Warcross (Warcross #1)(53)

The gold dot reappears on my map. As I make my way through the crowd, I suddenly see an alert telling me that Ren is in the room. Sure enough, when I check his data, I see the WC0 marker pop up in his info. My heart starts to beat faster. He’s the silhouette I’d seen in the arena. What—or who—is he here for?

I glance around as the crowd quiets, an expectant hush in the air.

Suddenly, the assassination list on the glass cylinder temporarily disappears. It’s replaced with the following:

OBSIDIAN KINGS vs WHITE SHARKS

The Dark World has its own set of famous teams, too—except these players stay anonymous and play very, very dirty. Regular Warcross teams are sponsored by wealthy patrons; Dark World teams are owned by gangsters. When you win, you win money for the gang that owns you. When you lose, the audience casts bets for you to go onto the assassination lottery. Lose enough times, and you just might see yourself listed at the top of the lottery. And then even your own sponsor might be the one to assassinate you.

Everyone who is looking at the cylinder now sees a JOIN button hovering in the center of their vision. I press it. A field pops up to ask me how many notes I want to bet. I look around the room, staring at the numbers that hover over each of the other gamblers: N1,000. N5,000. N10,000. I even see a few who have cast bets of well over N100,000.

I cast a bet of N100. No need to stand out here.

The world around us changes, and suddenly we are no longer standing on the deck of the Pirate’s Den, but on top of a skyscraper, illuminated by a bloodred sky. Neon-white players pop up in the world, glowing alongside power-ups. The view of the Pirate’s Den minimizes to a smaller screen in the corner of my vision, one that will appear over the center of my view whenever I glance down at it. Now I use it, searching for Ren’s gold dot.

There he is, standing just a few feet away from me. Over his head is a light green number of notes: 100. I raise an eyebrow. Not a very high bidder, either. That’s strange. Usually, when I track someone down under, the gambler tends to blow eye-popping numbers of notes.

But Ren is risking his reputation as a professional player just to gamble a handful of notes here in an illegal game. Doesn’t add up. He’s not here for the game. He’s dallying around, probably just keeping a low profile while he waits. I’m willing to bet he’s here to make contact with someone.

The announcer comes on, introduces the ten players, and then starts the match. Unlike regular games, this game has two numbers displayed at the bottom of my view. Each number is the total notes bet on each team. I can hear the roar of the audience as the players dart into motion. Two opposing players reach each other and both swing their arms back to attack. As they do, one of them suddenly glitches out of sight. He glitches back in behind the other player, and before the second player can react, the first one kicks him off the building’s roof. The crowd cheers. I just stay quiet, watching. In a real game, a move like that would have been banned immediately. But here, with no official Henka Games employees overseeing it, anything goes.

As the game continues, the notes bet on each team changes in my view in a live display. Obsidian Kings, who started out with more bets than the White Sharks, are now falling behind. As their Architect is taken down by an Icicle power-up (temporary paralysis), the Sharks go up even higher.

I sigh. Nothing unusual has happened, other than Ren’s unusually low bet. What if I’m just wasting my time in here, and Ren is a giant red herring?

That’s when I notice a new gambler enter the Pirate’s Den.

I would have missed him, were it not for my hack. Most people around me don’t seem to notice his presence—except for a few. Like Ren, who turns to stare at him, too.

In the midst of all these hulking avatars, the newcomer is inconspicuous, a lean shadow. His face is hidden completely behind a dark, opaque helmet, and he wears a fitted suit of black body armor. Lean muscles ripple as he moves, outlined by the Den’s neon lights. And even though I have no info on him at all, nothing to tell me who this person might be, a chill runs through me from head to toe, some sixth sense of certainty. This is who Ren has been waiting to see. This is who Ren is meeting.

It’s Zero.





16



You don’t know that for sure, I remind myself. It could be anyone. But everything about him—his sense of command, a confidence that betrays how often he comes here, the fact that there is nothing, nothing I can read about him—makes my heartbeat quicken.

I shouldn’t feel this surprised to see him here. But still—bumping into Zero face-to-face makes me forget myself for a moment. I barely react quickly enough to move out of his way as he cuts through the crowd.

Abruptly, Zero pauses. His head turns in my direction—but more specifically, he sees me.

I’m not supposed to be able to see him, I realize. That’s why no one else in the crowd seems to notice. In fact, he is probably supposed to be invisible to everyone except the people who already knew he was coming, those who he knows are his supporters. Zero had noticed me trying to get out of his way. He knows I can see him.

Can he tell who I am? What if he’s staring at me through his own hack, downloading all of my info? Questions fly through my mind. If I exit now, it’ll be obvious that I saw him.

Ignore him. Just stand still and look at the game. He isn’t here.

Zero stares quietly at me, then steps closer. His black helmet is completely opaque, so that all I see in it is the reflection of my generic avatar. Even though everyone in here is encrypted, Zero has absolutely no info at all. Not a fake identity, not a randomized username, nothing. He is a black hole. He paces around me in a slow, deliberate circle, studying me, silent as a predator, his steps echoing in the den. I stand as still as I can, holding my breath, careful to stay calm. In real life, I am typing furiously, pulling back what I’m doing and guarding myself. No doubt that his real-life person is doing the same thing right now. Even though I should be encrypted and off the grid, I feel like his stare is stripping me bare. My heart beats steadily in my chest. I’d dealt with gangsters before. If I could keep my cool around them, I remind myself, then this should be nothing.