On the other walls are lists of statistics about each official Warcross team. The stats on the Phoenix Riders and Demon Brigade take up one entire wall. Beneath it runs a scrolling list of betting odds against the two teams. The favor is overwhelmingly on the Demon Brigade’s side.
Groups of unnamed avatars cluster here and there, deep in their own conversations. Many of them are hulking in appearance, even monstrous—bulging arms and long claws, black pools in the place of eyes. Some Dark World folks really like to look the part.
I search for Ren. He could be any of these avatars, disguised just like we are.
I check the time.
Almost one.
I crane my neck, scanning the crowd as I tap out commands, searching for any sign of Ren’s signature in here. Nothing.
Then—
The gold dot reappears on my map. As I make my way through the crowd, I suddenly see an alert telling me that Ren is in the room. Sure enough, when I check his data, I see the
WC0
marker pop up in his info. My heart starts to beat faster. He’s the silhouette I’d seen in the arena.
What—or who—is he here for?
I glance around as the crowd quiets, an expectant hush in the air.
Suddenly, the assassination list on the glass cylinder temporarily disappears. It’s replaced with the following:
OBSIDIAN KINGS vs WHITE SHARKS
The Dark World has its own set of famous teams, too—except these players stay anonymous and play very, very dirty. Regular Warcross teams are sponsored by wealthy patrons; Dark World teams are owned by gangsters. When you win, you win money for the gang that owns you. When you lose, the audience casts bets for you to go onto the assassination lottery. Lose enough times, and you just might see yourself listed at the top of the lottery. And then even your own sponsor might be the one to assassinate you.
Everyone who is looking at the cylinder now sees a J
OIN
button hovering in the center of their vision. I press it. A field pops up to ask me how many notes I want to bet. I look around the room, staring at the numbers that hover over each of the other gamblers:
N1,000. N5,000. N10,000
. I even see a few who have cast bets of well over N100,000.
I cast a bet of N100. No need to stand out here.
The world around us changes, and suddenly we are no longer standing on the deck of the Pirate’s Den, but on top of a skyscraper, illuminated by a bloodred sky. Neon-white players pop up in the world, glowing alongside power-ups. The view of the Pirate’s Den minimizes to a smaller screen in the corner of my vision, one that will appear over the center of my view whenever I glance down at it. Now I use it, searching for Ren’s gold dot.
There he is, standing just a few feet away from me. Over his head is a light green number of notes:
100
. I raise an eyebrow. Not a very high bidder, either. That’s strange. Usually, when I track someone down under, the gambler tends to blow eye-popping numbers of notes.
But Ren is risking his reputation as a professional player just to gamble a handful of notes here in an illegal game. Doesn’t add up. He’s not here for the game. He’s dallying around, probably just keeping a low profile while he waits. I’m willing to bet he’s here to make contact with someone.
The announcer comes on, introduces the ten players, and then starts the match. Unlike regular games, this game has two numbers displayed at the bottom of my view. Each number is the total notes bet on each team. I can hear the roar of the audience as the players dart into motion. Two opposing players reach each other and both swing their arms back to attack. As they do, one of them suddenly glitches out of sight. He glitches back in behind the other player, and before the second player can react, the first one kicks him off the building’s roof. The crowd cheers. I just stay quiet, watching. In a real game, a move like that would have been banned
immediately. But here, with no official Henka Games employees overseeing it, anything goes.
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.
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.
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 operation. 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?”
•
•
•
•
•
B
Y 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.”