by Marie Lu
“What kind of information was he giving out?”
“Coordinates of cities. Look.” I pull up the list of numbers I’d recorded, explaining the system of small bets that Zero had been using to pass them along to his followers. Then I bring up a virtual map to hover between us, scattering the coordinates across it. My finger stops at the coordinates 35.68, 139.68. “And this—Tokyo—was the city that Ren answered for. Maybe everyone else also responded based on whatever city they’re physically located in.”
Hideo’s eyes narrow as he analyzes the locations. “These cities are where the largest dome events happen for the championships.” He glances at me. “Any clues as to how many meetings he has already conducted before this?”
I shake my head. “No. But he seems like he’s got a large group. I need another encounter with Zero to get a better sense of what all this means, but the chances of me getting more information from him like that before the games start are slim.”
Hideo shakes his head once. “You won’t need to. We’ll bring him to us. The first official game happens on April fifth. We already know he and his followers will be watching it, and that Ren will be the one assigned to the dome event in Tokyo. It’s likely he will be in direct, encrypted communication with Zero during this game.”
“You want me to hack his system during our game?”
“Yes. We’ll plant something on you in the first official game. Force Ren to interact with you in the middle of it, and it will disable the shields that protect him. It will expose any data between him and Zero.”
It sounds like a solid plan. “What are you going to plant on me?”
Hideo smiles a little. His hand brushes my wrist, turning it over, and his thumb presses carefully against my pulse. A tingle runs through me at his warm touch. Then he moves his hand away from mine and makes a brief gesture in the air. My data appears between us, the text glowing a faint blue. I look on in fascination as he weaves my data into what we already have of Ren’s, an algorithm right before my eyes, fashioning it into the equivalent of a noose.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A snare. Grab his wrist at any point during the game. It will cut through his security and expose his data for you.” Then he takes my hand again and wraps the trap around my wrist like a bracelet, the web of data glittering against my skin for a moment before turning invisible. Something about the gesture feels nostalgic, and suddenly I can see my father hunched over the dining room table, humming cheerfully to himself as he measures strips of fabric against his wrist, a half-empty wine bottle nearby, the floor around him cluttered with sequins and reams of cloth.
I pull my hand away and into my lap, feeling momentarily vulnerable. “Will do,” I say.
Hideo’s expression wavers. He studies me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I shake my head, annoyed with myself for being so obvious. Just a memory, that’s all. And I’m about to say this to him in order to brush it away—but then I look up, meet his eyes, and this time, I feel my own walls lowering. “I was remembering my father,” I say instead, gesturing at my wrist. “He used to measure out short lengths of fabric by wrapping them around his wrist.”
Hideo must have caught the shift in my tone. “Used to?” he says softly.
I look down, concentrating on the table. “It’s been a while since he died.”
Hideo is quiet for a long moment. There’s a familiarity in his look, a beat of silence shared by everyone who has ever experienced loss. One of his hands tightens and loosens. I watch the bruises on his knuckles shift. “Your father was an artist,” he finally says.
I nod. “Dad used to shake his head and wonder where the hell I got my love for numbers from.”
“And your mother? What does she do?”
My mother. A faded memory flashes through my mind of Dad holding my tiny, chubby hand, the two of us looking on helplessly as she laced up her boots and adjusted her silk scarf. While Dad spoke to her in a low, sad voice, I stared up in awe at the silver handle of her suitcase, the perfection of her nails, the silky blackness of her hair. I can still feel her smooth, cool hand against my cheek, patting it once, twice, then pulling away without any reluctance. She’s so beautiful, I remember thinking. The door closed behind her without a sound. Not long afterward, Dad’s gambling habit started.
“She left,” I reply.
I can tell that Hideo is piecing something together about me. “I'm sorry,” he says gently.
I look down, annoyed at the ache in my chest. “After Dad passed away, I preoccupied myself at my foster group home by digging obsessively into your API. It helped me, you know . . . forget.”
