Warcross: Chapters 6-10

As I finish with the last of my things, I hurry over to the little menagerie of objects by my bed. My Christmas ornament. Dad’s painting.

The sudden silence, and the separation from the din outside, is a relief.

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

I’ve only ever seen the inside of planes crammed with seats—but this one has a full-length leather couch at the far end, an actual bed embedded against each side, a full bathroom and shower, and a set of soft lounge chairs near the front. A glass of champagne and a plate of fresh fruit sit on the table separating the lounge chairs. I’m frozen for a moment, suddenly uneasy in the midst of this extravagance.

The panels now change to opaque, leaving only two horizontal stripes of glass transparent to the outside.

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

“You are now calibrated.”
These new glasses have such a better system than the old ones. With this simple calibration, the glasses should now be able to know my brain’s preferences and variations enough to sync up everything in Warcross to me.

Everyone knows, of course, that the seasoned players will probably be selected again.

An employee had said in a magazine interview that you were qualified to work at Henka Games only if you could withstand the scrutiny of his piercing stare while giving him a presentation.

I downloaded all of their personal info—their parents’ credit card data, Social Security numbers, phone numbers, all the hateful emails and texts they’d sent anonymously to Annie, and, of course, most incriminating, their private photos.

Crying students, furious parents, school-wide assembly, snippets in the local papers.

Hideo waves a nonchalant hand.

A bright mural is painted along one corner, a colorful swirl of stylized game levels.

“I mean, I’m a pretty good player, but I’m not ranked in the international lists or anything. Are you putting me in for the ratings? As some marketing ploy?”

“I ruined the biggest game of the year?” I venture a guess.

“You said that security shield had almost never been breached. Who else got in?”

I bristle at his condescension.

“The lenses leave behind a harmless film against the eye surface that is only one atom thick. This film acts as a conduit between the lenses and your body.”

When the world reappears again, we are both standing in a sterile, white space with white walls that stretch to infinity.

But the person left behind no trace of himself, and he’s gotten better at hiding his tracks since then. We’ve taken to calling him Zero, as that is the default in the access record.

I eye him warily, then put my hand forward.

“And keep this discreet. I’d rather not broadcast our hunt to the public.”

The perfect Hideo I’d pieced together from years of documentaries and articles doesn’t seem like the one I’d just met—condescending, unsmiling, cold, the reality of a mythical figure I’d built up in my head.

I think of him staring blearily at a glowing screen, placing yet another bet with money he didn’t have, hoping that this time, this time, he’d win it big.

Next to it is a glossy envelope emblazoned with a gold stamp of the Warcross logo.

I look grave in it, my hair pin-straight and at least a dozen different bright colors, my skin so pale it looks ashen.

Half an hour later, when we finally pull into the roped-off section of the Tokyo Dome’s side entrance, I’ve almost calmed the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.

Behind us, the stadium lets out another piercing round of shrieks as the giant screens show a montage of Team Phoenix Riders’ best plays from last year.

Yuebin gives her a wry look before smiling at me. “You will have to forgive Ziggy,” he says. “She never says the right thing at the right time.”

Then again, maybe they’re both hiding behind this façade.

It’s hard to tell without breaking into all of their info—personal emails, private messages, stored Memories—encrypted things even Henka Games isn’t allowed to have access to.

Inside, a young man watches, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass. Two bodyguards flank him.

Around us, the holograms change to show his face.

I fly through the reams of data for each of them, downloading and storing, organizing them into folders.

Asher has his eyes trained on me, a smug grin spreading across his face.

He’s one of the most intuitive captains out of anyone—he would have selected someone he could count on, experienced players who are ranked high.

I scan the ceiling again and again—perhaps the lights have blinded me so much that I can no longer see him—but he’s nowhere to be seen now. The lattices of metal and lights are empty.

Through my contacts, a virtual layer of bright colors adorns the buildings, painting each one in the colors of their respective team.

Asher rolls up the access ramp and spins his chair once in a flourish at the top.

When I’m done, I stand there, still decked out in lavish items, breathless and uneasy.