“Do I look any different?” I hold my arms out so Hank can inspect me.
Hank scowls. “Of course not. That’s the whole point of being Naked, isn’t it?”
“I mean from the Cloak,” I snap.
“You look like Sulan Hom. Happy?”
“Yeah, I am.” I turn my back on her and start toward the entrance. Even though I know Hank’s prickliness is a manifestation of her worry for me, I’m not in the mood for it.
“Sulan, wait.” Hank grabs my arm. The anger is gone from her face. “Just . . . be careful, okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say quietly. “I have to do this.”
Hank releases my arm and steps back. “Good luck in there.” Her scowl returns. “Don’t expect me to attend your funeral if things go bad.”
I grin at her, then turn all my attention to the Cube.
Most avatars going into the merc club look like normal people, complete with acne scars, bald spots, and small breasts. Here, there are none of the outrageous Axcents—modifications to avatars—found in other Vex sites. It’s rare for adults to go Naked in Vex. Those who do tend to have an aversion to looking “fake.” Either that or they look so spectacular in real life that there’s no reason for them to bother with Vex Axcents. Whatever the case, they tend to congregate in places where other Naked avatars hang out, like the Cube.
I join the line in front of the building, straightening my back in an attempt to look taller. Those around me wear simple workout gear. My customary Vex attire—black pants and tank top—fit in well here. If I weren’t six to twelve inches shorter than everyone, I might blend in.
I’ve seen eighteen-year-olds who look sixteen, I think, feeling an edge of panic. So what if I’m a sixteen-year-old trying to pass as eighteen? The Cloak should get me in.
I stand behind two women also dressed in black. I inch forward; maybe the bouncers will think I’m with them. Behind me, a group of young men get in line. They jostle one another, cracking jokes and roughhousing.
Just inside the double-doored entrance is a gray archway, a scanner. The scanner checks all entering avatars to verify age. Adult Vex sites found with minors get slapped with nasty fines.
Beyond the scanner stand a dozen beefy bouncers. If my Cloak doesn’t work, those bouncers will have me out on my ass in a matter of seconds.
Relax, I tell myself.
I pass under the scanner. A neon-blue light sweeps over me. Nothing happens.
I take half a dozen steps into the club, and the scanner lets out a wail. I freeze.
The bouncers barrel toward the door, surrounding the pack of young men just behind me. The guys shout in protest, but they are no match for the burly bouncers. They are shoved out the front doors and rejected from the site by the firewall. Their avatars disappear.
No one pays any attention to me. I let out a shaky breath and head into the club.
The lobby is black-walled and cavernous. It’s packed with people. Club members stand in groups, talking and laughing as they size up newbies like me. To the right are five sets of double doors that lead into an arena. To the left are registration tables for the Meat Grinder, a semiannual event for people who want to try out for the club.
Anyone can join the Cube, but there’s a catch: a team’s got to pick you. And how do members of the Cube determine who’s good and who’s not? Simple. They watch Meat Grinder performances. Each applicant goes into the obstacle course with three other people by lottery. Since I’m Naked, I will only be as good as my real-world body. My avatar wears no Axcents to compensate for my lack of natural skills.
Getting picked will be tricky for me. I’m five foot two and wide as a bamboo stick. I’ll need to figure out a way to showcase the benefits of having a small stature, such as being able to get in tight places. Maybe some team will have need of someone light and tiny.
I join the registration line behind a towering blond woman, who smirks down at me. With her tall build and full figure, it’s easy to imagine why she chooses to be Naked.
“What are you doing here, sweet thing?” she asks with a drawling Southern accent.
“Trying out, same as you,” I reply, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice.
“You are not the same as me, despite what you might think,” the woman says. “Girls like you aren’t good for much more than target practice and punching bags.”
I bristle, opening my mouth to retort.
And that’s when he walks into the club.
4
Meat Grinder
Words die in my mouth. A momentary hush descends over everyone in the immediate vicinity. The blond bimbo forgets all about me.
