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Audience Member Glitches into Warcross Opening Game



 

W ARCROSS H ACKED !

 

HACKER TEMPORARILY DISRUPTS WARCROSS

 

OPENING


 


Who Is Emika Chen?


My mouth goes dry at the sight of my name. I’m a fool for thinking that my little stunt last night would have attracted anything less than a spotlight. My identity’s been blown. Not only blown, but with those blown bits plastered all over the internet like stickers. It’s too late to run. I stay frozen as Keira continues to search, her expression turning more stunned as she goes.

 

“They can’t possibly be talking about me,” I stammer. “They can’t. I must still be asleep.”

 

“You’re not asleep.” Keira holds up her phone again. I read a feed littered with my name. “You’re the world’s top trending topic.”

 

Over by the dining table, my phone dings again. We look at it in unison. “Keira,” I say, “do me a favor and look up a number for me.” She follows

me to the dining table, where I pick up the phone and scan the endless string of identical texts. “212-555-0156.”

 

Keira types it into a search. A second later, she swallows and looks at me. “It’s the number for Henka Games’ Manhattan headquarters.”

 

A prickling sensation of dread travels down my spine and along my arms. Henka Games has sent me over eighty text messages. Keira and I look at each other for a moment longer, letting the commotion outside fill the silence in our room. “It’s probably their lawyers,” I whisper. A rush of light-headedness makes me sway in place. A flurry of thoughts flash by: police sirens; handcuffs; courtrooms; interrogation chambers. Familiar experiences for me. “Keira— they’re going to sue me.”

 

“You better call them,” Keira replied. “It won’t be any better for you if you wait.”

 

She’s right. I hesitate for a second before finally grabbing my phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely dial the numbers. Keira crosses her arms, pacing in front of me.

“Put it on speaker,” she adds. I do, then hold the phone between us.

I’d expected some general thank-you-for-calling-Henka-Games-for-English-press-1 automated message—the typical greeting from a corporate number. But instead, the phone rings only once before a woman answers.

 

“Miss Emika Chen?” she says.

I’m so startled by her personal greeting that I fumble all over my answer. “Hi. Here. I mean, me. I mean, that’s me.” I wince. Why am I even surprised? Obviously, they know my phone number, judging by the text message avalanche —they must’ve forwarded me straight to a live operator the instant I dialed them. They’ve been waiting.

 

“Excellent,” the woman says. “I have Mr. Hideo Tanaka on the line for you. Please hold.”


Keira sucks in her breath and stops pacing. She looks at me with wide eyes. I stare back, paying attention to nothing but the hold music now playing on the phone. I’ve lost my mind. “Did she just say . . . ?”

We both jump when the music abruptly cuts off. A man’s voice comes on the line. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, one I’ve heard in countless documentaries and interviews, one that belongs to the last person I thought I’d ever talk to.

“Miss Chen?” says Hideo Tanaka.

His accent is British. Attended a British international school, I remind myself feverishly. Studied at Oxford. His voice, easy and refined, carries in it the authority of someone who runs a huge corporation. I can only stand there, phone in hand, staring at Keira as if I could see straight through her.

 

Keira wheels her arms frantically at me, reminding me that I’m supposed to respond. “Uh,” I manage. “Hey.”

 

“A pleasure,” Hideo says, and my phone trembles in my grip. Keira takes pity on me and holds it for me. I expect Hideo’s next words to have something to do with my hacking incident, so I immediately start to stammer some sort of apology, as if that might help my case.

 

“Mr. Tanaka, about yesterday—look, I am really, really sorry for what happened—it was a total accident, I swear—I mean, my glasses are pretty old and they glitch a lot”—I wince again—“I mean—not that your stuff is badly made or anything—which it’s not!—er, that is—”

“Yes. Are you busy right now?”

Am I busy right now? Hideo Tanaka is on the phone, asking me if I am busy right now? Keira’s eyes look like they’re going to pop right out of their sockets. Don’t sound stupid, Emika. Be cool. “Well,” I reply, “I’m actually late for my waitressing shift . . .”

 

Keira slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand. I hold both hands out at her in a panic.

 

“I apologize for interrupting your schedule,” Hideo says, as if my answer were the most natural thing in the world, “but are you willing to skip work today and come to Tokyo?”

 

My ears start to ring. “What? Tokyo—Japan?” “Yes.”

 

I cringe, glad he can’t see my face turning red. What did I expect him to say —Tokyo, New Jersey? “Like . . . right now?”

A note of amusement enters his voice. “Yes, like, right now.”

“I—um—” My head spins. “I’d love to, but my roommate and I are actually about to get evicted from our apartment tomorrow, so . . .”


