here.

  Zero stares quietly at me, then steps closer. His black helmet is completely opaque, so that all I see in it is the reflection of my generic avatar. Even though everyone in here is encrypted, Zero has absolutely no info at all. Not a fake identity, not a randomized username, nothing. He is a black hole. He paces around me in a slow, deliberate circle, studying me, silent as a predator, his steps echoing in the den. I stand as still as I can, holding my breath, careful to stay calm. In real life, I am typing furiously, pulling back what I’m doing and guarding myself. No doubt that his real-life person is doing the same thing right now. Even though I should be encrypted and off the grid, I feel like his stare is stripping me bare. My heart beats steadily in my chest. I’d dealt with gangsters before. If I could keep my cool around them, I remind myself, then this should be nothing.

  A girl standing very close beside him jots something down on a clipboard. She has a short blue bob haircut and wears a black blazer with jeans, but her eyes are what startle me. They are completely white. At first I think she’s one of the other gamblers. But when she and Zero both turn their heads simultaneously, I realize that she is a proxy, a security shield behind which Zero can completely hide his identity. If someone does manage to record this session in the Pirate’s Den, and they somehow notice Zero, the only info they’ll get is this girl’s, whose data will lead to nothing.

  What did she jot down on her clipboard? Info about us?

  Zero stares at me for another beat. Then, miraculously, he turns his attention away. His proxy does the same. My hands are clenched so hard that I can feel my nails cutting into my palms.

  As I look on, Zero casts a bet of 34.05 notes on the Obsidian Kings. I frown. What a strange number to bet. I wait in silence, until exactly one minute passes. Then, Zero casts another bet, this time in favor of the White Sharks. 118.25 notes.

  Now he’s betting on the opposite team? What the hell is he doing?

  Another gambler across the den now also casts a bet of 34.05 notes. A minute later, he then casts a bet of 118.25 notes in favor of the White Sharks. The exact same pair of bets that Zero cast. Zero’s proxy jots something down on her clipboard.

  He’s not betting at all. He’s communicating with the other gambler.

  Of course he is. Record the numbers, I tell myself. I look on as Zero waits another few minutes before casting a new bet. This time, it’s 55.75 notes for the Obsidian Kings, and 37.62 notes for the Sharks.

  Sure enough—across the den, a different gambler now casts the same bets in order. Again, the proxy jots this down.

  I watch in perplexed silence as this continues, on and on, as everyone around me continues to cheer on the game. No one else seems bothered by these bets—they have no reason to be, really, because only the big bets are bolded and significantly change the tallies on either side. Why would anyone care about these strange, small sums?

  Then, Zero casts a pair of bets—and Ren is the responding gambler.

  Finally, when the match ends, Zero stands up with his proxy and steps away from the glass cylinder without a word. Beside him, his proxy nods once at the crowd, and the ones who had responded in code now nod back once. Overhead, the electronic track momentarily shifts to a different melody, as if it had hit a glitch. Go out with a bang, the singer on this new track croons. Yeah / let’s go out with a bang. Then the track hops back to its usual beat. The Obsidian Kings end up winning, and the tally over the White Sharks disappears, divided and paid proportionally among the winning gamblers. I look down at my list of recorded numbers that Zero had bet.

  Fifty pairs of numbers. All of them are small bets. They range as high as 153, and as low as 0. As I stare at them, a possibility comes to me. It’s such a strange thought that at first I dismiss it. But the more I stare at the numbers, the more they seem to fit.

  They’re locations. Longitudes and latitudes.

  What if they’re locations of cities? My mind feels feverish with dread, the coming together of something big, of finally stumbling upon significant clues. Why, exactly, is Zero assigning a bunch of locations to others? What is he planning?

  In a daze, I initiate a log out to leave the Dark World. Right as I do, I glimpse Zero across the room one last time.

  He’s staring straight at me.

  17

  I don’t know if he recognized me. He might not have been paying attention to me at all, and his glance might have just been coincidental. But the memory of his head turned in my direction sends a shudder through me as I now find myself back in my room, staring out at the balcony again. I let out a slow breath. The serenity of the real world feels jarring after my jaunt in the Dark World.

  What if Zero is on to me?

  I pull up a map to hover transparently before me, along with the list of coordinates I’d just jotted down in the Pirate’s Den. Then I turn my attention to the longitudes and latitudes on the map’s sides.

  “Thirty-one point two,” I mutter out loud, running my finger along the projection. “One hundred twenty-one point five.”

  My finger stops right over Shanghai.

  I do another set of numbers. “Thirty-four point zero five. One hundred eighteen point twenty-five.”