From where I stand, I have a clear view of him. He is taller than everyone around him by at least a hand, with thick shoulders and bulging biceps. His head is shaved, a perfectly smooth dome that gleams under the lights. He moves with the gliding grace of a cat. He wears a simple white T-shirt and black pants, his big muscles making rounded lumps beneath the fabric. Despite his bulky frame, he looks young, maybe eighteen or nineteen.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him. He is so perfect. I’d probably find him attractive if I wasn’t determined to avoid a love life at all costs. Mom gave up an exciting mercenary life for love, and I’m determined never to make that mistake.
At first I assume he’s a member. Then I notice the way the bouncers lean toward one another and exchange whispers, their gazes locked on the bald guy as he passes. He has the same effect as he moves through the lobby, drawing all eyes and reducing people to whispers. No one looks at him in recognition; they look at him like he’s a new piece of meat.
I hope I don’t end up in the Meat Grinder with him, I think.
“Code name?” a man says.
I turn in surprise. I was so distracted, I didn’t realized I’d reached the registration table.
Everyone provides a code name in merc clubs. No one reveals a real-world name, except maybe to teammates. Up until this moment, I’ve been vacillating between Valkyrie and Artemis. Now I find myself glaring at the blond bimbo as she walks away.
“Code name?” the man repeats.
“Short Stuff.” The name comes out before I have time to think, but it feels right. Better to embrace my disadvantage, to make it my own.
“Nice name,” someone says behind me. The derision in his tone is unmistakable.
I draw myself up as far as I can, which of course means I still look like a midget in tall-person land. Two boys stand behind me, both big, strong, and confident.
It is so unfair. Mom is five foot nine. Dad is six foot one. Don’t I have the right to be at least five five? Five seven? I blame the dozens of short Chinese ancestors I must have on both sides.
“Shortness is a state of mind,” I tell the pair of them, dishing out my best glare. Better to pretend confidence in a place like this, even though my nerves are on edge. “See you in the Meat Grinder.”
I snatch my number off the table and stalk away. Their jeers fade into the throng around me. I glance around for the big bald guy, but he’s disappeared.
The Meat Grinder competition has already started. The goal is simply to get through in one piece. There’s a set path with various obstacles along the way. Any avatar that fails to complete an obstacle gets pulverized in the Meat Grinder. The sooner an avatar is ground up, the worse you look. You can also impress teams by sabotaging other contestants.
The main area of the Cube is a giant arena, which is where the obstacle course is located. Current members sit in bleacher seats above the arena, taking bets. The walls above the bleachers are giant screens, showing close-up footage of the applicants currently in the course.
I try to get close to the bleachers for a better look into the arena, but a bouncer jostles me down a wide set of stairs to a staging area for contestants. Luckily, there are screens mounted at intervals in the staging area. Applicants cluster around the screens, yelling and gesticulating. I find an isolated bench near the back of the room and manage to get
a decent view of one screen.
I pin my paper number to my shirt, doing my best to maintain a calm exterior. Nervousness thunders through me. I catch myself fiddling with the Cloak on my pinkie finger and grip the bench instead.
The course looks similar to real-world jungle terrain. Towering trees with whip-like roots rise out of the ground. Monkeys swing through the trees, and birds flash bright against the greenery.
I can almost imagine it’s a real jungle—until I see the quicksand pits and fire-breathing snakes. Meat Grinder designers always like to blend real and imaginary elements on the course.
On the screen, two men set an ambush for a woman. As soon as she comes into view, they converge on her. She screams in surprise and tries to throw a punch, but she isn’t fast enough. One man grabs her by the legs; the other comes from behind and pins her arms to her side. She wriggles uselessly and tries to bargain with them. The men laugh at her and launch her over a cliff and into a river. As soon as her avatar hits the water, the stream parts to reveal giant grinding gears. She falls shrieking into those gears and is promptly ground to bits.
