PHOENIX RIDERS vs DEMON BRIGADE

 

Hammie lets out a whoop, and Asher claps loudly. “We lost to them last year,” Asher says, looking between me and Ren, “and then we got punished in our rankings. Everyone’s going to think that the Demons will slaughter us. But we’re gonna prove them wrong, aren’t we?” He grins his canine grin. “Now we just have to predict what the first level will be like.”

 

“Whenever the committee pairs us with the Demons,” Hammie says, “it’s usually in a level that involves speed. Like Eight-Bit World, from two years ago.” She nudges Asher. “You remember Eight-Bit World, right?”

Asher grunts. “Ugh. So many stairs.”

“Or space,” Hammie adds. “They have a knack for handling 3-D space. So if our level involves being in midair a lot, they might have an advantage. But we train for speed. The Demons like to train for strength and defense.”

 

“In fact, every single one of their teammates trains to defend—not just their Fighter and Shield,” Asher finishes. “You watch any game where they do coordinated eight-dives, especially when double-armed, and you’ll see how they switch off roles as smooth as glass.”

 

“Dragonfire World, for instance,” Hammie says. Everyone nods except me. “Just think about how they eight-dive in formation by the cliffs. I hate their guts, but their guts can also be a work of art.”

I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about.

But a chorus of agreement answers Hammie, and more high-level worlds are brought up in rapid succession. More chatter about nicknamed moves that I’ve never heard of. I stay quiet, trying to take as much of it in as I can, but for the first time since the Wardraft, it occurs to me how out of place I am in this championship. Ren is a wild card, but also a seasoned player who has unlocked and played all of these high-level worlds. I’ve played none of them. I’m here for the hunt, sure, but I’m also here for the game—and right now, I feel like Hideo has entered me to set me up for certain humiliation.

“It doesn’t mean there aren’t drawbacks, of course,” Asher says, turning his eyes to me. “The Demons are competent at everything and incredible at nothing. You concentrate on being a great Architect, Emi, and you’ll win us the game. We’ll make sure you’re up there in no time.”

 

I smile at him, grateful that he’s looped me back in to the conversation. “Any advice for me that’s specific to playing the Demons?”

 

“Plenty. They’re going to target you early. Whatever the level turns out to be, you’d better be able to cut out in front of them and get to clear ground.”

I think of Tremaine’s sneer and Max’s insults, then of Roshan’s first warning to me. “Will do,” I reply.

 

Asher looks at Ren. “I’ve never seen any Fighter attack as fast as you, but Max Martin’s offense is incredibly strong. You have your work cut out for you.”

Ren salutes him with two fingers at his temple. “Yes, Captain.”

Across from me, Roshan is the only one who looks solemn at the matchup announcement. Asher glances at him warily, then nods once. “Got any advice for Emi on how to deal with Tremaine in a game?” he asks.

 

“Ash,” Hammie warns.

Roshan shoots him a glare. “He was your Rider before he became a Demon. You tell her.”

 

Asher just shrugs. “Not my fault that you hooked up with him,” he says.

“You know Tremaine better than any of us. So keep your personal grievances out of it and help our wild card out, yeah?”

 

Roshan stares at Asher for another long moment. Then he sighs and looks at me. “Tremaine is an Architect who has trained in every position. He’s the best of the Demons at switching roles, and he’s actually a very good Thief and Fighter. So sometimes, in games, his teammates will toss him their own power-ups or weapons, so that he can use them even though he’s technically the Architect. When you fight him, remember that he can wear many faces, and that he’s fluid enough to pull an uncharacteristic move on you. I’ll show you in training.”

 

Asher looks satisfied enough at this, and when Roshan leans back and crosses his arms, he leaves him alone.

“What are the other matchups?” asks Ren.

Asher continues to scroll the midair display to the left. Our two crests swipe out of view and are replaced by two more.

WINTER DRAGONS vs TITANS

He keeps scrolling. ROYAL BASTARDS vs STORMCHASERS. CASTLE RAIDERS vs WINDWALKERS. GYRFALCONS vs PHANTOMS. CLOUD KNIGHTS vs SORCERERS. ZOMBIE VIKINGS vs SHARPSHOOTERS. It keeps going until we’ve reached the last of the sixteen matchups: ANDROMEDA vs BLOODHOUNDS.

 

My attention has gone back to where Hideo is still standing in front of a podium, flanked on one side by Kenn and on the other by Mari, answering a series of questions. “Can you put on what he’s saying?” I ask Asher.

 

He turns up the sound on the live feed. The rumble of a noisy conference room fills the atrium. Hideo looks into the crowd at a reporter shouting a question to him above the din. “Mr. Tanaka,” the reporter says, “you are also releasing the newest Warcross glasses—lenses, excuse me—to the public today?”

 

Hideo nods. “Yes. They are being shipped around the world as we speak.” “Mr. Tanaka,” another reporter chimes in, “we’ve already seen footage of

 

long lines and heard rumors of shipments being stolen off trucks. Are you concerned that Henka Games will see its profits decrease because you are giving these new lenses away for free?”

 

Hideo gives the reporter a cool look. “The benefits of alternate reality deserve to be given to all. The bulk of our profit comes from the worlds themselves, not the hardware.”

 

The reporters start talking over each other again. Hideo turns his head toward another question. “Mr. Tanaka,” this one says, “any reason for your interest in Emika Chen?”

My teammates look at me in unison, right as my face bursts into shades of red. I clear my throat and cough. On the screen, though, Hideo doesn’t bat an eye. “Please specify?” he replies.

The reporter, eager to get a reaction, barrels on. “Unranked wild card?” he asks. “Number one draft pick? The Phoenix Riders—her team—playing in the first game of the season?”

 

I can feel my teammates’ eyes boring holes into me. Only Asher lets out an annoyed snort and mutters, “Her team? I’m the captain!”

 

Hideo’s expression remains perfectly calm, even disinterested. Nothing new, I remind myself forcefully. Reporters question his every interaction with a girl. He’s being paired with the princess of Norway on our coffee table’s magazine, for crying out loud. The only reaction of any kind that I see, in fact, comes not from Hideo but from Kenn, who’s hiding the faintest of smiles on his face. “I do not control the draft picks,” Hideo replies. “And the order of the games was chosen by a committee months in advance.” Then he looks away to call on another reporter.

