The Unidentified

by Rae Mariz

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “What are you doing?” Tycho spoke up. “Don’t you know who her sponsors are?”

  “A pariah virus,” he whispered, so close to me now.

  I saw Lexie and Sophia exchange frowns.

  “It’s a nasty little virus that infects only the Network system. It publishes all the user’s password-protected secrets to everyone in their contact list.” He slipped his arm around me. “The only way to stop it is to delete all your contacts before the attack phase. Can you imagine a system-wide status change? Everyone, all of us, dropping out of the system? The solidarity of choosing to be united by nothing?”

  Cayenne stood up and shoved past him to leave the room. He watched her go.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Tycho muttered.

  “What’s she going to do? Tell her sponsors?” He smiled at me. “I know who I can trust.”

  26 WAR GAMES

  Out in front of the Game entrance the next day, I confided in Mikey about my prison break-in.

  He basically freaked out.

  “Are you insane?” he shouted. “You could’ve…You could’ve…Do you even know what could’ve happened?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to offend your sensitive sensibilities. Elijah said hi, by the way.”

  “What?”

  I just shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like you never do anything reckless.”

  Mikey had a legitimate police record. He had “borrowed” his dad’s car one night after he got his license. No easy feat, since he had to hack the authorization lockout. But he got it running, hilarity ensued, until his dad called the cops on him.

  It was a completely disproportionate punishment for taking the car without asking. I mean, it wasn’t like Mikey pistol-whipped his dad and stole his ride. But because Mikey tricked the technology, the judge wanted to make it a big kids-don’t-try-this-at-home case and suspended his license and restricted his public access to a single home-to-Game route until he came of age.

  “That’s not the same,” Mikey said, frowning. “What did he want, anyway?”

  “He wanted to…” I decided not to tell Mikey about the virus, but I wasn’t really sure why. I think I wanted to prove to the Unidentified that I could keep their secrets. “He wanted to introduce me to the rest of the group.” Was that why he took me there? He wanted me involved in their future plans anyway. Somehow.

  “Oh my Google, it’s a cult!” he wrapped his arms around me like he was shielding me from a bomb blast. “I won’t let them brainwash you!”

  I laughed. “You want to go in? Get decent seats?”

  “OK,” he said, but still not releasing me.

  “Mikey!” I shouted, and he let me go, laughing.

  Inside, things were already revving up for the big War Game. The maintenance crews had synced the screens in the Pit into a single huge screen where the video battle would play. The elaborate stage where the two teams would be seated in front of their own monitors had already been set up. One of the workers was still untangling the console cords.

  “But seriously,” Mikey said, taking a seat beside me. “Who was that guy? You’re not seriously considering getting involved with them, are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t,” he said, popping a handful of Javajacks into his mouth. “It’s so trendy already.” He gestured around to some people in the crowd. They were wearing I AM A TARGET MARKET T-shirts.

  That was fast.

  “Hey, have you heard from Ari?” I said, checking my intouch®. “She disappeared at After Hours and I haven’t heard from her.”

  “Maybe she ran off to join the Unidentified.”

  I shoved him, and turned my attention to the people around us.

  The crowd was so hyped for the game, crackling with energy. TV crews from the sports stations were there covering the public event. It was open entrance for families and friends so they could come out in costume to support their team. The Pit was filled with screaming fans waving team colors: burgundy and black for Meat Hammer, silver and white for the Princesses. Mikey stood beside me, hooting and booing alternately.

  p_phillips: can you even see anything from down there? @KID

  Scanning the scene, I saw Palmer Phillips sitting in the VIP box seats with the other people on the It List. He waved.

  I waved awkwardly back, not really understanding why he would be buzzing me.

  p_phillips: swift asked me to save you a seat @KID

  p_phillips: your boy wanted to make sure you had a good view of him blasting face @KID

  I quickly thumbed back.

  kidzero: i’m watching the game with friends, thanks. @PALMER

  I put my intouch® away and pretended not to notice Mikey checking my stream on his own intouch®. I wished all my friends didn’t know every time someone shouted me out on my stream.