“Meat Grinder!” the crowd howls. Everyone loves it when an avatar gets chopped into hamburger meat. It makes for a good show.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a lone figure sit down on a bench not far from me. I know before I turn my head that it’s the bald guy.
He looks straight at me, studying me. I clench my fists and glower, just waiting for him to make some sly remark about my size. He doesn’t say a word. When a gang of young men descend on him, jockeying for his attention, he disappears from sight.
My number is called. My nerves spike, but I am careful to keep my face composed, my walk steady. I’m not going to let any of these jerks see me sweat.
Three others are headed into the Meat Grinder with me. The first is a man in his midthirties with one canine tooth missing. He is tall, skinny, and, judging by his glare, pissed at being pitted against someone as puny as me. There is a good chance I’ll make him look bad, even if he does kick the snot out of me and get me ground into pixel dust. There isn’t a lot of prestige in beating someone so obviously at a disadvantage.
The next contestant is a young woman who doesn’t look much older than me. She has a pair of shoulders that belong on a boy. She looks me up and down, raises her eyebrow, and says, “Who you trying to impress?”
I ignore her. Mental toughness plays a key role in the Meat Grinder competition; I will not let these bigger people intimidate me.
I take my place at the starting line. We are each in a small iron corral, like horses at the beginning of a race. The tangled jungle shines waxy green before us. Artificial light illuminates motes of insects and mist. Above the trees looms the ring of spectators, hundreds of people staring gleefully down at us.
Many of the members are in an uproar over me, some of them laughing so hard tears stream down their faces. As much as I hate to admit it, this is like throwing a mouse into a cage with bears. I can feel my face redden.
I hope the last contestant will be someone small like me, or maybe someone with little experience.
The bulky bald guy pads into his starting gate. Now I feel trampled. I don’t stand a chance.
His effect on the members is impressive. People scream themselves hoarse over him. Women rip off their shirts and bare their breasts. Men hoot their approval.
He ignores them. Strangely, his gaze is on me. He is so calm, watching me with steady, calculating eyes.
“What?” I snap. “Never seen a short person before?”
“Code name’s Baldy,” he says, extending his hand over the corral in greeting. “And you are?”
I peer up at him, sure this is some trick. I do not return his handshake. He raises both eyebrows at me, a small smile on his lips. Then he turns away.
It is all so humiliating, but I can’t let that stop me.
When the bell rings, I leap out of the starting gate like there’s a fire under me. I’m a strong runner, but my short legs are a disadvantage. I barely outpace the first two, and Baldy overtakes me without even breathing hard. He looks me over as he passes, then disappears into the greenery.
The first obstacle is a quicksand pit studded with pylons of various heights. The only way across it is to jump from pylon to pylon. When I reach the edge, Baldy is already halfway across. Big surprise.
I don’t have time to think things through, not with Missing Tooth and Mean Girl on my tail. I jump for the closest pylon, which is only large enough to support one foot. I land dead center, my right leg bent for balance. At least short people have an easier time with balance. Maybe someone up there in the bleachers will notice?
I leap to three more pylons before Baldy reaches the other side. Mean Girl and Missing Tooth close in on me. Each takes a different direction, flanking me from either side. Apparently, they’ve worked out a temporary alliance to get rid of me.
“I’m flattered,” I say, leaping to the next pylon. I land lightly, bending my knees and extending my arms. “Two of you against me? Guess I’m quite a threat.”
“You’re nothing but a distraction,” Mean Girl says.
“Though it is nice of you to give the audience a few laughs,” says Missing Tooth.
I ignore them and pick up my pace. I wobble a few times, but make it over the pit. I pause on the shore just long enough to pick up a rock the size of my fist.
“Hey,” I say, “here’s a present from Short Stuff.”