 

Hammie whistles at the screen. “How about that, Emi?” she says to me with an eyebrow raised. “Now the tabloids are going to be pairing you with Hideo on their covers next week.”

 

The thought sends my heart racing. It’s only the first morning of our first training day, but already my wild-card and bounty-hunter roles are butting heads. If I don’t end up giving myself away after a week, it’ll be a miracle.

Finally, Hideo steps off the podium, and the broadcast ends. Asher asks Wikki to turn off the feed. Then he looks at all of us. “Well,” he says, “we’ve got one month to get two wild cards up to speed.”

 

I glance at the program I’m running to bypass Ren’s shields. Sure enough, I’m almost in.

 

“Lenses on?” Asher asks. We nod in unison. “All right, then, Riders. Training time starts now.”

 

 

13

 

Asher leans forward, then presses something on his own display in midair. All of us see a Warcross menu pop up in our view. If Asher can show us all the same thing, then we are linked on the same network during training. Ren had been walled behind his shields during the party, but maybe now, if we’re all linked on the same network, I can find a way to get into some of Ren’s data. Of everyone’s personal data.

 

As I ponder this, Asher taps the option that says Training Grounds. The world around us fades into black, as if I’d closed my eyes. I blink several times. Then, a new world materializes around us.

 

This is a Warcross world I’ve never seen before. It must be exclusive to the professional teams. It looks like a whitewashed world, like it’s a virtual world only half finished, its surfaces unpainted and without texture. We are standing in the middle of a white sidewalk, next to a white street crowded with white cars, with white columned buildings towering all around us. When I look farther down the street, I can see a glimpse of a whitewashed jungle, the trees and their trunks the color of ivory, the grass white as it grows at the edge of the city streets. The only color in this world comes from the sky above us, which is bright blue.

 

For a moment, I allow myself to forget about my hunt. I’m standing inside a level that few will ever get to see, with some of the most famous players in the world.

 

“Welcome to the training grounds,” Asher says beside me. He, like the rest of us, is now dressed in a standard, formfitting suit of red body armor that starkly contrasts with the world around us. It makes it incredibly easy for us to spot each other. “This is a whitewashed simulation containing miniature worlds all condensed into one.” He nods down the street toward the jungle. “There are forests here, along with the city block we’re currently in. A few blocks east, the city ends and an ocean starts. To the west, there are narrow stairways that lead into the sky. The potholes in the city streets will drop you into an underground network of caves. There are examples here of most of the obstacles we might encounter in this year’s levels.”

 

I look more closely at each of our outfits. Even though we’re all wearing

red body armor, there are subtle differences between the suits. Ren’s Fighter suit is streamlined, full of smooth plates reinforced by an outer set of warrior armor. His armguards are spiked. Hammie’s Thief suit is full of pockets, nooks, and crannies, where she can stash items away. Asher looks like the captain that he is, while Roshan, our Shield, has armguards larger than any of ours, his belt equipped with potions and elixirs he can use to protect the rest of us.

 

Then there’s mine, the Architect’s armor. Around my waist is a utility belt, equipped with a myriad of tools I’m all too familiar with. Hammer. Screwdriver. A box of nails. Two rolls of duct tape. A small chain saw. A coil of rope. Tools are tucked along the tops of my boots, too—sticks of dynamite, lock picks—and an assortment of knives are strapped to my right thigh.

“Hammie,” Asher says. “You’re with me.” He nods in my direction. “Emika, Ren, and Roshan. You’re a team. Roshan will be your captain.” He taps something in midair, and a glittering gem appears over Roshan’s head. “Remember—your goal is always to aim for the gem. However you accomplish that is up to you. Let’s work out our weaknesses.” He glances between our two teams. Then he pushes something in midair.

 

Jewel-toned power-ups appear all around us, their bright colors electric against the white. Some are on display in store windows. Others are at the tops of the streetlights, while a bunch hang above the buildings.

 

My eyes follow the power-ups as they dot the training level, noting the easy grabs and the hard ones. I’ve only ever played beginners or practiced alone in worlds accessible to everyone. What will it be like to have an official team scrutinizing my plays?

 

“Power-ups in the championship tournaments are different from the ones in regular games,” Asher says to me and Ren. “Every year, the Warcross Committee will vote in a dozen new power-ups exclusive only to the championships, and then retire them at the end of the game season. Today, I want us to practice going after these power-ups.”

 

He pushes another button in midair. All of the power-ups vanish—except for one, perched over the edge of a bridge that links two buildings. It’s fuzzy, covered with bright blue fur striped with bits of gold and silver, and buzzing slightly.

“Specifically, I want us to be going after that one,” Asher adds.

“What does it do?” Ren asks.

 

“Morph,” Asher replies. “It gives the user the power to change one thing into something else.”

 

As Ren nods, his attention turned on the power-up, I watch him and quietly tap my fingers against my leg. A little progress bar blinks in the corner of my

vision while I run one of my hacks on him. After a few minutes, the only data that I’m able to access is his full name—Renoir Thomas—alongside his photo. I frown a little. My hack manages to access some of his more public information and even a few of his messages—but everything else is still secured behind a wall of shields that I’ve never seen before.

 

“Emi,” Roshan says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Step up.” I do as he says.

 

“This power-up was put into this year’s championships for the Architects, since you’ll probably use it best. I want you to retrieve it for your temporary captain, Roshan.” Asher looks to his side. “You’ll be facing off against Hamilton, who will do everything in her power to get it for me first.”

 

Roshan steps over to her and murmurs something in her ear. He’s probably telling her to pull some of Tremaine’s signature moves, I think, recalling what Roshan had said moments earlier. Hammie nods a few times, her gaze flickering to me as she listens. When Roshan’s done, she offers me a dark grin. I try to smile casually in return.

 

A timer, glowing scarlet, appears over the power-up. Asher taps his wrist. “Phoenix Riders are known for speed,” he adds. “So I time every single one of our training sessions, no matter how small or trivial it might seem. Got that, wild card?”

I nod. “Got it.”

“You both have five minutes.” He looks up. “Go!”

 

A surge of adrenaline hits me. I don’t think; I just bolt. Hammie does the same. She rushes toward the building itself, but I decide to run across the street. As Hammie starts to scale the side of the building, grabbing one brick after another and winding her way around the walls, I sprint toward one of the tall streetlights lining the block across from the building. I pull one of the sticks of dynamite from my boot. Then I plant it at the base of the pole, careful to position it so that the explosion will break the pole in the right direction. I ignite the dynamite. Then I take several steps away so that I’m safe from the blast zone.