  Los Angeles.

  40.71, 74.01. New York City.

  55.75, 37.62. Moscow.

  And so on. I compare each set of numbers, sometimes adding a negative in front of a number whenever it ends up in the middle of nowhere or in the ocean. Sure enough, every set of coordinates matches up with a major city. In fact, Zero had listed out the top fifty largest cities in the world, each one repeated back to him by someone else in the crowd at the Pirate’s Den.

  Whatever Zero’s doing, it is a global opera
tion. And somehow, I have an ominous feeling that his endgame involves much more than just messing up some Warcross tournaments.

  What if lives are at stake?

  A knock on my door jolts me from my thoughts. “Yes?” I call out.

  No answer. I stay where I am for a moment, then get up and walk to my door. I push the button that slides the door open.

  It’s Ren, leaning against the side of the entryway, his headphones looped around his neck. A smile appears on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Heard you skipped lunch,” he says. He tilts his head at me. “Headache?”

  My blood freezes. Still, I remind myself to be calm—so I narrow my eyes at him and put my hands on my hips. “Heard you skipped to make music,” I reply.

  He shrugs. “I have a contract with my studio to fulfill, Warcross or no. The others told me to come up here and get you. They’re starting a round of games downstairs, if you want to join.” He nods toward the stairs.

  What were you doing in the Dark World, Ren? I think to myself as I study his face. What does your connection to Zero mean? What are you planning?

  “Not tonight,” I lie, nodding toward my bed. “I have an appointment to get a license for my new board.”

  Ren looks at me for a beat that’s just a hint too long. Then he pushes away from my door and turns toward the stairs. “Busy little wild card,” he says in French, his words translating in my view.

  Busy little wild card. I wonder, for a moment, whether he suspects me of following him. As he heads down the stairs and disappears from view, I close my door and place a quiet call to Hideo. When he picks up, a virtual version of him appears in my view.

  “Emika,” he says. It sends a thrill through me of both excitement and urgency.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “Can we meet?”

  • • • • •

  BY THE TIME I emerge from my room, Asher, Roshan, and Hammie are gathered on the couches, shoving pizza into their mouths while they play Mario Kart. Ren lounges nearby in a soft chair, watching them play. Their karts zoom along a rainbow-colored road that tunnels through the center of a galaxy.

  “Oh yeah!” Hammie shouts as her kart edges into first place. “This one’s mine, boys.”

  “Calling it too soon, Hams,” Roshan shoots back. “That’s your final warning.”

  “Don’t go this easy on me, then.”

  “I don’t throw games.”

  My gaze darts to Ren. He looks calm and unfazed, his gold-winged headphones looped around his neck. He notices me now and gives me a lazy smile, as if he’d always been here, instead of gambling in the Dark World just an hour ago.

  Hammie shrieks. “No!” A blue shell comes whizzing out of nowhere and hits her kart right as she’s about to cross the finish line. As she struggles to get her kart moving again, the other karts zoom past her. Her rank goes from first to eighth as she finally drags herself across the line.

  Asher bursts out laughing as Hammie shoots up from her seat and throws her hands up. She glares at Roshan, who gives her his gentle smile. “Sorry, love. Like I said, I don’t throw games.”

  “Sorry, my ass!” she exclaims. “I want revenge.”

  “Man, Roshan,” Asher replies, clapping him on the back. “Angel in real life, demon in a kart.”

  Ren glances at me. “Hey, Emika,” he says. “You want in? I’m joining the next round.”

  Why were you in the Pirate’s Den, Ren? What were you doing with Zero? Are you a danger to everyone in this room? But outwardly, I smile and hoist my electric board on my shoulder. “I was going to go try my new board in the city.”

  Beside Ren, Hammie groans. “Come on, Em,” she says.

  “I just want some fresh air tonight,” I reply. I give her an apologetic look. “Like I said. Tomorrow, I promise.”

  As I turn to leave, Asher calls out to me. “Hey, wild card.” I turn back around to see him giving me a serious look. “Last time you get to skip out on your team. Got it?”

  I nod without saying a word. Asher then turns away, but before I can head out, I see Ren giving me a brief smile. “Have fun,” he calls out to me before turning away, too.

  I steal away down the back hall, step out the door, then tug my shoes on and head toward a black sedan that is idling in the driveway. I’ll have to switch up how often I see Hideo at night like this. These are the sedans used by team players for transportation around the city—but still, best not to arouse suspicions. Asher will expect me to hang around for team-bonding time, especially in the weeks leading up to the first official game.

