Warcross

by Marie Lu

  The Memories play over and over, until I can’t tell whether or not they’ve started again from the beginning, and gradually, I drift off into sleep, surrounded by ghosts.

  • • • • •

  IN MY DREAMS, I’m back in high school, revisiting what led to my criminal record.

  Annie Pattridge was an awkward, shy girl in my high school, a kid with gentle eyes who kept to herself and ate her lunches in a corner of the school’s little library. Sometimes I ran across her in there. I wasn’t her friend, exactly, but we were friendly—we’d chatted a couple of times about our shared love of Harry Potter and Warcross and League of Legends and computers. Other times, I’d see her picking her books off the ground after someone had knocked them out of her arms, or catch her backed up against the lockers while a bunch of kids stuck gum in her hair, or glimpse her stumbling out of the girls’ bathroom with a crack in her glasses.

  But then, one day, a boy working on a group project with Annie managed to snap a photo of her showering in the privacy of her own home. The next morning, Annie’s naked photo had been sent to every student in school, shared on the school’s homework forums, and posted online. Then came the taunts. The printouts of the photo, all cruelly drawn on. The death threats.

  Annie dropped out a week later.

  On the day she did, I got the data of every student (and a few teachers) who’d shared the photo. School admin systems? As much a joke to break as a PC with the password Password. From there, I hacked into every single one of their phones. 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. I took extra care to get everything from the boy who had taken the original picture. Then I posted all of it online, titling it: “Trolls in the Dungeon.”

  Imagine the uproar the next day. Crying students, furious parents, school-wide assembly, snippets in the local papers. Then, the police. Then, me expelled. Then, me sitting in court.

  Accessing computer systems without authorization. Intentional release of sensitive data. Reckless conduct. Four months in juvenile hall. Banned from touching a computer for two years. A permanent red mark on my record, age be damned, because of the nature of the crime.

  Maybe I was wrong, and maybe someday I’ll look back and regret lashing out like that. I’m still not entirely sure why I threw myself into the fire over this specific incident. But sometimes, people kick you to the ground at recess because they think the shape of your eyes is funny. They lunge at you because they see a vulnerable body. Or a different skin color. Or a difficult name. They think that you won’t hit back—that you’ll just lower your eyes and hide. And sometimes, to protect yourself, to make it go away, you do.

  But sometimes, you find yourself standing in exactly the right position, wielding exactly the right weapon to hit back. So I hit. I hit fast and hard and furious. I hit with nothing but the language whispered between circuits and wire, the language that can bring people to their knees.

  And in spite of everything, I’d do it all over again.

  • • • • •

  WHEN WE FINALLY touch down, I’m an exhausted mess. I pull on my crumpled shirt, then grab my backpack holding my few belongings and follow the flight attendant down the ramp. My eyes go to the Japanese text printed over the entrance into the airport’s terminals. I can’t understand any of it—but I don’t have to, because an English translation appears above them in my virtual view. WELCOME TO HANEDA AIRPORT! it says. BAGGAGE CLAIM. INTERNATIONAL CONNECTING FLIGHTS.

  A man in a black suit is waiting for me at the bottom of the ramp. Unlike in New York, here I can see his name floating over his head, telling me that his name is Jiro Yamada. He smiles through his shades, bows to me, and then looks behind me as if expecting more suitcases. When he sees none, he takes my backpack and skateboard, then welcomes me.

  It takes me a second to register that Jiro is speaking to me in Japanese—and that it doesn’t matter, because I can see transparent white text appearing right below his face, English subtitles translating what he’s saying. “Welcome, Miss Chen,” the text says. “You are precleared through customs. Come.”

  As I follow him to a waiting car, I scan the tarmac. No journalists waiting for me here. I relax at that. I get into the car—identical to the one that had taken me to the airport in New York—and it rolls me to the exit. Just like before, it puts on a tranquil scene (this time of a cool, quiet forest) to play on the car’s windows.