 

Bam!

The ground rumbles as the base of the streetlight explodes. The pole careens sharply forward, toppling at an angle against the wall of the building.

“Nice!” Roshan shouts in approval.

 

I’m too focused to glance toward them. All my energy now hones in on my task. I hop onto the pole, then take a deep breath and start sprinting up it toward the building. The time I’ve lost from setting up the dynamite is now made up as I rapidly get higher and higher, until I reach the wall of the building. Hammie is still climbing, a good dozen feet below where I am. Two stories above us, the

power-up hovers along the bridge.

 

I press my hands against the wall, then reach for the rope at my waist. If I can fling it and loop it around one of the spotlights along the bridge, I can pull myself up fast enough to get there first.

 

Suddenly, something tugs sharply against my waist. I nearly lose my balance and fall off. I look down.

 

The loop of rope at my waist is gone. Below me, Hammie shoots me a grin as she holds it up. How did she get it so quickly? How did she know I’d use it?

 

“You’re not the only one with tools, wild card,” she calls up at me. She flashes her stun gun at me, its edges gleaming in the light, and then flings my rope up to the protruding corner of the next story up. She pulls herself higher.

Hammie had shot my rope straight off my waist and caught it. No time to fume at her. I turn my attention back to my task and lunge upward along the wall, grabbing for each brick. The two of us climb at a feverish pace.

 

Hammie’s faster than I am. She quickly outpaces me, and seconds later, I’m behind her by at least six feet. I force myself to climb faster.

 

Right as Hammie reaches the edge of the bridge, colors flash around us. Other spheres and cubes suddenly appear, scattered over the bridge and against the walls. Asher must have turned the rest of the power-ups back on. My eyes dart to a power-up within reach.

 

It’s a bright yellow sphere, hovering against the wall where I am. Speed Burst. I seize it, then give it a squeeze in my hand.

 

The sphere vanishes, covering me in a neon-yellow glow. The world around me seems to slow, and Hammie along with it. I surge upward, climbing twice as fast as I had been only moments earlier.

 

I pass Hammie and jump onto the bridge right as my power-up runs out.

 

The world snaps back to its regular pace.

The timer above the Morph power-up continues to count down. Thirty seconds left.

 

Instead of inching along the bridge as fast as I can, I give up several precious seconds and set a quick trap for Hammie. I yank my hammer from my belt and smash each of the hand- and footholds I’m using as I make my way along the bridge’s edge. Hammie won’t be able to use them to follow right behind me. Then I turn back around and keep going. I’m so close to the power-up now.

 

When I look behind me, Hammie is gone again.

I blink. What?

“Up here,” her voice calls from above.

 

I peer up to see her hovering right over me, as if she knew exactly what I

would do to slow her down. She was able to reach a power-up—Wings (temporary flight), from the orange glow around her. She grins, then dives for the Morph power-up.

I launch off the edge of the bridge and lunge at her. My hands grab for her legs. I throw her off balance before she can reach the Morph power-up. She lets out a startled, angry yell. For an instant, with her power of flight still working, we tumble in place as she tries to shake me off. Then, to my shock, she comes at me with her fists up.

 

I barely manage to dodge her first blow. Her second hits me in my chin, and I lose my grip on her. To my surprise again, she doesn’t release me. A normal Thief would—but instead, Hammie tightens her grip and continues fighting me in midair.

 

“Watch her hands!” Roshan shouts out, right as I see something glint in Hammie’s fist. It’s a dagger. A dagger? Thieves aren’t supposed to have daggers. In a flash, I realize that this must have been planned by Roshan. Tremaine probably plays like this, switching easily from one role to another. So Roshan must have given her the dagger to test me on how I’d react in a situation like this.

 

Hammie strikes out at me with blinding speed.

Most players wouldn’t have been able to dodge it. But my reflexes have been honed on the streets as a bounty hunter. The memory of me running through New York, catching the gambler, flashes back to me. He had attacked me with a knife, a real knife. As Hammie’s virtual knife comes at me, I find myself moving on pure instinct—I release her completely with a shove, fall a little, and then shoot out my hands at the last second to grab her ankles.

Her eyes widen. Then her flight power-up runs out.

 

I use her last bit of momentum in midair to swing myself up. As she starts to fall, I let go of her. The momentum is just enough. I reach up as high as I can. My fingertips brush against the Morph power-up. It’s in my hand. A tingle rushes up my arm at the acquisition. I let out a shout of triumph.

Then I tumble back down toward the ground. I land hard on my back, knocking my avatar out of commission for several long seconds. There I lie, gasping and laughing. When my avatar recovers, I roll over and check my inventory, eager to see the Morph power-up in my account.

 

It’s not there.

Hammie strides over to me as I manage to sit up. She holds out the Morph power-up in her hand and smiles. “Took it from you right as you landed on the ground,” she says.

“How—?” I hesitate, shaking my head. She’d done it so quickly that I

hadn’t even felt her snatch it from my hands as I’d lain on the ground. I glance over to where Asher and the others are walking toward us. “But—didn’t I win the exercise? I got it first.”

“You’ve got a lot of strengths, Emi,” Asher says. Hammie offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet. “Very resourceful. The way you play as an Architect— those aren’t the plays of an amateur player. Fast on your feet. Accurate. You’re much more talented than your Level 28 would suggest. Just like I thought.” He nods at Hammie. “But you’ve got some classic wild-card weaknesses. One.” He holds up a finger. “You get tunnel vision. Hammie is a world-class Thief. She’s probably faster and nimbler than any Thief you’ve ever played against. I had to help you out by turning the other power-ups on.”

I rest a hand on my hip and look at Hammie. “How did you always know what I’d do next?”

 

She taps her temple once. “Don’t let me talk you into playing chess,” she quips, repeating Asher’s warning he’d given me when I’d first met her.

 

“Hammie can structure out your moves a dozen steps ahead,” Asher explains. “Like any master chess player. She can sort your potential paths in her head and, judging by your body language, figure out what you’re the most likely to do, all while she’s on the move. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“I didn’t know you’d throw yourself at me during those final moments, though,” Hammie adds. “That’s the fun of playing a wild card, isn’t it? You never know what kind of player you’ll get.”

