Wildcard (Warcross #2)
Marie Lu
In other top headlines, police headquarters around the world are entering a third day of overwhelming crowds outside their doors. Notorious crime boss Jacob “Ace” Kagan walked into a police station in Paris’s 8th arrondissement this morning and surrendered himself to authorities in a startling move that has left many scratching their heads. In the United States, two fugitives on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list have been found dead—both incidents have been ruled suicides. This has been your morning roundup.
—THE TOKYO SUN NEWSCAST, MORNING ROUNDUP
In my dream, I’m with Hideo.
I know it’s a dream because we are in a white bed at the top of a skyscraper I’ve never seen before, in a room made entirely of glass. If I stare down at the floor, I can see through it to the dozens and dozens of levels beneath us, ceiling–floor, ceiling–floor, until they vanish to a point somewhere far below, stretching deep into the earth.
Maybe there’s no solid ground at all.
Even though the soft rays of dawn are streaking in, chasing away the dim blue of night to illuminate our skin with a buttery glow, an impossible blanket of stars can still be seen clearly against the sky, coating it in a film of gold-and-white glitter. Beyond the bedroom sprawls the landscape of a never-ending city, the lights a mirror of the stars above, continuing until it disappears into the cloud cover at the horizon.
It’s too much. There is infinity in every direction. I don’t know which way to fall.
Then Hideo’s lips touch my collarbone, and my disorientation evaporates into warmth. He’s here. I tilt my head back, my mouth parted, my hair rippling behind me, and turn my eyes toward the glass ceiling and the constellations up above.
I’m sorry, he’s whispering, his voice echoing inside my mind.
I shake my head at him and frown. What he’s apologizing for, I can’t recall, and his eyes are so sad that I don’t want to remember. Something’s not right. But what is it? There’s a nagging feeling in me that says I’m not supposed to be here.
Hideo pulls me closer. The feeling intensifies. I peer out at the city through the glass, wondering if maybe this dreamscape doesn’t look as it should, or if it’s the stars overhead that are giving me pause. Something’s not right . . .
I stiffen against Hideo. His brow furrows, and he cups my face with a hand. I want to lean back into our kiss, but a stirring at the other end of the room distracts me.
Someone is standing there. It’s a figure armored entirely in black, his features hidden behind a dark helmet.
I look at him. And everything made of glass shatters.
SHINJUKU DISTRICT
________
Tokyo, Japan
1
Eight Days until the Warcross Closing Ceremony
Someone is watching me.
I can feel it—the eerie sensation of being followed, an invisible gaze locked on my back. It prickles my skin, and as I make my way through Tokyo’s rain-soaked streets to meet up with the Phoenix Riders, I keep looking over my shoulder. People hurry by in a steady stream of colorful umbrellas and business suits, heels and oversize coats. I can’t stop imagining their downcast faces all turned in my direction, no matter which way I go.
Maybe it’s the paranoia that comes with years of being a bounty hunter. You’re on a crowded street, I tell myself. No one’s following you.
It’s been three days since Hideo’s algorithm was triggered. Technically, the world should now be the safest it’s ever been. Every single person who has used the new Henka Games contact lenses—even just once—should now be completely under Hideo’s control, rendered unable to break the law or harm another person.
Only the few who still use the beta lenses, like me, are unaffected.
So, in theory, I shouldn’t be worried about someone following me. The algorithm won’t let them do anything to hurt me.
But even as I think this, I slow down to stare at the long line wrapping around a local police station. There must be hundreds of people. They’re all turning themselves in to the authorities for anything and everything unlawful they’ve ever done, from unpaid parking tickets to petty theft—even murder. It’s been like this for the past three days.
My attention shifts to a police barricade at the end of the street. They’re directing us to detour down a different block. Ambulance lights flash against the walls, illuminating a covered gurney being lifted into the vehicle. I only need to catch a glimpse of officers pointing up at the roof of a nearby building before I figure out what occurred here. Another criminal must have jumped to their death. Suicides like this have been peppering the news.
And I helped make all of this happen.
I swallow my unease and turn away. There’s a subtle but significant blankness in everyone’s eyes. They don’t know an artificial hand is inside their minds, bending their free will.
Hideo’s hand.
The reminder is enough to make me pause in the middle of the street and close my eyes. My fists clench and unclench, even as my heart lurches at his name. I’m such an idiot.
How can the thought of him fill me with disgust and desire at the same time? How can I stare in horror at this line of people waiting in the rain outside a police station—but still blush at my dream of being in Hideo’s bed, running my hands along his back?