I lob the rock at Mean Girl. It hits her square between the eyes. She wobbles, then curses and flips me off, which increases her instability. She tries to right herself, but it’s too late. With an angry squawk, she falls into the quicksand—which parts to reveal the Meat Grinder. Shining metal gears devour her avatar with a crunch.
The jungle vibrates with the spectators’ cheers. I feel a surge of triumph. Maybe some of them are reevaluating me. Maybe some team will want me. I grin and sprint away, avoiding eye contact with Missing Tooth.
The next obstacle is a swinging-rope course over a gulch. Fire-breathing snakes twine through the trees, spouting flame at anything that rattles their branches. Baldy is nowhere in sight.
I leap for the nearest rope and swing wildly into the air. I make a swipe at the next rope but miss it completely and sail right by. I snag it on the way back and send myself spinning in a useless circle. I try for the next rope, but I’ve lost so much momentum that I can’t reach it. I hang, stranded, trying to swing my body.
Hissing sounds fill the air. I look up and see several snakes disturbed by my thrashing. I have only a second to scream before their flames blast down on me.
They burn right through my rope.
I shriek as I fall, even though a distant part of my mind knows I can’t die here. A tree rushes up at me. I yelp as I hit the uppermost branches, flailing for a handhold. I manage to snag a fat branch. I cling there for a moment, trying to gather my wits.
“Don’t stop now,” says a voice.
Missing Tooth perches in the tree above me, his hand hovering above a nest of sleeping snakes. Leering at me, he hurls several of them down. The snakes awaken mid-fall. Fire erupts from their mouths as they strike me. I try to smack them off, but they wrap around my avatar. Within seconds, I am burning. I holler, slip backward through the branches, and plummet into the gulch.
The last thing I see is Baldy materializing in the leaves above Missing Tooth. He delivers a boot to the man’s back, sending him sailing out of the tree after me.
Then I hit the Grinder.
Just like that, it’s over.
There’s thirty seconds of swirling blue as my avatar reassembles. I appear back in the staging area with Missing Tooth. Laughter ripples through the crowd above us. I refuse to let any of them see me cry, even though all I want is to rip off my Vex set.
I am going to see this through. They can say I look like an oversized doll, but none of them can say I’m a quitter.
When the contest finally ends,
the arena doors are thrown open to a room the size of a football field. Bright light illuminates the black walls. Teams stand in clumps all along the periphery, surveying the contestants as they pour in. The biggest and strongest people are pounced on immediately, several of them fielding offers from multiple teams.
I follow the crowd onto the field, hoping some team saw something in me—some strategic position I could fill. I wander around, trying to make eye contact. No one looks at me. No one speaks to me. Frustration bubbles in my gut. This is even worse than begging Mom for help.
I spot a pack of wimpier people milling around together. I sigh and start toward them.
If this doesn’t work out, I’m going to have to find another way to train. But how? And where?
Baldy appears out of the throng. A mob of oversized men and women follow in his wake—teams trying to recruit him. Baldy keeps his back to them.
“There you are,” he says. He intercepts me, cutting me off from the wimpy pack. “I was looking for you.”
“Me? Why?” I think for a second. “Are you expecting a thank you?”
“A thank you?” He frowns. “For what?”
“For kicking that rat out of the tree.”
He shakes his head.
“Then what do you want?” I ask.
“You. For a teammate.”
For the second time in one day, Baldy manages to make everything in his immediate vicinity go silent.
I wait for him to laugh at me, to declare his own clever joke. But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. He just stands there watching me, waiting for my answer.
It doesn’t make any sense. “Me?” I look over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone behind me. But there is only the crowd of onlookers.
“You,” he says.
“Are you already a member?”
“No. But you only need two people to make a team. If you agree to form one with me, we can both become members.”
There’s no way he can be serious. “Sure,” I say, shrugging as if I’m indifferent to what he’s offering.
Again, I wait for him to burst out laughing. But he only nods and says, “Good. I took the liberty of giving our numbers to the registrar. Our locker is two-six-six.”
The League Page 3