There it is again, that brief moment of understanding on Hideo’s face, of old grief and dark history. “And are you able to forget?” he says after a while.
I search his gaze. “Do your bruised knuckles give you release?” I answer in a soft voice.
Hideo looks out toward the city. He doesn’t comment on why I asked him about the bruises, or how long I’ve been wondering about them. “I think we know the answer to both those questions,” he murmurs. And I find myself overwhelmed by another slew of thoughts crowding my mind, guesses of what might have happened to Hideo in his past.
We settle into a comfortable silence as we admire the shimmering lights of the city. The sky has turned fully dark now, the stars erased from view by the neon streets of Tokyo below. My eyes turn upward, instinctively, as I search for any hint of constellations. No use. We’re too far inside the city to see anything more than one or two dots in the sky.
It takes me a moment to notice that Hideo has leaned back in his chair and is watching me again, a small smile hovering on the edges of his lips. The darkness of his eyes shifts in the low light, catching hints of fairy light as well as the warmth from the heat lamps.
“You search the sky,” he says.
I turn my eyes down and laugh. “It’s just a habit. I’ve only seen the sky full of stars when Dad used to take me on road trips through the countryside. I’ve looked for the constellations ever since then.”
Hideo glances up, then moves his fingers in a single, subtle motion. A clear box appears, asking me to accept a shared view. I do. The virtual overlays in my view adjust—and suddenly, the true night sky appears overhead, a sheet of spring constellations against countless numbers of stars, silver and gold and sapphire and scarlet, so bright that the Milky Way band itself is visible. In this moment, it seems entirely possible that starlight could rain down upon us, dusting us in glitter.
“One of the first things I put on my personal, augmented reality view was an unobstructed night sky,” Hideo says. He looks at me. “Do you like it?”
I nod without saying a word, my breath still caught in my throat.
Hideo smiles at me, truly smiles, in a way that brightens his eyes. His gaze wanders across my face. He is so close now that, if he wanted, he could lean forward and kiss me—and I find myself leaning toward him, too, hoping that he’ll close the gap between us.
“Tanaka-san.”
One of Hideo’s bodyguards approaches us, bowing his head respectfully. “A call for you,” he says.
Hideo’s eyes linger on me for a final moment. Then he moves away, and his presence is replaced with cool air. I nearly slump in my chair from disappointment. Hideo turns away from me and glances up. When he sees the bodyguard’s expression, he nods. “Excuse me,” he says to me, then stands and walks back inside the restaurant.
I sigh. A cold breeze blows by, making me shiver, and I turn my eyes back to the sky, where the sheet of stars still hangs in my view. I imagine him creating this, his face turned skyward, too, longing to see the stars.
Maybe we both need the cold air to clear our heads.
I work for him. He’s my client. This is a bounty hunt, just like every other hunt I’ve ever done. When I finish—when I win—I’ll be on my way back to New York and never have to take on another hunt again. And yet, here I am, sharing something abo
ut my mother that I haven’t thought about in years. I think back to the look in his eyes. Who had he lost from his life?
I’m starting to think I won’t see Hideo again tonight when something warm is draped around my shoulders. It’s Hideo’s gray peacoat. I look up to see him pass me by. “You looked cold,” he says as he sits down again.
I slide his coat down over my shoulders. “Thank you,” I reply.
He gives me an apologetic shake of his head. I hope he says something to acknowledge the spark that had danced between us, but instead, he says, “I’m afraid I have to leave soon. My guards will escort you out of a hidden exit, for your privacy.”
“Oh, of course,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment behind something that I hope sounds upbeat.
“When can I see you again?”
I look sharply at him. A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and my heart starts hammering again. “Well,” I start to say, “aside from what we already discussed, I’m not sure I’ll have much more to report until after—”
Hideo shakes his head once. “No reports. Just your company.”