  Luckily, the speakers blared the title music, so if Mikey felt the need to make a joke about my new buddy Palmer, I wouldn’t be able to hear it now over the music and the ocean roar of the crowd.

  The giant screen up front started to flash video stats of each of the players before they took the stage. We could see their season scores, weapon of choice, and which brand was sponsoring their play lit up large for all to see.

  Meat Hammer’s team captain, screen-name killOne, came out first in full slacker-warrior gear. He took the stage, fists pumping in the air, as the crowd cheered and jeered. His oversized portrait on the screen glowered out at the crowd.

  Jeremy came out after him. His screen-name, swiftx, flashed below his picture on the screen, making it look like a mug shot. The way his dark hair fell over his squinty eyes made him look like a criminal superstar.

  Junkmonkey took the stage next, jumping up and down and waving his arms wildly at the crowd. But the picture behind him was of Aggro8, who came onstage to pull Junkmonkey off again. The crowd laughed, but Aggro8 saluted solemnly and took a seat.

  Then up on the screen, we saw Junkmonkey’s out-of-focus photo—as if he had moved when the picture was taken. We all laughed and craned our necks, searching the empty stage for some sign of him, but he was still backstage. Then he came running out and attempted to do a cartwheel. He failed spectacularly and the crowd cheered.

  KillOne and Aggro8 were watching Junkmonkey’s antics disapprovingly, but Jeremy wasn’t even paying attention; he scanned the crowd.

  When Save the Princess took the stage, I got swept up in the energy and squealed like a fangirl. In each of their pictures, they looked straight at the camera, expressionless and in control.

  Elle (screen-name Elle) came out first. She was wearing an all-white track suit. Her hair glowed silver in the stage lighting, her eyes shaded by her pink-tinted glasses. She stood on the side of the stage, waiting for the rest of her players.

  Kasi Mohindra (screen-name Mo) followed after Elle. She looked tiny on the big stage. Kasi had embroidered the number of kills she got over the season onto the sleeve of her uniform. Her entire arm was polka-dotted with multicolored skulls that continued onto her back. She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear and waved to the crowd before walking over to stand next to Elle.

  Tesla (toy321) came out next, wearing simple fatigues and her flipstream goggles. They made her eyes bulge like fishbowls, and when she blinked, her lower lashes rose to the top. She looked surreally lizard-like.

  “Oh shit! She’s going to play the game flipped.” Mikey laughed. “This is psychological warfare at its finest.”

  Tesla was showing the meatpounders that she was so confident in her skill, she could play the game upside-down. But I was worried about what the administrators would do with her flaunting their ban like that. She turned to the seated Meat Hammer players and flashed them a peace sign, then stood beside Mo.

  Lexie Phillips, AKA Widow9, took the stage last. Her fatigues were embellished with tiny personalized details: zombie-bunny good-luck charms, barbed-wire bracelets. I
t was rare that a newbie got a spot on a League team. I wondered if the Unidentified came out to support her game today.

  After all four of the Princesses were lined up together onstage, they turned at the same time and marched to their seats in front of their monitors, solemnly and professionally. They looked crazy intimidating.

  In every War Game, the two teams face off against each other in three rounds, in accordance with the Major League Gaming rules. First up was Capture the Flag, where the teams had to quickly control the map, yank the flag from the other team’s base, and run it back to their own without getting tagged in the back by a grenade or plasma blast. First team to successfully capture the flag three times won that round.

  The title screen started up, and the crowd stomped their feet, charging up for the round to start. I could hardly hear the starting buzzer over the shouting and laughter. I squeezed Mikey’s hand, and watched as all eight players spawned on screen, their avatars materializing out of nothingness onto the battlefield.

  All the players were miked up so the crowd could hear the strategies and team planning, but the crowd could hear everything else too. Trash talk was booming out through the Pit.