  By the time I reach the Henka Games headquarters, night has completely fallen, and the heart of Tokyo has turned back into a wonderland of neon lights. The headquarters themselves even look different, and with my lenses on, the walls are covered in swirls of color and artistic renditions of the company’s logo. As the car pulls up to the front of the building, I’m greeted by two of Hideo’s bodyguards, both dressed in dark suits. They bow their heads at me in unison.

  “This way, Miss Chen,” one says.

  I give them an awkward bow in return, then follow them into the building. We walk in silence until we reach Hideo’s office.

  Hideo is leaning over a table, his head down in concentration, his dark hair tussled. He’s dressed in his usual collar shirt and dark trousers, although the shirt is black this time, with pencil-thin gray stripes. My eyes go down to his shoes. They are blue-and-gray oxfords today, embellished with black lines. His cuff links are purposefully mismatched, one a crescent moon and the other a star. How does he always look this polished? Dad would be impressed.

  He looks up when we enter. I remember that I’m supposed to bow my head in greeting and give him a quick bob.

  “Emika,” he says, straightening. His serious expression softens at the sight of me. “Good evening.” He exchanges a brief glance with each of the bodyguards. One of them opens his mouth to protest, but when Hideo tilts his head once toward the door, the man sighs and guides both of them out of the room.

  “They’ve been with me since I was fifteen,” Hideo says as he steps around the table toward me. “You’ll have to forgive them if they’re occasionally overprotective.”

  “Maybe they think I’m a danger to you.”

  He smiles as he reaches me. “And are you?”

  “I try to restrain myself,” I answer, returning his smile. “For now, I’m just here to tell you what I found.”

  “I’m assuming you discovered something interesting in the Dark World?”

  “Interesting doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I glance around the office. “I hope you’re ready to settle in. I’ve got a bunch of information for you.”

  “Good, because I was thinking we try something different with our meeting tonight.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer. “Have you eaten yet?”

  Is he asking me to dinner? “No,” I say, trying to stay casual.

  He takes a dark gray peacoat off the back of a chair and pulls it on. Then he tilts his head once toward the door. “Join me.”

  18

  We end up in Shibuya, right in front of a skyscraper with the name Rossella Osteria floating at the top of it. We take an elevator to the roof of the building, where a set of tall glass doors slides open for us. I walk into a space that makes my jaw drop. A segment of the floor is made of glass, real glass, not a virtual simulation, and through it swims a stream of gold and scarlet koi fish. Vases of flowers adorn marble pedestals around the edges of the restaurant. The entire place is empty.

  The host hurries over to greet Hideo. “Tanaka-sama!” he exclaims in Japanese, bowing his head low. In his nervous gestures, I can see myself when I first met Hideo, falling all over myself under Hideo’s serious stare. “A thousand apologies—we didn’t know you had scheduled anyone to come with you tonight.”

  He sneaks an anxious glance at me. Suddenly I realize that he must think I’m Hideo’s date. Maybe I am. I shift awkwardly on my feet.

  Hideo nods at him. “
No apologies needed,” he replies in Japanese, then glances at me. “This is Miss Emika Chen, my colleague.” He holds his hand out for me to walk in front of him. “Please.”

  I follow the host, perplexed and hyperaware that Hideo is behind me, until we reach an outside patio framed by ornate pillars and lit by trails of fairy lights. Heat lamps glow in regularly spaced intervals, their flames adding a golden warmth to our skin, and the lights of the city shimmer down below. As we take a seat, the waiter hands us menus and hurriedly takes his leave, so that we—and the bodyguards—are the only people remaining out here.

  “Why is this restaurant completely empty?” I ask.

  Hideo doesn’t bother touching the menu. “I own it,” he replies. “Once a month, it’s reserved for me and any potential business meetings I might have. I thought you might prefer some Western food, at any rate.”

  My stomach growls loudly in reply, and I cough in an attempt to hide the sound. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hideo owned half of Tokyo. “Italian’s great,” I say.

  We order our food, and before long, the plates arrive, filling the air with the rich aroma of basil and tomato. As we eat, I bring up my account and send Hideo an invite to join me. “I followed Ren into the Pirate’s Den,” I say.

  “And? What did you see?”

  “And he was with this guy.” I put down my fork and bring up a Memory of what I’d seen in the Den—the figure in dark armor, accompanied by his proxy, placing bets on the illegal Warcross game.

  Hideo leans forward at the sight. “Is this Zero?”

  I nod, tapping the table twice. “I’m almost certain it was him. He was hidden behind an armored avatar and this proxy, and he was giving out a lot of information to what seemed to be his followers in the Pirate’s Den. Dozens of followers. This is no lone operation.”