SLAY

by Brittney Morris

  I reach my arm out and grab the photo, dragging it into my SLAY photo album that I keep on my desktop and broadcasting it on the blank wall above the City Hall steps. Jamal now stands two hundred feet tall behind me, and the audience roars to life again. Some are bumping up against the first steps at the bottom of the staircase, and I’m glad I wrote in code that allows only me and mods to come up here. I resume typing.

  “Jamal’s photo will remain here at City Hall until I determine a permanent way to commemorate his beautiful life.”

  Now for the hard part.

  “You may have also heard about SLAY in the news,” I type. “The media has called us thugs. They’ve called us criminals. They’ve called us racists for wanting a space where we can be ourselves.”

  Murmuring erupts through the clusters of people. Some resume jumping up and down. Text bubbles start flying again.

  “WTF? Hell no!”

  “TEAR THEM APART!”

  “WHAT ABOUT DRED?”

  So he has been in other people’s inboxes, trolling, making people’s lives miserable.

  “A troll has been making his rounds here in our world. He claims that this place is discriminatory, and that we are racist against white people,” I type. My pulse is pounding in my throat now. I’m mad. I can’t stop being mad. My family has never had anyone break into our house, into my room, and take something important to me, but if they had, I can’t imagine being any madder than I am right now.

  “What he fails to realize about white people is that not everything is about them.”

  My people love it. They’re all jumping now, text bubbles paragraphs long are cropping up, people are screaming and throwing things. I feel a swell in my chest, and my nervousness fizzles away into pure adrenaline. I take a deep breath and I keep typing.

  “I cannot legally reveal his username, but many of you may have met him. He has an account. I cannot ban or block him because that’s exactly what he wants. But what I can do . . .” I pause for dramatic effect, and my eyes find my sister again. She is standing there silently watching, and I take a deep breath before typing my announcement. “Is make him a deal. YOU! USURPER! INVADER! If you can hear me, I challenge you to a duel!”

  The crowds cheer so loud I have to turn my headset down. I draw a broadsword from my inventory and raise it high above my head, then lower it in front of my face.

  “If I win”—I duck down low and jump back, slashing the sword through the air—“then you concede to having your account deleted, leaving the SLAY universe forever, and forgetting about whatever legal shit you were planning on dragging me into.”

  “And if I win?” appears a message in the top right corner of my screen. He’s inboxing me. My eyes search the crowd. Where is he?

  Come out, coward.

  I can’t find him. There are people everywhere. You’d think it’d be easy to find a Charles Manson−looking, swastika-tattoo-having white guy among scores of Nubian royalty, but no. I navigate to my map, open up my developer command console, and type in D-R-E-D, and I find him sitting alone on a mountain peak in the highest part of the Tundra. Without even asking, I tap the “hook” tool on my developer console, reach my hand out, snatch his ass right up into the air, and literally drag him to the Central Plaza. He falls to the ground in a heap, and every member of the audience is bumping up against that invisible barrier at the bottom of the steps. Swords are drawn, whips emerge and start snapping. One guy who’s wielding two snakes begins hovering menacingly. A woman with a lion’s mane wrapped around her head is growling with huge saber teeth bared and ready.

  Dred pushes himself to his combat-booted feet and turns to face me. His character is as muscular as a gorilla, with huge bulging shoulders and flashing red eyes. That doesn’t scare me. But knowing that a skinny sixteen-year-old white boy whose father has a family attorney at his right hand makes me terrified.

  He holds up his hand for silence, but the crowd erupts in booing and spitting. I have to admit, I knew they’d reject him, but I didn’t anticipate this much enthusiasm. I can’t explain what it means to know I have over sixty thousand people rallying behind me. I observe them all now and casually hold up my hand for silence. The multitudes seem to begrudgingly quiet down while he types, and text appears above his head.

  “And if I win?”

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Control.”