 

A dozen steps ahead. She had probably guessed my moves from the instant we began, maybe the moment I started running toward the streetlight. I sigh. “Well? What other classic weaknesses do I have?”

 

Asher holds up two fingers now. “You didn’t listen to my instructions.” “I got the Morph power-up.”

 

“Your instructions were to retrieve the Morph power-up for me,” Roshan interrupts me. “Your team captain. The exercise didn’t end when you grabbed the power-up first. It ends when you hand it over to me. This isn’t a solo game, Emika, and you can’t play as if you alone want to win.” As he says this, Hammie walks over to Asher and tosses the power-up to him. He catches it without looking.

 

“Nicely done,” Asher says.

She beams. “Thanks, Captain.”

 

I’m glad I’m inside Warcross, so that the others can’t tell that my cheeks are turning red from embarrassment. Hackers and bounty hunters aren’t exactly known for being great team players. I don’t do well with instructions. But I swallow these thoughts and nod at Roshan. “Sorry,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it, love. Thieves aren’t supposed to have daggers in their possession—Fighters are. But this is how Tremaine can act during a game, and you just successfully fought him off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone react that quickly to a surprise attack. A brilliant first exercise, really, especially from a wild card.”

 

“Yeah.” Hammie nods at me, too. “Not bad. You put up a hell of a fight, Emi. You’re just going to have to fight a little bit harder to beat me.” She winks. “Don’t worry—you’re still better than Roshan was when he was a wild card.”

 

Roshan gives her an exasperated look that makes her laugh. And in spite of myself, I smile, too.

 

“Next!” Asher says. “Roshan and Ren. Get up there.” The power-ups reset, and this time the Morph power-up is inside one of the buildings. I look on as the others move away. My attention stays focused on Ren. The progress bar in the bottom of my vision has finished and my program is now running on my other teammates, but with the pitiful number of Ren’s encrypted files I’ve managed to grab, I might as well not have run my hack on him at all.

 

• • • • •

 

THE SUN HAS already begun to set by the time we finish training. The instant I head back to my room and close my door, I bring up all of my downloaded info on the players and display it on my wall. A long list of data appears—birth date, home address, phone number, credit card information, calendar. I scroll through it, searching.

 

Hammie’s info appears first, detailing some of the plane tickets she’d recently purchased and hotels she’d booked. I catch a glimpse of bits of Memories she’s stored away. In one, she’s laughing with people who look like her mom and sister as they try to pose for a good shot in front of the Grand Canyon. In another, she’s at a chess tournament, staring down at the board. It’s speed chess—each player’s taking a fraction of a second to make a move. I pause in spite of myself, awed as her fingers fly across the board. I’m barely able to track her moves, let alone keep up with why she’s making them. In sixty seconds flat, she checkmates her opponent’s king. A roar comes from the audience, and her opponent shakes her hand grudgingly.

In her final Memory, she’s looking on behind a barricade as a man in uniform walks to a waiting helicopter. Nothing unusual; lots of people record Memories of greeting loved ones or sending them off. The man glances over his shoulder at her and waves. She waves back, recording in his direction long after the helicopter has taken off.

I switch to Asher. There’s nothing incriminating or interesting in any of his data either, other than a few texts about flight arrival and departure times. His most recent Memory, aside from the draft and the party, is of him at the airport’s private jet strip, waiting beside an older boy in sunglasses who I recognize immediately as his brother Daniel. Bodyguards stand near them both, but Daniel carries bags labeled with Asher’s name instead of letting the handlers do it. The brothers don’t utter a word to each other. And when the time comes for Daniel to finally hand over Asher’s bags to an attendant, Asher heads for the jet’s stairs without saying good-bye.

 

I try to shrug off the familiar note of guilt I always feel when combing through others’ private data. It’s your job, I remind myself. No room for feeling bad. Still, I delete the Memories of both Hammie and Asher from my records so that I can’t watch them again.

 

A few of Roshan’s messages are to his parents, one is to his sister, and one is a delivery receipt for some sort of gift. There are no recorded Memories, but to my surprise, the gift receipt tells me that it was sent from Tremaine, with a single line written on the card. Did you get my letter? T. I search the rest of his data, but there’s no indication of the letter in question, or that Roshan has responded to Tremaine’s gift yet. Nothing terribly suspicious, but I flag the data anyway for future reference.

 

Finally, I arrive at what little I have of Ren’s information. Most of it is of no consequence—plans for setting up equipment for the opening-night party; mail from fans. There’s one Memory of him, recorded at a party from last year, where he’s kissing a girl backstage as someone onstage is announcing his name. I clear my throat and turn my eyes away. Thankfully, the Memory shifts to Ren heading to his instruments in the center of the stage.

Everything else in Ren’s files is encrypted, including a few emails I’d managed to retrieve from his trash. I swipe through each one. No matter what I run on them, each one looks like a cube of gibberish floating in my view, locked tight behind a shield.

That’s when I finally run across something that makes me pause.

It’s a deleted email hidden behind his menagerie of shields, hovering in my view as a locked cube. I turn it in midair. When I do, I notice a tiny, recurring marker at the edge of each side of the cube.

 

“Well, well,” I whisper, sitting up taller. Any feelings of guilt I’d had now fly right out of my head. “What’s this?”

 

The marker is a red dot, barely noticeable, part of the message’s encryption.

 

And right beside it, in the tiniest letters, is the inscription WC0.

So Ren was the silhouette in the Wardraft. Based on the red dot, this

message was sent to him from inside the Dark World.

 

I sit back on my bed and furrow my brow. This means that not only was Ren the one I’d been tracking at the Wardraft, not only was he inside the Dark World recently, but he is talking to others there.

 

And no one goes into the Dark World unless they’re doing something illegal.

 

 

14

 

The first time I’d set foot in the Dark World was during my first bounty hunt. I was sixteen, and on my own. The boss of a local New York street gang

 

had put out a $2,500 bounty on one of his members, and I’d seen it as a brief mention in some online forum.

 

I’d read about other young people like me trying their luck in the competitive bounty hunter world. They seemed to have no special skill that I didn’t have, and it looked like a way—if you were good—to make a comfortable income. The best bounty hunters could rake in six figures a year.

I had another reason to go after this bounty. My father owed $2,000 in gambling debt. After he died, I’d made a promise to myself to not fall into working for anyone in the criminal world—but in order to do that, I had to free myself from this debt. Otherwise, the people Dad owed the money to would come looking for me the instant I turned eighteen.

