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 shipped 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.
Finally, Hideo steps off the podium, and the broadcast ends. Asher asks Wikki to turn off the feed. Then he looks at all of us. “Well,” he says, “we’ve got one month to get two wild cards up to speed.”
I glance at the program I’m running to bypass Ren’s shields. Sure enough, I’m almost in.
“Lenses on?” Asher asks. We nod in unison. “All right, then, Riders. Training time starts now.”
13
Asher leans forward, then presses something on his own display in midair. All of us see a Warcross menu pop up in our view. If Asher can show us all the same thing, then we are linked on the same network during training. Ren had been walled behind his shields during the party, but maybe now, if we’re all linked on the same network, I can find a way to get into some of Ren’s data. Of everyone’s personal data.
As I ponder this, Asher taps the option that says Training Grounds. The world around us fades into black, as if I’d closed my eyes. I blink several times. Then, a new world materializes around us.
This is a Warcross world I’ve never seen before. It must be exclusive to the professional teams. It looks like a whitewashed world, like it’s a virtual world only half finished, its surfaces unpainted and without texture. We are standing in the middle of a white sidewalk, next to a white street crowded with white cars, with white columned buildings towering all around us. When I look farther down the street, I can see a glimpse of a whitewashed jungle, the trees and their trunks the color of ivory, the grass white as it grows at the edge of the city streets. The only color in this world comes from the sky above us, which is bright blue.
For a moment, I allow myself to forget about my hunt. I’m standing inside a level that few will ever get to see, with some of the most famous players in the world.
“Welcome to the training grounds,” Asher says beside me. He, like the rest of us, is now dressed in a standard, formfitting suit of red body armor that starkly contrasts with the world around us. It makes it incredibly easy for us to spot each other. “This is a whitewashed simulation containing miniature worlds all condensed into one.” He nods down the street toward the jungle. “There are forests here, along with the city block we’re currently in. A few blocks east, the city ends and an ocean starts. To the west, there are narrow stairways that lead into the sky. The potholes in the city streets will drop you into an underground network of caves. There are examples here of most of the obstacles we might encounter in this year’s levels.”
I look more closely at each of our outfits. Even though we’re all wearing red body armor, there are subtle differences between the suits. Ren’s Fighter suit is streamlined, full of smooth plates reinforced by an outer set of warrior armor. His armguards are spiked. Hammie’s Thief suit is full of pockets, nooks, and crannies, where she can stash items away. Asher looks like the captain that he is, while Roshan, our Shield, has armguards larger than any of ours, his belt equipped with potions and elixirs he can use to protect the rest of us.
Then there’s mine, the Architect’s armor. Around my waist is a utility belt, equipped with a myriad of tools I’m all too familiar with. Hammer. Screwdriver. A box of nails. Two rolls of duct tape. A small chain saw. A coil of rope. Tools are tucked along the tops of my boots, too—sticks of dynamite, lock picks—and an assortment of knives are strapped to my right thigh.