  Of course he wants control. Of course Wyatt wants to make the rules. Everyone in here can see what we’re typing to each other, and I’m too deep to backtrack now. I have to wager something. Something that’ll get him to agree to duel me so I can kick his ass and be rid of him for good. Something that Wyatt, spoiled brat that he is, won’t be able to resist.

  I take a deep breath and hope I’m doing the right thing.

  “If you win,” I write, knowing the next thing I type might result in mutiny, and that it will definitely result in my inbox being toast, “I concede all developer rights, access to all code, and my character, Emerald, to you.”

  I shut my eyes behind my headset. I can’t look. I can hear the audience rumble into silence, but I’m afraid that if I read what they’re typing, I’ll completely lose it. To forfeit everything, my game, my world, my character, to this man, scares me in a way that nothing else ever has. But it’s not enough for him.

  “Are you serious?” he types. “Duel in your world, by your rules, with your cards? You could have the whole system rigged against me and I wouldn’t know it until I lose. Do you think I’m just gonna walk right into that one?”

  The crowd hollers their disgust at his insolence, but unfortunately, he’s right. As painful as it is for me to wager three years of hard work—whole nights spent coding and crafting weapons, scheduling duels, naming and designing new regions, making announcements, and launching updates—it’s still not a fair arrangement. I know every arena, and I know every card. I sweeten the deal even more.

  “Fair enough. You can draw your six cards now and study them until the duel.”

  “And how will I compete against your cards?” he asks. “I’ll never have seen them, but you’ll know my cards’ capabilities as soon as you hear their names. I want to see them all.”

  My throat twists into a knot, and I reread his demand to make sure he said what I think he said. The crowd is roaring their disapproval, but Dred is staring at me like he knows my hands are tied. If I say no, Dred gets to terrorize everyone in the game unchecked, and Wyatt gets to keep up this self-victimization-fueled discrimination lawsuit against me. I’m in no position to bargain.

  I raise my arm for silence.

  “Request granted. We duel tomorrow night at three a.m. Central European Time.”

  The less you know about Emerald, the better, Wyatt, I whisper quietly in my room.

  “What time is that Pacific Standard?”

  I can’t believe Wyatt’s just giving away his location at this point.

  “You want to take over managing an MMORPG universe, but you don’t know how to google shit? Six o’clock p.m.”

  Laughter rips through the audience amid cheers and screams. I’m not usually a sarcastic person, even when I’m hiding behind a virtual character, but I’m done letting Dred think he has the upper hand. Nice Kiera is gone. Tomorrow night we’re going to battle, and I’m going to win my game back.

  “Which region?” says the text above his head.

  “I’ll beat you wherever you want,” I say. “Rain Forest? Tundra? Desert?”

  “Swamp,” he says. “Fitting, right?”

  I’m assuming he’s referring to the days of slavery, when my ancestors ran from his ancestors and their dogs and whips in the swampy southernmost regions of the United States. I squint my eyes. It’s hard for me to imagine that Wyatt might be an actual white supremacist, but everything from the faux swastika, to the name Dred, to his chosen biome, smacks less of intimidation and more of all-out terrorization.

  I’m Kiera during the day, and I turn into Emerald onl
ine, but I don’t want to believe the Wyatt I know at school comes home and turns into Dred when he thinks no one’s looking.

  “Swamp,” I announce. “Beyoncé Bayou. Tomorrow at three a.m. CET, seven p.m. PST. I, Emerald, will duel against Dred with a standard six-card stack. He will have until tomorrow at the start of the duel to study the entire deck.”

  I go to my inventory, find my golden cards, and click the duplicate button on my developer panel, just as a message appears in my inbox.

  Cicada: Please tell me you’re not actually giving him a copy of every card.

  Me: I don’t have a choice.

  She’s typing as I’m clicking and dragging the deck copy into Emerald’s hands.

  Cicada: You’re just going to give him all our secrets? Everything we’ve worked for? Just like that?

  I hold out the cards to Dred before I have time to change my mind, and he swipes them from my hand and shoves them into his black leather jacket pocket.