  Here’s where the crowd is. As we approach the exit gate, a cluster of people rush forward near the ticket booth and flash cameras at us. I only see them through the front window. Even then, I find myself shrinking into my chair.

  Jiro lowers his window a sliver to yell at the journalists to move out of the way. When they finally do, the car zooms forward, the tires screeching a little as we swerve onto the street that leads to the freeway.

  “Can we take the scenery off the windows?” I ask Jiro. “I’ve never seen Tokyo before.”

  Instead of Jiro answering me, the car does. “Of course, Miss Chen,” it says.

  Of course, Miss Chen. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. The windows’ forest scene fades away, leaving the glass clear. I stare in awe at the city we’re approaching.

  I’ve seen Tokyo on TV, online, and inside Warcross’s Tokyo Night level. I’ve fantasized about being here so much, I’ve seen it in my dreams.

  But now I’m actually here. And it’s even better than any of that.

  Skyscrapers that disappear into the evening clouds. Highways stacked on top of one another, drenched in the red and gold lights of cars racing by. High-speed rails running in the sky and disappearing underground. Commercials playing on screens eighty stories tall. Kaleidoscopes of color and sound, everywhere I look. I don’t know what to take in first. As we near the heart of Tokyo, the streets turn crowded, until the sea of people jamming the sidewalks makes Times Square look empty by comparison. I don’t realize my mouth is hanging open until Jiro looks back at me and chuckles.

  “I see that expression a lot,” he says (or rather, my English subtitle tells me he’s saying).

  I swallow, embarrassed that he caught me gaping, and close my mouth. “Is this downtown Tokyo?”

  “Tokyo is too large to have a single downtown district. There are two dozen wards, each with their own characteristics. We’re entering Shibuya now.” He pauses to smile. “I’d recommend putting on your glasses.”

  I put the glasses back on, tap their side to put them on clear mode, and when I do, I gasp.

  Unlike New York, or the rest of America, Tokyo seems completely redone for virtual reality. Names of buildings hover in neon colors over each of the skyscrapers, and bright, animated advertisements play across entire sides of buildings. Virtual models stand outside clothing shops, each twirling to show off a variety of outfits. I recognize one of the virtual models as a character from the latest Final Fantasy game, a girl with bright blue hair, now greeting me by name and showing off her Louis Vuitton purse. A Buy Now button hovers right over it, waiting to be tapped.

  The sky is filled with virtual flying ships and colorful orbs, some displaying news, others displaying commercials, still others just there seemingly because they look pretty. As we drive, I can see faint, translucent text in the center of my vision telling us how many kilometers we are from the center of the Shibuya district, as well as the current temperature and weather forecast.

  The streets are crowded with young people in elaborate getups—giant lace skirts, elaborate umbrellas, ten-inch-tall boots, eyelashes that seem miles long, face masks that glow in the dark. Some of them have their Warcross level floating over their heads, along with hearts and stars and trophies. Others have virtual pets trotting alongside them, bright purple virtual dogs or sparkling silver virtual tigers. Still others wear all kinds of avatar items, virtual cat ears or antlers o
n their heads, enormous angel wings on their backs, hair and eyes in every color.

  “Since it is officially game season now,” Jiro explains, “you will see this quite often.” He nods toward a person on the street with Level 80 and 3,410,383 over her head, smiling as several people give her high fives and congratulate her on her high rank. A virtual pet falcon swoops in circles around her head, its tail blazing with fire. “Here, almost everything you do will earn you points toward your level in the Link. Going to school. Going to work. Cooking dinner. And so on. Your level can earn you rewards in the real world, anything from popularity with your classmates to better service at restaurants, to an edge over others for a job interview.”

  I nod as I look on in awe. I’ve heard many parts of the world are tricked out like this. As if on cue, a transparent bubble appears in my center view with a pleasant ding.

  First Time in Tokyo!

  +350 Points. Daily Score: +350

  You leveled up!

  My level jumps from 24 to 25. I feel a rush of exhilaration at the sight.

  Half an hour later, we turn onto a quiet street sloping up a hill and stop in front of a hotel near the top. The name—Crystal Tower Hotel—and address float over the roof. I may have never been to Tokyo before, but even I can tell that this is in an upper-class neighborhood, with perfectly clean sidewalks and neat rows of cherry trees not yet in bloom. The hotel itself is at least twenty stories tall, sleekly designed, with a virtual image of floating koi swimming across its entire side.

  Jiro holds my backpack as I scoot out of the car. The edges of the sliding glass doors light up as we approach it, and when we step inside, two attendants bow at us from either side of the entrance. I bow my head awkwardly back.

  “Welcome to Tokyo, Miss Chen,” the hotel’s registration attendee says to me as we reach the front desk. Over her head is her name—Sakura Morimoto, followed by Front Desk and Level 39. She bows her head at me.

  “Hi,” I reply. “Thanks.”

  “Mr. Tanaka has requested our best suite for you. Please,” she says, holding out an arm toward the elevators. “This way.”

  We follow her into an elevator, where she pushes the button for the top floor. My heart starts to hammer again. Hideo had personally requested my room. I can’t even remember the last time I stayed in a real hotel—it must have been back when Dad had managed to get an invite to New York Fashion Week, and the two of us got to stay in a tiny little boutique hotel because I’d caught the eye of some modeling scout. But it was nothing even close to this.

  When we reach the top floor, the attendant guides us to the only door along the hall. She hands me a keycard. “Please enjoy,” she says with a smile. Then she swipes the door open and guides me in.

  It’s a penthouse suite. We walk into a space that is several times larger than anywhere I’ve ever lived. A basket of fresh fruit and green tea–flavored snacks sits on the glass coffee table. There’s a bedroom and a living room with a curved glass window stretching from floor to ceiling that overlooks a glittering Tokyo. From here, with my new glasses on, I can see the virtual names of streets and buildings blinking in and out as I move around the room. Icons—hearts, stars, thumbs-ups—cluster over various parts of the city, emphasizing areas where the most people have bookmarked favorite spots, shops, or meet-ups with friends. I walk toward the windows until my shoes bump up against the glass, then look out at the city in wonder. Warcross’s virtual Tokyo is a sight to behold—but this is real, and the knowledge of it being real makes me light-headed.

  A transparent bubble pops up again:

  Checked into Crystal Tower Hotel Penthouse Suite 1

  +150 Pts. Daily Score: +500

  Level 25 | N1,580

  “It’s even better than I imagined,” I say.

  The attendant smiles, even though it must be a pretty silly thing for her to hear. “Thank you, Miss Chen,” she says with another bow. “If you need anything during your stay, just let me know, and I will see to it.”

  As she closes the door behind her, I do one more full turn around the room. My stomach growls as if in response, reminding me that I could use a proper meal.

  I walk over to the coffee table, where an option called in-room dining is floating over it. I tap the virtual words and I’m suddenly surrounded by dishes hovering in midair. There must be hundreds of options: enormous burgers dripping with melted cheese, plates of spaghetti thick with sauce and meatballs, assorted platters of sushi, steaming bowls of noodle soups in rich broth, crispy fried chicken with rice, fluffy pork buns and pan-fried dumplings, stews thick with meat and vegetables, silky soft dessert mochi with sweet red bean filling . . . the dishes go on and on.

  My head spins as I finally settle on fried chicken and dumplings. While I wait, I spend a full ten minutes trying to figure out how to use the toilet and another ten minutes turning the lights on and off just by waving my hands before me. And when my order arrives, everything tastes even better than it looks. I’ve never had a meal as fancy as this—I can’t even remember the last time I ate something that didn’t come out of a box.