  “You’re substandard, Kill-one! Why do you even play this game?” Mo taunted.

  “Yeah, yeah. Snipe a guy when he spawns. That’s so cheap!” Junkmonkey was having a hard time getting into the game, Widow9 kept picking him off before he could take a step forward.

  Save the Princess was way competent at Capture the Flag, because they were so focused and worked together so tight. Elle grabbed the flag, tossed it up on base where toy321 was waiting. She grabbed it while Mo laid down fire in front of her.

  “Ooh! Plasma blast to the face. Did that hurt, meatpounder?” Elle, of course.

  Toy321 got picked off as soon as she entered home base, but Widow9 was there to grab the fallen flag before the boys could get their hands on it. Lexie was definitely a skill player.

  1-0, Save the Princess. The spectators shouted their support, and I felt my throat go raw with my screams even though I couldn’t hear myself.

  Meat Hammer was crude, but the Princesses were raunchy. They skillfully wielded a brand of shit talk that made these hyper-testosteroned meatgeeks blush. The boys practically dropped their controllers, and the Princesses cleaned up easy in the first round, 3-1.

  The crowd erupted at the Princesses’ win. I jumped up and hugged Mikey. He hugged me back hard.

  “I thought you were still secretly backing Meat Hammer!” I shouted into Mikey’s ear.

  Mikey mumbled something I couldn’t hear over the noise, even though his mouth was right by my ear.

  We let go of each other. Mikey looked at me for a second, then turned back to the screen. The Team Slayer round was starting. The first team to reach fifty kills won the round, and Meat Hammer had taken an early lead.

  Both teams were getting hit hard, but it was still pretty even since one of the Meats—Aggro8, I think—even though he racked up a string of kills, obviously didn’t value his own life enough to play smart and use cover. The Princesses were always just two kills behind, they could still cinch it.

  The energy in the crowd was mad now, and then I heard something that sounded like firecrackers up on the second floor. I mean, there was a lot of booming and blasting coming from the surround speakers, but these pops and cracks sounded raw.

  Then someone started the crowd chanting. I couldn’t hear what everyone was saying right away, but it was spreading into a chorus. The firecracker pops were still going off, and then a bottle rocket with tail blazing streaked over the stage. I held on to Mikey’s hand and gasped along with everyone else. Some of the players up on stage even took their eyes off the screen as it whizzed in the air over the crowd.

  The air filled with that kind of firework smell. A tangy gunpowder scent that stung my nose. The crowd was still laughing and chanting, but I started to feel that something was wrong.

  Mikey and I stood up on our chairs and looked around. Weaving their way through the mob, I saw a few people wearing flesh-colored but faceless plastic masks. They were wrapped in bloody bandages, showing gruesome war wounds.

  Then doll parts rained down from the second floor. Soaked in red paint.

  “It’s them!” I shouted into Mikey’s ear, gripping his arm tight now.

  It had to be them. The Unidentified. The fake blood, the violent shock. This wasn’t a sponsored scene. It was the real thing.

  The voices of the crowd grew more and more rhythmic until words formed from the rumble. I heard the crowd’s gleeful chant, “War! UGH! What is it good for?” but instead of the “absolutely nothing” part, people were squealing, “killing lots of bodies.” Huh, good God.

  Hardly anyone was paying attention to the War Game now, the crowd was worked up into a bizarre frenzy by all of the smoke and firecrackers and mutilated doll parts getting tossed around. People were starting to shove. The crowd lurched back into me and I was knocked off my chair, hard.

  Mikey called out, “Kid!”

  I fell and landed painfully on the tile floor. Hip, shoulder, head. The three spots on my body throbbed in order of contact on the hard floor. I put my hands up to protect my head, to keep people from stepping on it. Some kids who saw me fall tried to help me up, but other people had no clue I was down there and kept trampling me.

  I looked up and saw Mikey jump down from his chair, pushing people away to get to me.