  Cicada: I hope you know what you’re doing.

  “Tomorrow, snowflake. I’ll see you in the Swamp,” says Dred’s text bubble. “We meet at dawn.”

  I log out without replying and take off my headset, gloves, and socks and shove them in the drawer. Then I bury my face in my hands. What in the world have I done? I’m supposed to be leading these people—all half a million of them. And now it looks like I’ve just given away all our secrets, all our cards. I know I didn’t really have a choice, but . . . what do I do now? What can I do?

  My door flings open and Steph explodes into the room.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she shrieks.

  “Shhhh,” I urge, jumping up and shutting the door behind her. “Do you even care that Mom and Dad are out there? What if they hear you?”

  “What if you lose?” she screams. “I’m not putting Hyacinth under the control of that guy! How could you do this?”

  “You think I wanted to do this? You’re the one who suggested I duel him! Why are you upset?”

  “I didn’t mean put the entire game on the line, and I definitely didn’t mean you should let him study all the cards. I haven’t even seen them all! Expert duelers haven’t seen them all! How could you just give him the whole deck?”

  How dare she? Does she think this is easy for me? Does she think I don’t feel this like she does? The threat of losing SLAY ? I created it, for God’s sake. It’s been a hobby for her, a way to pass time after school. But it’s been my entire life for the last three years. It’s everything to me. Something dark and agitating seeps into my veins, and I explode.

  “Get out!” I scream. I don’t care that I’m screaming now. I don’t care if Mom and Dad hear this part, just as long as they keep Steph out of my room for the rest of the night. “Get out of my room!”

  I slam the door shut behind her, climb up my ladder, and curl up under my covers with the light off. It’s eleven at night, but I still can’t fall asleep. I check my texts to find just one message from Malcolm that says You up? and one from Cicada. I open that one instead.

  Cicada: You know if he knows all the cards, he’ll have a permanent advantage over every other SLAYer in this game, right?

  Me: Knowing all the cards won’t do him any good once I win.

  I stare at the ceiling all evening. Cicada says nothing. Harper says nothing. Steph says nothing. I ignore Malcolm.

  I’m alone with my thoughts until a knock sounds at my door. Mom asks if I’m okay.

  “I heard the door slam, Kiera,” she says. “If you want to talk about it, I’m right here.”

  Tears prick my eyes, and I nestle more snugly under the covers. I don’t know when I’ll be able to tell her or Dad what I really do every evening, but I don’t think I can physically take it tonight. I need to first worry about this duel tomorrow, school Wyatt’s ass in the Swamp, reclaim what’s mine, and then I can think about bringing the rest of my family along. I’ll be lucky if Steph doesn’t tell them all about it tonight after I forced her out of my room like that.

  “I’m fine, Mom, thanks,” I holler. I’m too far away from the door to hear her footsteps leave. My phone lights up again.

  Cicada: Whatever happens tomorrow, you should know that building SLAY with you has been the best thing I’ve ever done.

  I smile and press my palms against my eyes, wipe my tears, and take a deep breath, remembering our conversation from earlier that went unfinished. I pull my comforter up cozily around my shoulders and hold my phone with both hands as I type at lightning speed.

  Me: You do know that you’re Black enough, right? I don’t know how you got the idea that I would think less of you if I knew you were mixed, but I don’t care. You don’t get to be who you are at school either. You need SLAY as much as I do.

  Cicada: I really, really do. I need SLAY, and I need you.

  A lump forms in my throat, and my face suddenly feels hot. I’ve never even met Cicada, never even heard her voice, but we’re close somehow, and I realize how much I need her, too. And how much I need her to know me.

  Me: I’m an Aries.

  I keep typing, fast, before I can convince myself this is a bad idea.

  Me: I’ve only dated one person.

  Me: I’ve never been outside the US.

  Me: I have one sister.

  I smile, dry the last of my tears, and pull my comforter closer around me before typing the last one.