“Your debts have been taken care of.”

 

Keira and I exchange a blank look. “I’m sorry—what?” I murmur. “They’re . . . taken care of?”

“Yes.”

The calculations that run constantly through my head. Rent, bills, debt. $1,150. $3,450. $6,000. Your debts have been taken care of. Just like that, they scatter, replaced by nothing except white noise. How can this be? If I went to Mr. Alsole’s apartment right now, would he wave us away and tell us that we’re good to go? Why would Hideo Tanaka do this? I suddenly feel light-headed, like I might float right out of my body. Don’t faint. “They can’t just be taken care of,” I hear myself say. “That’s a lot of money.”

 

“I assure you, it was very simple. Miss Chen?” “Yes. Sorry—yes, I’m still here.”

 

“Great. There is a car waiting outside your apartment, ready to take you to John F. Kennedy International Airport. Pack whatever you like. The car is ready when you are.”

 

“A car? But—wait—when’s the flight? What airline? How much time do I have to . . .”

 

“It’s my private jet,” he says, unconcerned. “It will take off whenever you are in it.”

His private jet.

“Wait, but—all of my stuff. How long will I be there?” My eyes shift back to Keira. She looks pale, still processing the fact that our debts have been erased in the blink of an eye.

 

“If you’d like any belongings packed up and shipped to Tokyo with you,” he replies, “just say the word and it’ll be done today. In the meanwhile, you will have everything you need here.”

 

Hang on.” I start to shake my head. Shipping my belongings over? Just how long does he want me to stay there? My brow furrows. “What I need is a sec to think. I don’t understand.” My emotions finally spill out, unleashing a torrent of thoughts. “What’s this all about? The car, my debts, the plane

Tokyo?” I sputter. “Yesterday, I disrupted the biggest game of the year. Someone should be angry with me. You should be. What am I going to Tokyo for?” I take a deep breath. “What do you want from me?”

 

There’s a pause on the other end. Suddenly, I realize that I’m mouthing off to one of the world’s most powerful people—to my idol, someone I’ve watched and read about and obsessed over for years, someone who had changed my life. Across from me, Keira watches the phone intently as if she could see what Hideo’s expression looks like. I swallow in the silence, afraid for a moment.


“I have a job offer for you,” Hideo replies. “Would you like to hear more?”


 

 

6

 

Confession: I’ve been on an airplane a grand total of one time. It was after Mom left, and Dad decided to move us from San Francisco to New York. What I remember of that flight is the following: a tiny TV monitor to watch cartoons on; a little window through which I could see the clouds; a Tetris-like meal tray holding something questionably called chicken; and a mod of the original Sonic the Hedgehog 2 video game loaded onto my phone, my go-to game whenever I was feeling stressed out.

 

Somehow, I think my second flight will be very different from my first. After the call with Hideo ended, the first thing I did was rush down the hall

and knock on Mr. Alsole’s door. One glance at his dumbstruck face was all I needed to know that I didn’t just hallucinate everything.

Our rent is paid through the end of next year.

I pack in a daze. I don’t own a suitcase, so I end up stuffing as much clothing into my backpack as it can fit. My thoughts jumble together, every one of them about Hideo. What does he want me for? It must be huge, if it means flying me like this to Tokyo. Hideo has indeed hired a few hackers in the past— to help him work out bugs inside Warcross—but they were way more experienced, and probably with no criminal records. What if he’s actually angry with me, and is waiting to dole out punishment once I’m in Japan? It’s a ridiculous idea, sure . . . but so is being asked to pack up everything and go to Tokyo. Asked by Hideo Tanaka. The thought warms my insides again, and I tingle at the mystery of what this job offer might be.

 

Keira’s eyes trail me as I dart around the apartment. “When are you going to come back?” she asks, even though she’d heard the same conversation that I had.

 

I cram another T-shirt into my backpack. “Don’t know,” I reply. “Probably soon.” Secretly, I hope I’m wrong.

 

“How do you know this isn’t just some huge prank?” she says. A note of confusion in her voice. “I mean—it was broadcast everywhere across the internet.”

I pause to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s to stop someone from dialing your number a million times


and then playing the biggest hoax of all time on you?”

 

That must be it. It has to be. Some hacker out there thought it would be funny. Somebody broke into my phone’s weak security, faked Hideo’s voice, set me up—he’s probably laughing his head off right now.

 

But our rent is paid off. What prankster would waste his money like that? All I can do is shrug. “Well, I’m going to see how far I can push it. Not like

I have much to lose.”

