My moment of panic turns into a stab of disappointment. I shouldn’t be surprised—he must be busy. Kenn turns back to giveme an apologetic nod. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he says. “If he seems a bit distant, I assure you it has little to do with his enthusiasm for you. Nothing can pull him away when he’s in the middle of working on something. He wants to thank you for coming here on such short notice.”
Kenn sounds like he’s used to apologizing for his boss.What is Hideo working on?Already, I’m trying to figure out what kind of new virtual reality they have installed in their headquarters. Kenn’s not wearing any glasses, for one. The fact that I can hear Hideo reply even though he’s not logged in or wearing glasses, or that I can see Kenn talking to me live like this, is definitely new tech. “Believe me,” I reply, glancing pointedly around the plane. “I’m not bothered.”
Kenn’s grin widens. “I can’t give you many details yet about why you’re coming here. That will be up to Hideo. He’s looking forward to meeting you.” Another wave of warmth washes over me. “But he has asked me to tell you a couple of things, to prepare you.”
I lean forward in my chair. “Yes?”
“We’ll have a team ready to take you to your hotel once you arrive.” He holds both hands up. “A few of your new fans may be gathered at the airport to greet you. But don’t worry. Your safety is our priority.”
I blink. I’d seen the list of articles that had popped up this morning, and there had been the crowd of journalists in front of our apartment. But inTokyo,too? “Thanks,” I decide to say.
Kenn drums his fingers once on the table. I hear it. “After you arrive, you’ll have the night to rest. The following morning, you’ll come here to the Henka Games headquarters to meet Hideo. He’ll tell you everything you need to know about the draft.”
Kenn’s last words make me freeze. It’s such a crazy thoughtthat at first I don’t know how to react. “Wait,” I say. “Hang on. Did you just say... thedraft?”
“The draft to determine this year’s players in the official Warcross championships?” He winks, as if he’d been waiting for me to catch on. “Well, well, I guess I did. Congratulations.”
7
Every year, amonth before the official games actually begin, there is the Wardraft—an event watched by pretty much anyone and everyone interested in Warcross. This is where the official Warcross teams select the players who will be on their teams for this year’s games. Everyone knows, of course, that the seasoned players will probably be selected again. Players like Asher and Jena, for example. But there are always a handful of wild cards thrown into the draft, amateur players nominated because they are so good at the game. Some of the wild cards then rise to become the regularly chosen players.
This year,I’llbe a wild card.
It makes no sense. I’m a good Warcross player, but I’ve never had the time or money to get enough experience or levels to hit the world leaderboards. In fact, I’ll be the only wild card in this year’s draft whoisn’tinternationally ranked. And who has a criminal record.
I try to sleep on the plane. But even though the luxurious, full-length bed feels better than any mattress I’ve ever been on, I just end up tossing and turning. Finally, I give up and pull out my phone, load up my mod ofSonic the Hedgehog 2,and start a new game. The familiar, tinny music of Emerald Hill Zone pops up. As I run down a path I’ve long ago memorized, I can feel my nerves calming, my heartbeat steadying a bit as I forget about the day and instead worry about when I need to jump-attack a sixteen-bit robot.
I have a job offer for you.That’s what Hideo had said, an offer he’d tell me more about in person. That doesn’t sound like something he’d do for every other wild-card player in the games.
My thoughts go to the stories I’ve heard about Hideo. Most have never seen him without a proper collar shirt and dress pants, or a formal tuxedo suit. His smiles are rare and reserved. An employee had said in a magazine interview that you were qualified to work at Henka Games only if you could withstand the scrutiny of his piercing stare while giving him a presentation. I’ve seen live broadcasts of reporters stumbling over their questions in his presence while he waited patiently and politely.
I imagine what our meeting will be like. It’s possible he’ll take one look at me and send me back to New York without a word.
The time hovering over the ceiling of my bed tells me that it’s four a.m. in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Maybe I’ll never be able to sleep again. My thoughts whirl. We’ll land in Tokyo in a few hours, and then I’m going to talk to Hideo.I might play in the official Warcross games.The thought turns over and over in my head. How is this even possible? Last night, I’d hacked into the Warcross opening ceremony in a desperate attempt to make some fast money. Today, I’m headed to Tokyo on a private jet, on a trip that might change my life forever. What would Dad think?
Dad.
I access my account and bring up a scrolling menu, the words a transparent white in my view. I reach out to tap on one hovering menu item.
Memory Worlds
When I select this, the menu brings up a scrolling subset of options. Each one I look at for longer than a second starts to play a preview of a Memory that I had stored. There are Memories of Keira and me celebrating our first night in the little studio we’d rented, and of me holding out my first check after my first successful bounty hunt. Then there are my Shared Favorites, Memories created by others that anyone can enjoy—like being in Frankie Dena’s shoes as she performs at the Super Bowl, or standing in the place of a little boy being swarmed by a pile of puppies, a Memory that has been shared over a billion times.
Finally, I go to my most treasured subset—my oldest Memories, stored in a separate Favorites category. These are old videos that I recorded on a phone before the NeuroLink even came out, videos that I later downloaded into my account. They are of my father. I scroll through them until I settle on one. It’s my tenth birthday, and Dad’s hands are covering my eyes. Even though it’s an old, grainy phone video, it fills my view through my glasses like a giant screen. I feel the same anticipation that I’d felt that day, get the same surge of joy as Dad’s hands opened to reveal a painting he’d made of us, walking through a world of colorful paint strokes that looks like Central Park at twilight. I jump up and down, twirl the painting around, and get up on a chair to hold it aloft. My father smiles up at me, then reaches his arms out to help me hop down. It plays until it runs out and automaticallygoes to the next Memory in my storage. Dad in a black peacoat and bright red scarf, guiding me down the halls of the Museum of Modern Art. Dad teaching me how to paint. Dad and me picking out peonies in the Flower District while rain pours down outside. Dad shoutingHappy New Year!with me on a rooftop overlooking Times Square.
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 werefriendly—we’d chatted a couple of times about our shared love of Harry Potter and Warcross andLeague of Legendsand 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 passwordPassword. 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.”