 

So I did as much research as I could about how to get into the Dark World. I honestly thought that by following a few online guides, I would somehow be able to waltz into this den of crime unscathed.

 

The Dark World operates by no rule except one: Stay anonymous. Your safety is only as good as your disguise. I learned this the hard way after I made my way into the world, found my target, and tracked him down in real life. Only then did I realize that I’d accidentally exposed a part of my identity while in the Dark World. In no time, my personal information—age, history, location—was broadcast to the entire Dark World, and my equipment was compromised.

 

I got the money, paid off my father’s gambling debt. But over the next few months, I completely gutted my laptop and phone, stayed off-line and out of sight, kept the lowest profile I could. Even then, I’d get weird phone calls in the middle of the night, strange letters delivered in the mail. The occasional threat left on my physical doorstep. Eventually, I had to move.

 

I never worked for a gang again. It would be months more before I gathered the courage to return online.

 

That’s the thing about the Dark World: You can prepare for it all you want, but the only way to truly understand it is to head in.

• • • • •

 

“MISS CHEN,” HIDEO says as our call connects. “Good to hear from you.”

 

It’s the next morning, before training begins again in earnest, and Hideo’s virtual image is in my room, leaning forward in his office chair and resting his elbows on his desk. The single streak of silver in his hair catches some of the light filtering in from his windows. Beside him, Kenn is standing close to the desk with his hands in his pockets in a way that tells me I’d interrupted a conversation they were having. He glances at me over his shoulder. Two bodyguards stand at attention behind them.

 

“Calling so soon with an update?” Kenn remarks. He glances back at Hideo. “Maybe you really did find your perfect bounty hunter.”

 

I try to feel professional in my bare feet and shredded black jeans. “You must’ve been busy since the opening ceremony party,” I say to Hideo. My eyes dart briefly to Kenn. “Am I interrupting some business?”

 

“You are the business,” Kenn replies. “We were just talking about you.” “Oh.” I clear my throat. “Good things, I hope.”

 

Kenn grins. “I’d say so.” He pushes away from Hideo’s desk without explaining his words further. “I’ll leave you both to it, then. Have fun.”

Hideo exchanges a glance with Kenn. “We’ll pick up again in a bit.”

Kenn steps out of sight. Hideo watches him go, then gestures briefly at the door with one hand. Without a word, his two bodyguards bow their heads and head out of the room, leaving Hideo alone.

 

When they’re gone, he turns back to me. “I hope life has been pleasant since you took all the attention at the Wardraft.”

 

“I just figured that you’d instructed the Phoenix Riders to draft me first.” “I didn’t tell anyone to make you the number one pick. Asher Wing did that

on his own. You’re quite the commodity.”

 

So, Hideo hadn’t been involved in that, after all. “Well,” I say, “the Wardraft was interesting in more ways than one. Look what I found.” I bring up my screenshot from the Wardraft and hover it between us. It rotates slowly, giving us a full view of the dome. The unmistakable shadow of the figure’s silhouette is perched prominently in the dome’s tangle of metal. Over his head is the word [null]. “On the day of the Wardraft, I saw someone watching from the Tokyo Dome’s rafters.”

 

This catches Hideo’s interest. He studies the screenshot, his eyes narrowing on the dark silhouette perched in the dome’s maze of beams. “How do you know it’s a he?”

“Oh, I know better than that. It’s Ren.”

Hideo’s stare darts from the screenshot over to me. “Renoir Thomas?”

 

I nod. “DJ Ren. A marker in the screenshot’s code pointed to him. Since then, I’ve hooked up all of the official players to my Warcross profile.” I pull up everyone’s accounts. “I may need to go through some of their Memories, see who else might be involved.”

 

Hideo’s gaze goes to the digital map I’ve created that shows where each of the Warcross players currently are. Most are in their dorms. A group of Andromedans are out in the city, while Asher has left the Riders’ dorm. Ren is still sitting in his room.

 

“You’re more dangerous than I thought,” Hideo muses, admiring my handiwork.

I offer him a smile. “I promise I’ll be nice to you.”

This time, I manage to coax a laugh from him. “Should I be even more concerned?” he says to me.

 

I let his question linger, and bring up Ren’s email. “I’ve been running a hack on Ren’s info,” I reply, pulling the email forward to hover between us as a dark, encrypted cube of data. “Found this yesterday, although I can’t seem to unlock it.”

 

Hideo scans the file once. Like me, his eyes go immediately to the red marker on the edge of the cube. “This was sent from the Dark World,” he says.

I nod. “And wrapped in a shield I don’t recognize.”

Hideo brings his hands slightly apart, then rotates the cube once. “I do,” he mutters. He expands his hands again. The cube grows larger, and as it does, he pulls one side of it so that I can see its surface in detail. I narrow my eyes at it. The surface is coated with an elaborate, winding series of endlessly repeating patterns.

 

“It’s called a fractal shield,” he explains. “A new variation on onion shields we’ve seen lately, except that the fractal shield’s layers loop endlessly, multiplying each time you burrow through a top layer. The more you try to break it open, the more secure it becomes. Your hacks will run in place forever without getting anywhere.”

 

No wonder I couldn’t break my way through it. “I’ve never seen this before.”

 

“I wouldn’t expect you to. This is mutated from security we developed inside Henka Games.”

 

I lean forward, my gaze running over the surface of the cube. “Can you break it?”

 

Hideo puts his hands against two surfaces of the cube. When he removes his hands, a copy of the top of the fractal shield floats above the cube. “An

infinite shield requires an infinite key,” he says. “Something that multiplies at the same rate and type as the shield itself.”

“Every locked door has a key,” I murmur.

At my words, Hideo meets my gaze. He smiles.

 

He types several commands that are invisible to me, then runs it through a Henka Games program. A key forms in his hands, blacked out and ever-shifting, its own surface coated with the same endless patterns. I look on as he takes the key and presses it back against the cube.

 

The surface of the cube suddenly stills. The infinitely repeating fractals that cover it vanish. Then, in a flash, the cube disappears—replaced by a message.

It only says one thing.

 

PD

 

My gaze hitches on it at the same time Hideo’s does.

 

“Pirate’s Den,” we say in unison.