 

As I finish with the last of my things, I hurry over to the little menagerie of objects by my bed. My Christmas ornament. Dad’s painting. I pick up both, taking extra care with the painting. It’s an explosion of blue, green, and gold streaks that, when you step back, somehow look like him holding my hand and walking me through a warm, tree-lined evening in Central Park. I stare at it for a moment longer, then pack it carefully into my bag. I could use a bit of good luck traveling with me.

 

An hour later, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I hoist my backpack and skateboard over my shoulders and step out of the apartment, then glance back, my eyes settling on Keira. I have a strange feeling I’m studying a life that I won’t be returning to. That this will be the last time I ever see her. And I find myself softening toward her, quietly wishing her well. She’ll have a rent-free apartment until the end of next year; maybe that’ll help her get back on her feet.

 

“Hey,” I say, feeling unsure of how to say good-bye. “The corner diner is going to need someone now. If you’re looking.”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

 

She gives me a single, solemn nod. Like she also knows this may be permanent. “You too,” she replies.

Then I close the door behind me and don’t look back.

When I push open the building’s main entrance doors, an explosion of flashing lights blinds me. I squint and throw a hand over my face. A roar of voices go up. “Miss Chen. Miss Chen! Emika!” I wonder for an instant how the hell these people recognize me, before I remember that, with the rainbow of colors in my hair, it’s pretty obvious that I’m the same girl from the published screenshots.

 

An enormous figure bounds up the steps, pushing journalists aside in the process. “Allow me, ma’am,” he says in a friendly tone as he takes my backpack and board. He holds an arm out in front of me and starts making a path down the steps. When one journalist gets pushy, he shoves him back with a growl. I follow my new bodyguard dutifully, ignoring the questions thrown at me from all sides. We finally push our way over to a car—the most beautifully sleek auto-car


I’ve ever seen. I bet it’s the first time one has ever been spotted on our street. The bodyguard puts my stuff in the trunk. One of the car doors opens automatically, waits for me to shuffle inside, and then closes. The sudden silence, and the separation from the din outside, is a relief. Everything in it looks so luxurious that I feel like I’m ruining it just by sitting here. The clean scent of a new car hangs in the space. Bottles of champagne sit in a molded block of ice. Through the windows, I can see an overlay of virtual markers over the streets and buildings. Randall Avenue, reads a string of white letters overlaid across the street we’re on. Colorful little text bubbles pop up over each of the buildings. Green Hills Apartment Complex. Laundr-O-Matic. Chinese Food. This car has the NeuroLink fully integrated into it.

 

The car’s interior lights up. A voice comes on. “Hello, Miss Chen,” it says.

 

I startle.

“Hi,” I say back, unsure where I should be looking.

 

“A preference for the car mood?” the voice continues. “Something serene, perhaps?”

 

I glance out at the mob of journalists still shouting at the car’s shaded windows. “Serene would be nice, Mr. . . . Car.”

“Fred,” the car says.

“Fred,” I reply, trying not to feel weird about talking to a bottle of champagne in an ice block. “Hi.”

 

All of the windows suddenly shift, and the journalists outside are replaced with a view of a stunning landscape—long grasses blowing in the wind, white cliffs out along the horizon, clear ocean and white foam, and a sunset tinting the clouds orange and pink. Even the chaos outside now sounds muffled, covered by calling seagulls and the crash of the virtual ocean.

“I’m George,” the bodyguard says as the car starts to drive us forward. “You must have had quite a morning.”

 

“Yeah,” I reply. “So . . . do you know why we’re heading for the airport?” “My instructions from Mr. Tanaka were only to escort you safely to the jet.” I go back to staring at the virtual seascape passing us. Instructions from

 

Hideo. Maybe it’s not an elaborate prank after all.

Half an hour later, the serene views on the windows fade away, and the real world comes back into view. We’ve arrived at the airport. Instead of pulling into the usual circle where all the other vehicles go, though, ours turns into a small looping road that takes us toward the expanse of tarmac behind the airport. Here, the car pulls into a private garage that is situated next to a small row of jets.

 

I scoot out of the car’s dark interior, then squint in the light. One jet has Henka Games written on its side. It’s enormous, nearly the size of a commercial


liner—except thin and sleek, with an elegant, sharp-nosed design that distinguishes it from the other jets. The panels along the sides of the plane look strange, almost translucent. The main door is open, and a set of stairs leads down to the tarmac, where a plush red rug lies. This is the plane that Hideo himself uses whenever he travels.

 

“This way, Miss Chen,” George says to me with a slight bow of his head. I’m about to go around to the back of the car to grab my backpack, but he stops me. “You won’t need to lift anything on this trip,” he adds with a smile. I stand there awkwardly, empty-handed, as George grabs my stuff and leads me in the direction of the jet.