  Me: I never liked Candy Crush, but Gangnam Style was my jam. If we ever meet in person, I’m teaching it to you.

  My heart is racing at what I’ve just sent. Those three dots of hers flicker to life, and I watch them closely as they die and reappear. Who knows what she’ll say? Maybe it was reckless of me, presumptuous even, to suggest that we might meet in person one day. I’m suddenly regretting having sent anything, until I see her next message.

  Cicada: Promise?

  My heart rate jumps, and heat seeps into my cheeks. Promise what? That we’ll meet in person? That I’ll teach her Gangnam Style if we do? I’d love to promise both, so I answer:

  Me: I’d be honored.

  I’d be honored to meet her, if fate allows. And I’d be honored to teach her Gangnam Style.

  Me: ♥ Wish me luck tomorrow.

  Cicada: ♥ I wish you luck, pride, and all the power of our ancestors tomorrow.

  Our ancestors. I shut my eyes and put my phone away with the warmth of that thought in my head, and finally, I drift off to sleep.

  12. A GAME WORTH THE CANDLE

  * * *

  PARIS, FRANCE

  I’m taking Biocomputing and Computational Learning this summer. I should probably be in my room getting a jump start on the reading, but instead I’m getting real-world experience in the basement of the research building, doing server maintenance.

  I’ll be here all afternoon. Maybe into the night. I should’ve packed something to eat.

  But I’m lucky to have this space. The École normale supérieure spares no expense for its computer science students. We can rent servers for our own personal use. Very few questions asked.

  When I filled out the application, I only had to give a title for my project and the number of servers I needed, and check a box saying I wouldn’t use university property to conduct illegal activities. I called the project “MEET” after the code phrase “We meet at dawn,” and I requested the maximum number of servers allowed—six.

  I adjust my seat on the floor and move down to the next item in my server maintenance checklist—updating our operating system. We’re two updates behind where we should be, and it’s totally my fault. I’ve been busy with school, but that’s no excuse for neglecting the servers. I could’ve been doing this instead of collecting all that ore in the Desert region last week. But the new iron headpiece I was able to craft from it is pretty dope.

  I smile, click the update button, and lean my back against the wall. This might take a while.

  I pull out my phone and navigate to WhatsApp, hoping for a new message from Emer
ald. I texted her yesterday asking if she ever found that lawyer for herself, but she never actually answered that. I hope whatever happens after this Dred duel, she’s okay. I walk through the halls of my university every day overhearing Black students ask each other if they “eat meat” too, but I’m not in any real danger. Everyone in the game knows me as a mod, but it’s Emerald’s name that’s been plastered all over the American news. It’s Emerald who’s being blamed for Jamal’s death. It’s Emerald they’re after.

  Every time I close my eyes, I imagine Jamal’s smiling face. His eyes stare into the camera like he can see right through me. His right hand is holding the Ping-Pong paddle, and his left hand is holding up a peace sign. He deserved peace. He deserved safety.

  SLAY was supposed to have given him both, and we failed him. I failed him.

  The server closest to me blinks, prompting another response from me. I enter my passcode and set it on to the next update.

  If Jamal was so savvy in the game, I wonder if he would’ve grown up to study computers one day like me. I wonder if he would’ve been doing server updates like this one in college. I wonder if he might have visited France, and if I could’ve met him one day. I wonder way too many pointless things about what could have been.

  “You using this?” comes a voice in French.

  The voice makes me jump so hard, I bump my head against the wall behind me. I wince and raise my hand to my head, and when I open my eyes again, a boy about my height is standing over me, pointing at the antistatic vacuum cleaner in the corner. I shake my head and pull my knees to my chest.

  “No, it’s all yours,” I say, also in French. He reaches over my head to grab the vacuum, and as I clean another button on the server, I hear a second voice from the doorway on the far side of the room call over to him in French, “Our server utilization is fine, but we can add more RAM if you want.”