To a normal person, 1300PD would be meaningless. But to me, it’s a scheduled event. The 1300 is 1:00 p.m., written according to a twenty-four-hour clock—and PD stands for “Pirate’s Den,” an abbreviation I know well. It’s a notorious gathering place in the Dark World.

The event is tagged for March twentieth.

“Well,” I say. “Guess I know where I’m going this week.”

 

Hideo considers the message for a moment longer before giving me a questioning look. “You’re headed in alone?”

 

“You crack the fractal shields.” I lean back on my bed and cross my arms. “It’s my job to walk with the criminals, Mr. Tanaka.”

At that, he smiles a little. “Hideo, please.”

I tilt my head at him. “You insist on calling me Miss Chen in public. It’s only fair.”

 

He lifts an eyebrow. “I try not to give the tabloids more gossip than they can handle. They’re particularly aggressive at this time of year.”

 

“Oh? And what gossip is that? That we’re on a first-name basis? Scandalous. It seems like the tabloids are already making up their own gossip about me, anyway.”

“Would you prefer I call you Emika?”

“I would,” I reply.

“Well.” He nods. “Emika, then.”

 

Emika. Hearing him say my first name sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I’ll keep you updated,” I decide to say, shifting to signal an end to our call. “Should be enlightening.”

“Wait. Before you go.”

 

I pause. “Yes?”

“Tell me about your arrest from a couple of years ago.”

 

He’s been doing research on my record. I clear my throat, suddenly angry that he’s brought it up. I haven’t talked about my arrest in years. “It’s old news,” I mutter as I begin to launch into a summary of what had happened to Annie, how I’d hacked into the school’s directory.

 

Hideo shakes his head, stopping me. “I already know what you did. Tell me about how the police knew it was you.”

I hesitate.

“You’re far too skilled for them,” Hideo continues. He studies me intently, his expression the same as it had been when he’d tested me during our first meeting. “They didn’t actually catch you, did they?”

I meet his gaze. “I confessed.”

Hideo stays silent.

 

“They thought Annie did it,” I go on. The memory of sirens, of me walking into the principal’s office where the cops were gathered, of Annie’s cuffed wrists, her tear-streaked face looking up at me in shock, comes back to me now. “They were going to arrest her. So I turned myself in.”

 

“You turned yourself in.” There is a note of fascination in his voice. “And did you know what you would be sacrificing in doing that?”

 

I shrug. “Didn’t have time to dwell on it. Just seemed like the right thing to

 

do.”

Hideo is quiet. His attention is now completely locked on me.

“I suppose chivalry isn’t dead,” he finally says.

 

I don’t quite know how to respond. All I can do is return his look, feel another wall around him fall away, see the glint in his eyes change. Whatever he thought of what I said, it’s made him let down his guard.

 

Then the moment’s over. He straightens in his chair and breaks his eye contact with me. “Until next time, Emika,” he says.

 

I murmur my own farewell and end the call. His virtual self disappears from my room, leaving me alone again. Slowly, I exhale and let my shoulders sag. Hideo hadn’t mentioned anything about the other bounty hunters, which means I’m probably ahead of them on this job. So far, so good.

It takes me a moment to realize that I’d forgotten to turn off my hack when I was having my conversation with Hideo. That meant that I was crawling his profile for data, too. Hideo has his own protective shields up on his info, but even so, I’d managed to grab one unencrypted file from his account, one newly created earlier today. Now sitting in my downloads, blinking at me. I peer at it

long enough that it opens, thinking that I want to look inside.

 

My room fades away. I find myself standing in some sort of gym, equipped with large punching bags, racks of weights, mats, and long mirrors. This is one of Hideo’s Memory files. I shouldn’t be poking around in his data. Right away, I start exiting, but the Memory plays before I can.

 

Hideo is punching a bag in a furious rhythm, each impact shuddering in my view. Kickboxing? I pan around the Memory’s world—then stop when I see the reflection in the mirrors.

 

He’s shirtless, and his chest and back are slick with sweat, his muscles wound tight. His damp hair shudders with each hit he makes. His hands are wrapped in white bandages, and as he continues his ferocious assault on the punching bag, I can see glimpses of blood staining the bandages over his knuckles. The scars I always see. How hard has he been hitting that bag? But what shocks me is his expression. His eyes are black and fierce, a look so full of focused anger that I physically pull away.

 

I think back to the intensity I’d seen on his face during our first meeting, when he was talking about his newest creation, about his passions. I can see a similar light in his eyes here in the way he throws his punches—but this is a darker intensity. One of deep fury.

 

Hideo’s bodyguards wait patiently at the edges of the room, and standing right next to him is someone who must be his trainer, decked out head to toe in padded gear. “Enough,” he says now, and in response, Hideo pauses to turn on him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the look the trainer gives me—to Hideo —is wary, even a little afraid.

 

The trainer starts to circle, and Hideo does the same. His movements are fluid and precise, deadly. His hair falls across his face, obscuring his eyes momentarily from view. The trainer twirls a long wooden stick in one hand, drags it along the ground, and then hoists it. He comes at Hideo, swinging the stick at him with blinding speed. My view blurs. Hideo dodges the blow easily. He sidesteps again, then a third time—on the fourth strike, Hideo lunges. He brings one arm up, fist clenched, as the stick comes down on it. The stick snaps with a loud crack against his forearm. Hideo darts forward. His fist strikes the trainer’s arm pads so powerfully that the trainer winces at the impact. Hideo doesn’t let up. He rains blows on the man’s arm pads in a blur of motion—the final punch lands so hard that the trainer stumbles backward and falls.

 

Hideo stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, his expression hard. As if he were seeing someone else lying there. Then, the fury in his eyes fades, and for a moment, he looks like himself again. He offers the trainer his hand and pulls him back up to his feet. The session ends.

I watch in stunned silence as Hideo bids farewell to his trainer, then heads out of the room’s double doors with his bodyguards flanking him, his hands still wrapped in bloodied bandages. Then the Memory ends, and I find myself in my own room again, jolted back into a peaceful scene. I finally exhale, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

 

So that’s how Hideo gets his bruised knuckles. Why does he train like a demon possessed? Why does he strike as if he wants to kill? I shiver at the memory of his expression, of those vicious, dark eyes, absent of any hint of the playful, polite, charismatic version of himself that I thought I knew. I shake my head. Best if I didn’t mention watching this Memory to anyone. Aside from his own bodyguards, Hideo probably didn’t intend for anyone to see that.

