Warcross
Page 35
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’ Fighter!” 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.
“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’ Fighter!” 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.
