Wildcard (Warcross #2)(26)
Moments later, her front door clicks shut. I don’t know where she’s going, but the fact that she’s gone makes my shoulders sag a little in relief. Maybe Zero’s gone with her. Or maybe she’s alone now and watching me. After all, Zero had told me that she would be looking out for my well-being.
I take a deep breath, then send out a joint invite to the Phoenix Riders.
Asher connects first, and before long, so do all the others. They’re back in Asher’s home, no doubt prepping for tomorrow’s game. He lets out a long breath at the sight of me, while Hammie spits out a curse and crosses her arms.
“About time,” she snaps at me.
“We were about to report you missing to the police,” Asher adds, one of his hands tapping on his wheelchair’s armrest, “except that would alert Hideo that something was wrong with you.”
“I’ll explain everything,” I say in a low voice. “But first, I need a favor.”
“What is it?” Roshan asks.
“When do you all head out to Tokyo Dome tomorrow?”
“Right around sundown. Henka Games is sending cars for us. Why?”
“I need to be in the dome with you,” I say, “in the restricted areas, where only the players are allowed. I need access to Hideo.”
“What’s going on?” Hammie asks. “It’s Zero, isn’t it?”
I glance toward the balcony again, lingering on the empty spot where Zero and Jax had just been moments earlier. “Yeah.”
At that, Hammie uncrosses her arms, blinking rapidly. “Okay, I didn’t think you seriously contacted him.”
“I didn’t. He contacted me.” I hesitate. “He saved me from a few Dark World assassins who were out for a bounty on my head.”
“What?” Hammie’s eyes widen even more at that, while Roshan leans forward, muttering a rare curse under his breath.
“You should’ve told us,” he says.
I decide not to mention my accidental call to Hideo yet. “I’m okay,” I reply. “And, yes, he did make me an offer. It’s too much to explain like this. But, listen—if they’re serious about what they want me to do, I’m going to need your help.”
10
Four Days until the Warcross Closing Ceremony
In the history of the Warcross championships, there has never been a rematch of any kind—and what that means this afternoon, hours before the game starts, is that no one really knows how to celebrate it.
The districts of Tokyo, previously lit up in the colors of each neighborhood’s favorite professional team, are now lit again in either red and gold or blue and silver. Footage from the first Final replays along the entire sides of skyscrapers. I pass a line of tricked-out supercars on display down one street: Lamborghinis, Bugattis, Porsches, Luminatii Xs (the fastest electric car currently on the market), each of them sporting neon blue or red lights installed along the bottoms of their doors, and rims decorated in the colors of the rival teams. With the NeuroLink, they transform into vehicles that look impossible: cars with virtual wings; cars that look like jets with trails of flames behind them. They’d been out during the first Final; now, with the rematch, they’re at it again, the drivers arguing in the streets.
Vendors selling merchandise—hats and shirts, figurines and key chains—have pulled out their leftover wares from the first Final. Their faces look haggard and stressed as they run out of supply and try to bring in more. I glimpse a few figurines of myself among those being sold, my rainbow hair painted onto the toys in globs of gradient colors. It’s a surreal sight.
Eight streaks of laser light suddenly zip past overhead at blistering speed, leaving rainbow-hued lines in the air and causing the crowds on the ground to let out surprised cheers. Drone racing, I think. Like street racing with cars, it’s strictly illegal; these participants must all still be on beta lenses. I’ve even hunted a few drone racers down in the Dark World before and released their info to police. Racers must be feeling pretty bold tonight, but with the cops preoccupied with security for the rematch and breaking up scuffles between rival fans, tonight’s their chance to show off.
People I pass on the streets argue heatedly in favor of either team; entire groups of fans dressed as the teams are actually facing off on street corners, some of them shouting. A few yells come in my direction from clusters of Andromeda cosplayers.
“Why are you dressed as the cheater?” one shouts.
He’s almost immediately answered by calls from Phoenix Riders supporters. “Emika Chen for life!”
I just keep my head lowered and focus on riding my board down the street. At least there are three other girls dressed up in some variation of Emika Chen, and no one seems interested in looking my way for long. Besides—if what Zero said is true, it means I’m now no longer a mark to all the hunters and assassins who had been trying to get to me. Maybe Jax is guarding me from somewhere, but I don’t see her.
By the time I near Tokyo Dome’s amusement park, some of my nerves have faded, and I feel more like myself as I make a smooth turn onto the sidewalk.
A message comes in from Hammie, asking me to accept. I do, and a private virtual image of her appears next to me, looking as real as reality. Her hair is in dozens of braids tonight, with gold and crimson woven into them, and her dark eyelids are coated with glitter. After two days with the Blackcoats, I’m so happy to see her that I almost try to hug her projection.