The shifting light in my bedroom starts to reflect from the pool outside my balcony, and the glow startles me back into reality. I’m here for a job, not to spy on Hideo’s private training sessions.

 

I exit from my account and remind myself to focus my thoughts on Ren instead. In the back of my mind, though, Hideo’s conversation with me plays on repeat. And when I finally leave my bedroom to join my teammates in our training for the day, it’s the memory of his dark eyes that lingers, the mystery behind his bloodied knuckles and furious gaze.

 

 

15

 

Three days pass in a blur of training activity. The Phoenix Riders run drills of every possible combination. I’m paired with Hammie, then with Ren, then with Asher and Roshan. I’m paired with two of them. I’m paired against them. Our environments change from jungle to city to towering cliffs. We practice in levels from past championships and everything in between.

 

Asher trains us with an intensity I haven’t seen before. I struggle to keep up. Every new world I play is a world everyone else has already played, every new maneuver a familiar one to the rest of my team. Just when I think I’m getting the hang of something, Asher will halve the time required of us to do certain missions or perform certain moves. Just when I start getting used to a world, Asher moves us on to the next one.

 

I end my days exhausted, slumped against the couches with my teammates, my mind crowded with new information as Asher reviews with us what the next day will be. My dreams are filled with our drills.

 

While Hideo had made sure I would end up on a team, he can’t help the Phoenix Riders win. If we lose, my teammates will disband for the season, and it’ll be that much harder to follow Ren around. Hideo is counting on me to fulfill this end of the bargain. If I don’t, I might end up forfeiting the bounty to some other hunter who can stay in the Championships.

“You’re new to this.” Roshan tries to reassure me one night as we pile against one another on the couches. Wikki is making his rounds to each of us, handing us plates of piping-hot dinner. “It should take you time to wrap your head around everything.”

 

On my other side, Hammie digs a fork into her food. “One of these days, Roshan, your bleeding heart is going to bleed all over us.” Her eyes flicker to me before she brings her loaded fork to her lips. “We can’t afford for her to go easy on herself.”

“She shouldn’t have been in the draft,” Ren interjects.

Hammie scowls at him. “Easy, wild card.”

 

“I’m just saying.” Ren holds up his knife and fork in defense. “I didn’t DJ international events on my first try. It’s not healthy.” He looks at me. “Don’t force her into situations she’s not ready for. You might kill her.”

I look away from him, but not before his words send my sixth sense tingling. Does he suspect me? Is he watching?

 

Roshan nods in reluctant agreement at Ren. “We can’t afford for her to burn out. There is such a thing. But you already know that, Hams.”

 

“That was only because I was a Titan that year, and Oliver was a pitiful captain compared to Ash.”

 

“I appreciate the flattery,” Asher says as he pops a fry into his mouth, then looks at me. “You’ve been missing your cues in training, Emi.”

 

“She hasn’t slept through the night all week,” Roshan interjects. “I can see it on her face.”

 

“I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to rub away the dark circles under my eyes. I need to get away. If my teammates start poking around too much, they’ll find it’s more than just our exercises causing my sleepless nights.

 

Asher clears his throat from where he’s seated, and the others settle down. He nods at us all. “No training tomorrow. Sleep in, eat a late breakfast. We’ll start up again the day after that.”

 

I give Roshan a gentle nudge of gratitude, while Hammie shoots Asher a sullen look. I’m reminded of the relentless way she played speed chess in her Memory. “You know who isn’t taking tomorrow off?” she says. “The Demon Brigade.”

 

“You know what’s useless to me? A mentally exhausted Architect. Emika’s been making mistakes all day.” Asher nods at where Ren is eating quietly beside him. “Ren has a call with his recording studio tomorrow, anyway. Day off will do us good.”

 

I watch Ren in silence as we finish dinner and drift off to our rooms. I’ve been analyzing him each day, looking for an additional sign, some further clue. Each night I comb through his data with the new key Hideo had given me. Nothing. He’s heading into the Dark World tomorrow, and I still have no answers as to why. And for all I know, he’s watching me, too.

 

“Em,” Hammie calls to me as I head to my door. I turn around to see her hurrying toward me, a package tucked under her arm. She holds it out to me. “Wear this around your head when you sleep. It knocks me out pretty fast.”

I squeeze the soft fabric. “Thanks,” I say.

 

She shrugs once. “I don’t mean to keep pushing you.” She shoves her hands into her pockets. “You can tell me, you know, if you’re having trouble with something. I’ll train one-on-one with you.”

 

I can see her chess mind sorting through the pieces of my words, not quite believing my excuses, looking a dozen steps ahead for what I might do next. She senses something’s bothering me. “I know,” I reply, giving her a smile. “Maybe

tomorrow.”

 

“It’s a plan.” She smiles back and I feel a twinge of guilt. I’ve never been a part of a group like this—a tight-knit group of friends that do everything together. We could be closer, if I let her in.

 

Instead, I just bid her good night. She does the same, but I can see the doubt in her eyes as she turns away and heads to her own room. I watch her go before sliding my door shut behind me.

 

That night, as I’m taking a late swim in my balcony’s pool in an attempt to clear my head, I get a message from Hideo.

You’re frustrated.

I pause in my laps, blink warm water out of my eyes, and tap on Hideo’s hovering text in my vision before I can think it through.

 

My chat request is sent, and a moment later, Hideo accepts it, appearing at the edge of the pool as a virtual image. He’s in a room dimly lit by warm light, pulling his tie loose. Without it, he looks more his age, impossibly young and less authoritative. To my annoyance, my heart tugs sharply at the sight of him. His knuckles don’t look bruised tonight. I guess he hasn’t been boxing in the past few days.

 

I lift my arms out of the water and fold them on top of the pool’s tiled edge.

 

Droplets of water on my tattooed skin catch the moonlight. “How can you tell?”

 

I reply.

“I haven’t heard from you in days.”

 

I’m in no mood to share my training insecurities with him. “What if I’m just saving up info for the next time I report to you?” I say instead. “I haven’t even gone into the Dark World yet.”

 

Hideo turns away for a moment as he puts away his cuff links. “And is that why I haven’t heard from you?” he says over his shoulder.

“Is this your way of telling me I should be making faster progress?”

He looks back at me, his expression partly hidden in shadows. “It’s my way of asking if I can help you out.”