 

I make my way up the steps. At the top, two flight attendants dressed in impeccable uniforms give me dazzling smiles and a bow of their heads. “Mr. Tanaka welcomes you on board,” one of them says to me. I nod back, unsure what to say to that. Is Hideo being kept up-to-date on where I am right now? Does he know I’m boarding his plane at this very moment? My thoughts linger on the flight attendant’s words—until I turn to look at the inside of the jet.

Now I understand why the outside panels of the plane looked so translucent. The interior appears lined with glass panels, through which I can see the airport, runway, and sky. On second glance, the panels have the Henka Games logo carved subtly into the surface. Sleek lines of light rim the panels. I’ve only ever seen the inside of planes crammed with seats—but this one has a full-length leather couch at the far end, an actual bed embedded against each side, a full bathroom and shower, and a set of soft lounge chairs near the front. A glass of champagne and a plate of fresh fruit sit on the table separating the lounge chairs. I’m frozen for a moment, suddenly uneasy in the midst of this extravagance.

 

George sets my backpack in a back closet of the plane. Then he gives me a tip of his hat and a smile. “Have a lovely trip,” he says. “Enjoy the flight.” Before I can ask him what he means, he turns away and heads down the stairs to his car.

 

As the attendants seal the door, one of them invites me to make myself at home. I wander over to one of the lounge chairs, sink cautiously onto the soft leather, and inspect the armrests. Do these glass panels change, like the windows in the car I just rode in? I’m about to ask the attendant approaching me, but I’m interrupted when he hands me a pair of glasses. I recognize it instantly as the current generation of Warcross glasses that are being sold in stores—much more powerful than the old rentals I’ve been using up until now.

“For your enjoyment,” the attendant says, smiling at me. “And for a full flight experience.”


“Thanks.” I turn the glasses in my hands, admiring the solid-gold metal of the arms. My fingers stop above an elegant logo that says: Alexander McQueen for Henka Games. These are the luxury, limited-edition version of the glasses. Dad would have held his breath in delight.

 

I’m about to put them on when the plane starts to move forward. My eyes go to the glass panels on the sides and top of the aircraft. I can see straight through them to the tarmac, and I can even see the front landing gear. If I stare hard enough, it seems as if the seats were simply floating over the ground, with nothing separating us from the outside. The ground rushes by faster and faster. Above me is clear blue sky and it feels as if we’re going to be launched to our certain death.

 

Then the plane leaves the runway, and my body crushes slightly into the seat. Through the glass panels, the world below us falls away, and just like that —we’re airborne.

 

I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping my seat until the flight attendant taps me. I look up to see his relaxed smile. “No need to worry, miss,” he says over the hum of the engines. “This is one of the most advanced planes in the world. It’s supersonic. From here, we’ll travel to Tokyo in less than ten hours.” He nods down at my armrest, and when I follow his gaze, I see that my knuckles have turned completely white from my grip. I carefully let out a breath and loosen my fingers.

 

“Right,” I reply.

As we start to level out in altitude, the world disappears altogether into a blanket of clouds. The panels now change to opaque, leaving only two horizontal stripes of glass transparent to the outside.

 

The flight attendant tells me to put my glasses on. I do as he says. Immediately, I notice several differences between these and my old rental pair. The new glasses are lighter, for one, and fit more comfortably on my face. When I put them on, shading the world around me a tint darker, and plug their earphones into my ears, a female voice comes on.

 

“Welcome,” the voice says. The glasses turn completely black, blocking my surroundings out. “Please look to your left.”

 

When I do as it says, I see a red sphere materialize in the left field of my vision, hovering in the black space. A pleasant ding sounds.

“Confirmed. Please look to your right.”

The red sphere vanishes. I obey, and when I look to my right, there is a floating blue sphere. Another ding.

“Confirmed. Please look up.”

The blue sphere disappears, too. I look up and see a floating yellow sphere.


Ding.

 

“Confirmed. Please look forward.”

In the darkness, a gray sphere appears, followed by a cube, a pyramid, and a cylinder. Again, the ding sounds, followed by a brief tingle along my temples.

“Please touch your forefinger and thumb together on both hands.”

I obey, and it runs through a quick series of tests for my movements. “Thank you,” the voice says. “You are now calibrated.”

 

These new glasses have such a better system than the old ones. With this simple calibration, the glasses should now be able to know my brain’s preferences and variations enough to sync up everything in Warcross to me. I wonder idly whether my hacks will still work now.

 

The glasses lighten and turn clear, so that I can see the inside of the plane again. This time, a layer of virtual reality lies over my view, so that the flight attendants’ names hover over their heads. As I look on, transparent white text appears in the center of my vision.

 


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