Just my company. His gaze is calm, but I notice the way he’s turned toward me, the light in his eyes. “After the first game,” I hear the words stumble out of me.
Hideo smiles, and this time, it is a secret smile. “I look forward to it.”
19
The morning of our first official game begins with Asher ramming his wheelchair repeatedly against my door. I startle awake, squinting and muttering, barely able to process his words.
“Level’s in!” he’s shouting as he moves on to ram Hammie’s door. “Get up! Up!”
Level’s in. My eyes fly open, and I bolt upright in bed. Today is the first day.
I fumble around in my blankets until I find my phone, then do a quick scan of my messages. There’s only one new message, and it’s from Hideo.
Best of luck today. You’ll hardly need it.
I can’t tell if the flurry in my stomach is from the anxiety of my first game or from his words. In the last couple of weeks since our dinner, I’ve talked to Hideo almost every day. Most of our exchanges are innocent, strictly business, but sometimes—when our chats happen late at night—I feel the tug that reminds me of the moment during our dinner when he’d leaned close.
See you in the dome. And thanks—believe me, I could use the luck.
I don’t think I believe you at all, Miss Chen.
Now you’re making fun of me, Mr. Tanaka.
Ah. Is that what you’re calling this?
What should I call it instead?
Moral support, perhaps?
I smile.
Your moral support is going to distract me in the arena.
Then I apologize in advance.
I shake my head.
You’re such a flatterer.
I’m no such thing.
See you in the dome, Emika.
That’s all he says. I wait for another message, but when none comes, I shake off my thoughts and swing my legs over the side of my bed. I hurriedly throw some clothes on, run a toothbrush along my teeth, bundle my rainbow hair up into a messy bun, and put in my NeuroLink lenses. For a moment, I stare at my reflection. My pulse beats loud in my ears. I imagine Keira back in New York City, watching me in the game as she’s curled up on the couch. I picture Mr. Alsole doing the same, his eyes squinting with disbelief.
Time to go. I let out a shaky breath, turn away from the mirror, and rush out.
Everyone else is already in the atrium, clustered around Asher as he brings up the morning transmission for us. Hammie nods at me as I join them. Nearby, Wikki hurries from one of us to the next, serving each person their favorite breakfast. Hammie’s is a waffle piled high with syrup, fruit, and whipped cream, while mine is a breakfast taco with an enormous dollop of guacamole. Ren, in typical fashion, is fussing over a platter of egg whites and boiled spinach, while Roshan just nurses a cup of spiced chai and grimaces at the plate that Wikki offers him.
“Not today,” he complains.
Wikki blinks at him with the most sorrowful look a drone can muster. “Would you like to reconsider? Scrambled eggs with goat cheese is your fav—”
The mention makes Roshan turn green. “Not today,” he repeats, patting Wikki once on the head. “Nothing personal.”
“Eat,” Asher says to him over his own plate of scrambled eggs. “You need something today if you want your brain to be functional.”
I try to follow his advice, but I only manage three bites of my breakfast taco before I push my plate away, full from my crowd of thoughts.
Hammie waves around a forkful of waffle and nods at the image displayed in midair before us. “Our first game looks like it’s going to be a fast one,” she says.
The first level that Hideo’s committee has created for our game looks like a world of glittering ice and towering glaciers. As I look on, the landscape rotates for us in midair, showing us a glimpse of what it will be like. Below it is listed a series of rules.
Roshan reads them out for us with a concentrated frown. “This will be a racing level,” he says, picking a piece of date out of his eggs and popping it in his mouth. “Everyone will be moving forward at all times, on individual hoverboards. If a player gets knocked off her board, she will be resurrected one full pace behind the others, at the lowest possible altitude to the ground.”
I take in the full landscape as it rotates, committing the terrain to my memory.