  Someone’s hands gripped my sore shoulders and helped me to my feet. I turned around, my mouth open to thank him. But I found one of those faceless masks looking back at me, and I lost all words. The human eyes peeking out from behind that eerily inhuman face looked so creepy-wrong.

  Mikey pushed his way past the spectators, and stepped up in between the masked guy and me. Mikey grabbed the guy’s wrist to break the grip on my arm. “Leave her alone,” he said, and pushed him back, a two-hands-to-the-chest shove.

  As the masked man stumbled backward a few steps, the hood of his sweatshirt fell back and I saw the dreadlocks. The iconic mullet of the Unidentified leader.

  Mikey turned to ask me if I was okay, and I saw the mask face loom up behind him with a smile in his eyes that didn’t match the expressionless plastic face. Then the guy, the mask-man, punched Mikey in the back of the head.

  Mikey fell forward against the chairs, then got to his knees.

  I yelled into the face that wasn’t a face, “Why are you doing this?” and turned to help Mikey.

  I saw how angry Mikey was, and I was worried about what he was going to do next.

  Mikey turned to look at me. “Who—?”

  But the mask-man appeared out of nowhere again and pushed Mikey hard into the people in front of him. Like a reaction of a wave, the crowd shoved back and Mikey smashed into mask-man again.

  This time Mikey was ready. The mask took a swing, but Mikey ducked it. Then they started to brawl, like a rolling-on-the-floor, fists-flying-everywhere fight. The crowd, like a conscious entity, started to reshape itself to make room for them. More people were watching their fight than what was happening on-screen, I couldn’t imagine anyone was still watching what was happening on-screen.

  I just heard myself yelling, “Mikey!” over and over again, but at the same time, I couldn’t hear anything. It was like being underwater, or watching a film with frame-skips. I could not make sense of what was happening. Mikey was on the ground, struggling to free himself, but that guy was just hitting him. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything?

  Mikey was flopping and flailing and managed to throw up an elbow into the guy’s face. There was a sickening crack. The nose was hard plastic, impossible to break, but the nose under it wasn’t. Blood seeped out from under the mask.

  Mikey stumbled over some chairs trying to get his balance, not really aware of how much damage he’d done.

  Protecht mall security in their pork-colored polyester jackets and toy-looking walkie-talkies finally cut through the crowd. Security supe
rvisor Harrison grabbed Mikey, and another guard lunged to get a hold of the guy behind the mask. But he had retreated back into the now-riotous crowd. He was gone.

  27 WORST FEARS CONFIRMED

  On the news that night, our Game site administrators were on the TV saying that it was “regrettable” that when the Game was opened to the public, the problems of the outside world found their way inside. They were using this tragedy to lock down the Game even more, institute tighter security procedures.

  Mrs. Bond gave her sound bite up on-screen: “The only thing controversial about our business model is that we give children power, the power of consumers. Their choices and interests dictate what we provide. Education is tailored to give the student, the consumer, what he or she wants. The people responsible for this attack want to disrupt our way of life. As site administrators, we won’t allow it.”

  In the background, firework smoke made the air hazy and little groups of the mob felt free to continue on with some residual vandalism. Kids were jumping off chairs, pushing each other around. Parents held players’ younger siblings in their arms, trying to make their way to the exit.

  They didn’t say anything about Mikey, and that was the only news I cared about. Instead, they spent time debating what the score had been before the disruption, and how the matter of championship scoring should be settled.

  No mention of the Unidentified at all. They were able to name-drop a bunch of sponsors, however, getting them free publicity from the coverage. Mrs. Bond even managed to plug After Hours by assuring parents that Protecht security had proven successful at the Friday night events and would continue to be a wholesome socializing experience for the youth of the community.

  “I don’t want you going to any more public access events,” Mom said. She got such a perverse pleasure from bad news, she probably liked to see her worldview confirmed. My intouch® had been eerily still all night. Jeremy and Tesla had given some updates. Tesla’s confirmed what the championship rules said about contingency scoring, and Jeremy fired off: