by Marie Lu
Roshan glances at me in surprise. A small smile hovers on the edge of his lips.
“Look, I know we haven’t started off on the best foot . . . literally,” I say to Max as he glares at me. “But I thought that maybe we could start over, you know, to show good sportsmanship.” I hold my hand out to them, waiting for a handshake.
Tremaine is the first one to burst out laughing. “Wow,” he exclaims over the music. “You’re as wild card as they get.” He makes a point to ignore my outstretched hand. “Look, Princess Peach, this isn’t how things work in the championships.”
I give him an innocent look of confusion. “Oh? Then how does it work?”
He holds up a finger. “I play you.” Another finger goes up. “I beat you. And then, if you ask nicely, I’ll sign an autograph for you. That’s pretty generous sportsmanship, don’t you think?” The fans around them smirk at me, and even over DJ Ren’s music, I can hear their snickers. It takes all my self-control to not ball up my fist right now and knock the smile off Tremaine’s face. I’ve gotten in plenty of fights over less.
Instead, I bring up all the info I can on both players. By now, my hack has worked its way into the Demons’ accounts. But nothing about the data on these two seems suspicious. I turn my attention to Max Martin’s info. His is surprisingly sparse, too. No odd security shields. Nothing useful.
Roshan comes to my aid before the Demons can add anything else. “Save your mouths,” he says coolly, his gaze lingering on Tremaine. “They won’t help you in the arena.”
Tremaine casts me a dismissive glance. I’m glad to see it—they are going to underestimate me. “Big words from the lowest-ranking team.” His eyes dart briefly to Roshan. “Go back to your Riders.” Then he starts to walk away, and Max follows in his wake.
“Who drove over their pets this morning?” I mutter to Roshan, my eyes on Tremaine’s back.
“It’s just a part of the Demons’ strategy. They talk the ugly talk and hope that some of it gets under the skin of their opponents, that it sticks there. Sometimes it works. Repeat an insult enough times, and anyone will start to believe it.”
A faint memory of past tournaments comes back to me, and suddenly I recall seeing Tremaine and Roshan frequently together, laughing and smiling. “Hey,” I say. “Tremaine used to be a Phoenix Rider, didn’t he? Weren’t you friends?”
Roshan’s expression darkens. “You could say that.”
“What happened?”
“Tremaine wants to win. Always,” he replies. “Simple as that. So when the Demon Brigade became the hot new team, he wanted out of the Riders.” He shrugs. “It’s just as well. They suit his personality better, anyway.”
And then I remember that Roshan and Tremaine were both wild cards in the same year. Roshan had been the number one pick. I want to ask him about it, but the look on his face tells me that he’s eager to change the subject. Maybe they had been more than friends. So I just nod and let it drop.
Hammie waving to us from the other side of the dance floor catches our attention. She’s pointing to a cluster of people gathered around someone. It takes me a second to realize that it’s Hideo, with the sleeves of his tuxedo shirt rolled up to his elbows and his blazer slung over one shoulder. Kenn walks beside him, greeting fans and players alike with his huge, animated grin. Hideo is more reserved, his expression as serious as I remember it, even as he gives polite greetings of his own.
Hammie pushes her way over to us and grabs us each by the arm. “Let’s go say hi.”
We end up jumbled in the back behind a group of Cloud Knight players and Team Andromeda, while ahead of us, Max and Tremaine shake Hideo’s hand in turn. Tremaine is saying something rapidly to him, while Hideo nods patiently without smiling.
I bite my lip, tugging self-consciously at my dress and cursing my decision to wear this thing.
Then Hideo’s gaze lands on me. My breath hitches. He bids a brief farewell to Tremaine and heads toward us. A moment later, he’s here, and Roshan is stepping forward to greet him.
Hammie slaps my wrist. “Stop fussing,” she says, glancing pointedly down at my dress.
“I’m not fussing,” I mumble, but then Hideo’s before me, and my hands freeze at my sides.
“Miss Chen,” he says. His eyes linger on my face. “Congratulations.”
Were you responsible for my number one draft pick status? I want to ask, but instead I smile at him and shake his hand politely. “Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone else,” I reply. Behind him, Tremaine and Max stare at us. If Tremaine could stab me with his eyes, he would be doing it right now.
“Every draft has at least one surprise,” Hideo replies.
“Are you saying you didn’t expect me to be drafted so quickly?”
A ghost of a smile appears on Hideo’s lips. “Were you? I hadn’t noticed.” He leans closer to me. “You look lovely tonight,” he continues in a low voice, so that no one else hears. Then he’s already nodding farewell, passing us by with his entourage, bodyguards, and a trailing, screaming mass of fans.
“Damn,” Hammie says in my ear, her eyes still fixed on Hideo. “He looks even better in person than he does in the news.”
Roshan is looking straight at me. “Did he just tease you for being first pick?”
“I don’t think he likes me very much.”
“It’s enough to put you in the tabloids,” Hammie says. “You know that, right? Hideo doesn’t talk like that to his players. It’s all business.” She elbows me hard enough to make me grunt.
“It’s not a big deal.”
Hammie laughs once, sending her curls bouncing. “I don’t even care. The way Tremaine was seething in the background will fuel me for the rest of the championships.”
As several fans line up for autographs from her and Roshan, I glance to where Hideo had disappeared into the crowd. He’d been watching me carefully during the Wardraft. I think back to him standing in his private box as the announcement of my number one draft pick status rang out. He doesn’t talk like that to his players. How does he talk, then? Hadn’t he exchanged words with everyone he met tonight? In the crowd, I catch one final glimpse of his figure as his bodyguards usher him down a hallway.
A name appears in my vision, and I look up instinctively. I’d made my way close enough to where DJ Ren is still standing up behind his mountain of instruments, spinning a fast-tempo beat, the gold wings of his headphones reflecting the neon strobe lights. I’d almost forgotten that he’s also an official player in the game—but now I’m close enough to him to pull his data.
I reach out discreetly and bring up DJ Ren’s info. Immediately, I halt.
His private information is walled behind a mass of shields—not just one, but dozens. Anything I’ve managed to download from him is encrypted. Whatever the reason, Ren is no amateur at dealing with his security, and he knows how to protect himself in ways far beyond the average player. In too many ways. I stare up at him, thinking. The figure I’d seen in the Tokyo Dome is one of the official wild cards.
And there’s only one wild card who was absent from his seat during the Wardraft.
12
The next morning, I hear Asher’s voice driftng up from the atrium as I step out of my room, yawning, my hair tangled in a messy bun. As I go, I run right into Hammie. She grunts in a half-asleep voice.
“Downstairs,” she mutters.
“What’s going on?”
“Matchups are in,” she replies, then stumbles off in the general direction of her bathroom.
Matchups. Today we find out which teams are playing each other. The thought quickly wakes me up. I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face, and put in a new pair of my Warcross contacts. Then I head down to the atrium. Asher’s already there, talking in a low voice to Roshan on the couches. Dark circles ring our captain’s eyes this morning, but otherwise he looks alert and ready. I glance down at the coffee table. The magazine on the top of the stack features a photo of Hideo at a banquet, seated beside
a completely smitten blond woman who is whispering something intimately into his ear. HAS PRINCESS ADELE FOUND HER PRINCE? screams the caption.
Hammie files in moments later, followed shortly by DJ Ren. Ren looks the most frazzled out of us all, with his short brown hair sticking out in every direction and his eyes hidden behind a pair of white sunglasses. His winged gold headphones are still on his head, one side in place and the other shifted slightly off his ear, so that he can hear what’s going on. He sits down on the farthest couch from me, leans back, and waves a lazy greeting to everyone. The only one who wasn’t in his place during the Wardraft. Maybe because he was hiding somewhere, perched virtually in the rafters to spy on everything.
Maybe he’s actually Zero.
No. Zero should be better at hiding himself than this. And surely Zero isn’t tacky enough to wear sunglasses indoors.
Hammie reaches an arm out in front of Ren’s face and snaps her fingers twice. “Hey,” she says. “Rock star. You’re not at the club anymore.”
Ren just bats her away. “I’m sensitive to light in the morning,” he says in French, while I read his translation.
Roshan raises one brow at that, while Hammie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I’m allergic to mornings, too, wild card,” she replies.
As Hammie talks, I quietly begin to sort through my teammates’ data. It looks like Roshan sent a bunch of emails last night, while Hammie’s amount of notes has gone down by a significant amount since the night before, indicating she had made some huge purchase. I turn to Ren. Just like yesterday, he has a wall of shields on over his data, set up so that anyone trying to break in would automatically be redirected to a shield instead of to his data. I start to run a program to bypass them.
Roshan sighs. “Ash, tell him to take his headphones off,” he says in his patient manner.
Asher crosses his arms. “Lose ’em, wild card. I’m not in the mood for it this morning.”
Ren lounges for a moment longer. Finally, he pulls his headphones down and loops them around his neck, then reaches up to take off his sunglasses. His eyes are such a light brown that they look gold.
When we’re ready, Asher says, “Wikki, turn on the announcement.”
Our team drone blinks in one corner, and when it does, a live broadcast appears across one of the atrium walls. Hideo is standing before a podium and facing a barrage of flashing lights.
“Matchups are in,” Asher says, confirming what Hammie had told me. “And we’re going to play the first round of the championships.”
Hideo had wasted no time making sure I will be in the first game. “Who are we playing?” I say.
Asher brings up a pair of virtual images for us to see. It’s our team crest—our red-and-gold phoenix—hovering in midair next to a black-and-silver image of hooded skeletal figures on horseback. Above our crests are the words:
Round One
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 sh
ipped 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.