  When I can’t eat another bite, I wander to the bed and flop on it with a contented sigh. The bed is ridiculously comfortable, firm enough that I can just sink slowly into it until it feels like I’m lying on a cloud. My mattress back in our tiny studio had been salvaged for free off the sidewalk, a ratty old spring pad that squeaked like hell every time I moved on it. Now, here I am, staying in this vast penthouse suite that Hideo himself had requested for me.

  My contented mood wavers, and abruptly I have a sensation of unbelonging. A girl like me simply shouldn’t be touching these luxury linens, eating this expensive food, sleeping in this room larger than any home I’ve ever been in. My gaze wanders to the corner of the suite, searching for the mattresses lying on the floor, Keira’s figure huddled under a blanket on the couch. She would have looked at me with that wide-eyed stare. Can you believe this? she’d say.

  I want to reply to her, to someone. But she’s not here. Nothing familiar is here, except for myself.

  Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. It occurs to me that I don’t even have appropriate clothes to wear—no interview suits, no proper slacks or blouses. I’m going to walk into Henka Games tomorrow looking like a kid literally plucked from the streets. This is how I’m going to meet the most famous young man in the world.

  What if Hideo realizes he’s made a huge mistake?

  8

  A pair of torn jeans, with both of my knees showing through. My favorite old T-shirt with a vintage print of SEGA on it. The same beat-up pair of boots I wear almost every day. A red plaid flannel shirt, faded from too many washes.

  Dad would be horrified.

  Despite how comfortable the bed is, I’d tossed and turned all night. I’d woken up at the crack of dawn, bleary-eyed and disoriented, my head crowded with thoughts. Now I have bags under my eyes, and my skin has seen better days.

  I’d ironed my poor plaid flannel as well as I could, twice, but the collar still looks crumpled and worn. I roll the sleeves up neatly to my elbows, then tug the shirt as straight as I can. In the mirror, I try to pretend it’s a sharp blazer. The only thing I like this morning is my hair, which seems to be cooperating with me. It’s thick and straight, and the rainbow of colors in it shines in the morning light. But I don’t have any makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes—and with exactly thirteen dollars to my name, I’m not about to go out and blow it on face creams and concealer. Both my T-shirt and the flannel look hopelessly old and worn when contrasted with everything bright and new in this penthouse suite. The sole of my left boot is noticeably peeling off. The holes in my jeans look even bigger than I remember.

  Game studios aren’t exactly known for strict dress codes, but even they must have some sort of etiquette for meeting the top bosses.

  For meeting the top boss in the entire industry.

  A pleasant ding echoes around the suite, and a light near my bed’s headrest ale
rts me to an incoming call. I tap to accept it, and a moment later, Sakura Morimoto’s voice comes on through speakers hidden throughout my room. “Good morning, Miss Chen.” Over the speakers, with no virtual overlays, she switches to speaking English. “Your car is waiting outside for you, whenever you are ready.”

  “I’m ready,” I reply, not believing my own words.

  “See you soon,” she says.

  Jiro and the same car from last night are waiting outside. I half expect him to make some sort of remark about my clothes, or at least raise an eyebrow. But instead, he greets me warmly when I approach, then helps me in. We ride along with a scene of sunflowers and sunrise playing on the windows. Jiro’s suit is flawlessly sharp, a perfect black outfit with a crisp white shirt that must be some high-end brand. If this is how Hideo’s bodyguards look, then what should I be wearing? I keep tugging at my sleeves, trying to magically change my clothes into something nice by straightening them repeatedly.

  I imagine Dad’s face if he were to see me right now. He’d suck in his breath and wince. Absolutely not, he’d say. He’d grab my hand and start dragging me immediately to the nearest boutique, credit card debt be damned.

  The thought makes me tug harder on my sleeves. I push the thought away.

  The car finally stops before a white gate. I listen curiously as the bodyguard says something to what looks like an automated machine attendant. From the corner of my eye, I notice a small logo on the side of the gate. Henka Games. Then the car moves forward, and we continue inside, parking at a spot near the front sidewalk. Jiro comes around to let me out. “Here we are,” he says with a smile and a bow.