Asher leans back against his headrest and regards us. His eyes settle first on Ren. “Time to test your Fighter skills,” he says. “You’re next to me, wild card.” Then he looks at me. “Ems,” he adds, nodding at the rotating map. “You’re starting on my other side. Hammie, stay a little ahead of her. Grab as many power-ups as you can and pass them to her. Roshan, take care of the wild cards and make sure they don’t fall behind if they’re killed early on. Let’s go win this.”
I look at Ren. He gives Asher a single nod, as if he were here only for the victory, as if he hadn’t just visited the Dark World to help bring down the entire game. My hand rubs unconsciously at my wrist, where Hideo had wrapped the invisible noose.
Two of us can play at this.
• • • • •
TODAY, THE TOKYO Dome is completely covered with the colors and symbols that represent us and the Demon Brigade. Through our lenses, we can see the image of a scarlet phoenix hovering high above the arena, alongside a horde of black-and-silver-hooded demons. Staring in the direction of the dome brings up a bunch of both teams’ statistics in midair. The Demons have won two championships. We’ve only won once, but we won it by beating them. I let myself think back on the insults that Tremaine and Max had thrown my way. Today should be an interesting match.
The inside of the arena looks even more spectacular. During the Wardraft, the lower arena was taken up by circles of wild cards sitting and waiting for their assignments. Today, all of that is gone, replaced by a smooth floor currently displaying a rotation of a red-and-gold phoenix soaring in front of the sun, and then fading into a demon horde full of grinning skulls and dark hoods. Ten glass booths are arranged in a circle on this floor, five for us, five for the Demons. In official games, the players step inside these booths to ensure that everything is exactly fair for both teams: equal temperature differences; air pressure; Link calibrations; connection to Warcross; and so on. It also prevents players from eavesdropping on commands given by their opponents.
The stadium is completely packed. An omniscient voice is already calling out each of our names as we enter the arena, the voice deep and reverberating, and as it does, each name rotates in flames in the arena’s center. The cheers send tremors through me as we file into the center of the arena and wait to be led to our booths. On the opposite end, the Demons arrive, too. “Ireland’s Jena MacNeil, the youngest captain in the official games!” they call out. “England’s Tremaine Blackbourne, her Architect! Max Martin of the USA, the Demons’ Fi
ghter!” They go down the line. Darren Kinney, Shield. Ziggy Frost, Thief. She meets my eyes briefly, as if apologetic, but then straightens and gives me a determined nod. I stare back calmly. We may have been friendly at the Wardraft, but right now, we’re rivals.
My attention turns to Tremaine. He’s glaring at me, so I decide to give him a dazzling smile in return.
The stadium voice announces my name. I’m deafened by the chorus of screams that come up from the audience. There are banners with my name on them, waving frantically in the packed seats. EMIKA CHEN! Some of them say. TEAM USA! TEAM PHOENIX RIDERS! I blink at them, bewildered to see the display. Somewhere at the top of the arena, the voices of the game’s analysts argue back and forth about today’s game.
“By all accounts,” one says, his voice deafening in the arena, “we should see the Demon Brigade slaughter the Phoenix Riders, currently the lowest-ranking team in the championships.”
“But Asher Wing is one of the most talented captains in the games,” another pipes up. “He has kept his wild-card choices surprising and mysterious. Why did he pick them? We’ll have to see. But don’t count the Phoenix Riders out yet!”
I step into my booth and let it seal me in. Suddenly, the world turns quiet, and the audience’s roar and analysts’ voices lower to a muffled din.
“Welcome, Emika Chen,” says a voice inside the booth. A red sphere appears and hovers before me. “Please look forward.”
This is the same calibration that I’d done when I first boarded Hideo’s private jet. They are making sure that each player’s calibrations are in sync. I do what the voice says as it runs me through the full calibration. When it’s finished, I look through the glass on either side and see each of my teammates in their own booths. The pounding of my heart fills my ears.
Out in the center of the floor, the lights dim. The announcer’s voice comes on in my earphones. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaims, “let’s—get—started!”