“I thought I was the one helping you out.”

He pauses again, but in the dim light, his head turns slightly toward me to reveal the hint of a smile on his lips. His eyes hold mine for a moment. I’m glad for the darkness that hides my reddening cheeks. “I know you’re exhausted,” he finally says.

 

I look away and brush beads of water from my arm. “No pity needed.” “None given. I wouldn’t have put you there if you couldn’t handle it.” Always with his knowing attitude. “If you want to help me out,” I say as I

sink back into the water, “you could always offer some moral support.”

“Moral support.” He turns to face me, his smile turning playful. “And what kind of moral support would you like?”

“I don’t know. Some encouraging words?”

Hideo raises an eyebrow at me in amusement. “Very well.” He takes a step closer to me. “I’m checking in because I miss hearing from you,” he says. “Does that help?”

 

I pause with my mouth open, my momentary bravado disappearing. Before I can reply, he bids me good night and disconnects our chat. Hideo’s image vanishes, replaced with empty air, but not before I get one last glimpse at his face, his eyes still on me.

 

• • • • •

 

THAT NIGHT, I dream that Hideo and I are back at Sound Museum Vision, except we’re not in the middle of the dance floor. Instead, we’re upstairs, tucked in some dark corner of the balcony overlooking the space, and he has me pushed against the wall. He’s kissing me hard.

 

I startle awake from the dream, flustered and irritated with myself.

His words are still ringing in my thoughts when the day comes for Ren to go into the Dark World. As the others get ready to grab lunch, I lock my door and log in to Warcross.

 

Instead of heading into the usual game, I bring up a hovering keyboard and type in a series of extra commands, my fingers tapping against the floor. The room flickers, and suddenly it goes dark, leaving me suspended in complete blackness.

 

I hold my breath. I visit the Dark World often enough, but no matter how many times I go, I’ll never get used to the suffocating black that descends over my eyes before I can enter.

 

Finally, horizontal red lines appear in my vision, lines that—when I zoom in—turn into code. It fills my vision, page after page, until it finally hits the bottom and gives me a blinking cursor. I type in a few more commands, and a new ream of code fills my view.

 

Then, suddenly, the dark red code vanishes, and I’m standing in the middle of a gritty city’s streets, my typical [null] name hanging over my head. Other darkened figures bustle past, none of them paying any attention to me. I stand underneath a series of endless, glowing neon signs running along the buildings overhead. They illuminate me in different colors.

I smile. I’m past the shields that protect the surface level of Warcross and have dived into the sprawling, encrypted, anonymous underground world of

virtual reality that has sprung up right under the Warcross platform. It’s a second home, this place where everyone speaks my language, and where those who might otherwise be powerless in real life can now be incredibly powerful.

 

Most people who frequent the Dark World don’t even bother with a name for it. If you’re here, you’re “down under,” and anyone who knows what they’re doing should know that you’re not talking about Australia. The world I walk through now makes no logical sense, at least not in the usual way. Narrow, dilapidated buildings stand right in the middle of the street, while some doors leading into buildings hang upside down, as if impossible to get into. The main street intersects with other streets in midair that lead from windowsill to windowsill, connecting the impossible. Like one giant Escher painting. When I look skyward, a series of dark trains run parallel to one another, disappearing into both horizons. They look weird, stretched out, as if distorted through some sort of circus mirror. Water drips nearby, running into the gutters and pooling in potholes.

 

I glance up at the neon signs. If you look closely at them, you’ll notice that they aren’t really signs at all, but lists of names highlighted in neon. If you’re stupid enough to visit the Dark World without knowing how to protect your identity, then in no time, you’ll see your real name and your personal info— Social Security numbers, home addresses, private phone numbers—listed up there on those signs. That’s what the names are: a running list of all the users who dared to come down here unprepared, broadcast to the rest of the Dark World and leaving them at the mercy of those who walked these streets.

 

That’s where I’d been listed, the first time I went down here.

I pass a sign for the main street. Silk Road, it says. Underneath the lists are rows of shops with their own neon signs. Some of them sell illegal goods— drugs, mostly. Others have a little red lantern hanging outside their door, offering virtual sex. Still others have a video icon over their doors, signaling live virtual voyeurism. I look away and hurry on. I may be hidden behind a black suit and a randomized face, but just because I frequent this world doesn’t mean I’m ever comfortable with it.

 

Now I bring up a search, then tap Pirate’s Den when the result scrolls by. The world blurs around me, and an instant later, I’m standing at a part of the street where the buildings give way to a pier. A pirate ship looms along the shore, lit up with strings of lanterns that dangle in intervals to the top of its masts, the lights reflecting against the water in a sheet of glitter.

 

The Pirate’s Den is one of the more popular hangouts down here. The ship’s bow displays an ornate wooden carving in the semblance of a backward copyright symbol. Information wants to be free, I mouth the Den’s slogan

silently. A scarlet banner hangs over the gangplank leading up to its main deck, where a steady stream of anonymous avatars are now walking.

 

Today, the banner advertises betting on a Warcross game happening inside. These are matches with haphazard rules run by gangsters, the matches where I find and catch the gamblers who get in trouble with the law. Darkcross games, everyone jokingly calls them. I can only imagine how many indebted Warcross gamblers are going to come out of this one.

 

Ren’s probably here for this, I add to myself as I head up the gangplank. On board the ship, the speakers are playing an electronic track pirated from

 

an unreleased Frankie Dena album. A glass cylinder looms in the center of the deck, upon which a list of names and numbers constantly updates and loops. The names on this list are famous ones—prime ministers, presidents, pop stars—and beside each name is an amount of notes offered. The assassination lottery. People pitch in money to whichever person they’d like to see killed. Whenever one of these pots rises high enough, some assassin in the Dark World is bound to be motivated to assassinate that person and win the pot.

 

It happens rarely, of course. But the Pirate’s Den has existed in one form or another almost as long as the internet’s been around, and every decade or so, there’s an assassination that actually goes through. In fact, Ronald Tiller, a universally hated diplomat acquitted of a rape charge, had died several years ago in a mysterious car explosion. I’d seen his name at the top of the assassination lottery list a week before it happened.

 

I glance up to a balcony that overlooks the cylinder of names. There are a couple of avatars sitting there, watching. One of them is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, observing the list silently. Potential assassins, waiting for the right amounts of money. I shiver and look away.

 

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:

 

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