Ding.
I open one eye groggily. Is that my alarm going off? Sunshine streams in through the blinds of our windows. For an instant, I admire how pretty the bright light looks. In fact, it’s the kind of bright light that tells me I’m late for something. A sinking feeling hits my stomach. I’d fallen asleep right at the dining table.
I jerk my head up. My entire body is sore, and my arms are cramped and tingly from being slept on all night. I look around in a daze. What happened last night comes back in a rush. While Keira went to bed, I’d stayed here at the table, my head in my hands, wondering how I could have been stupid enough to reveal myself to five hundred million people. I must have had nightmares last night—even though I can’t remember any of them, I’m dead tired, and my heart is pounding furiously.
The phone calls. The unknown caller ID. My heart seizes, and my eyes go to my phone, still lying on the couch. I’d slept for a few hours, and no one had come to our door.
Some of my panic from the night before eases, and the shock of standing in the middle of the opening game dulls. Maybe nothing will actually happen. The events even feel like a dream.
Ding.
I turn toward the sound again. It came from my phone. Suddenly I remember that it’s Wednesday. I’m late for my shift at the diner. That must be my boss texting me, and my text messages still make a sound on my phone. In a heartbeat, my worries shift from my glitch to the danger of losing the only moneymaking gig that I have.
I leap out of my chair. Keira stirs in her corner, partially hidden from view behind the cardboard divider. I rush into the bathroom and jam a toothbrush into my mouth, running a quick comb through my tangle of rainbow hair as I go. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore last night. They’ll have to do. No time to change. I curse silently at myself as I finish brushing my teeth. I’m going to get fired for missing my shift. My head bows as I lean against the sink, struggling under the weight of the world.
Ding.
Ding! Ding!
“Oh, for the love of—” I snap under my breath. When my phone lets out two more dings, I give up ignoring it and hurry out of the bathroom. “I’m on my way,” I mutter, as if my boss could hear me.
I grab my phone and stare down at the long list of texts.
Eighty-four messages, from a blocked number. They all say the same thing.
Ms. Emika Chen, please call
212-555-0156 immediately.
An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach.
“Em.”
I turn to see Keira out of bed and peering through the blinds. Only now do I hear the sound of voices coming from the street below.
“Emi,” Keira says. “Come look.”
I walk to her on quiet feet. Thin slants of light cut through the blinds, painting yellow stripes against my arms. Keira’s lips are folded into a puzzled frown. I pull two blinds apart, and look outside.
A cluster of people jams the steps leading up to our apartment complex. They have huge cameras with them. I see call letters printed on the sides of their microphones—it’s the local news stations.
My stomach drops. “What’s going on?”
Keira turns to face me, then fumbles in her pockets for her phone. She quickly types something. I hold my breath, listening to the buzz of voices outside.
Keira reads the search results on her phone. The color has drained from her face, and her eyes are wide.
“Emi,” she says. “You’re everywhere.”
I find myself looking at a list of news articles, each one displaying the same photo: a screenshot of me, with my rainbow-colored hair, standing inside the Warcross opening game, with Asher turned toward me in shock. Keira scrolls down for me. The articles go on and on, their headlines melding together.
Audience Member Glitches into Warcross Opening Game
WARCROSS HACKED!
HACKER TEMPORARILY DISRUPTS WARCROSS OPENING
Who Is Emika Chen?
My mouth goes dry at the sight of my name. I’m a fool for thinking that my little stunt last night would have attracted anything less than a spotlight. My identity’s been blown. Not only blown, but with those blown bits plastered all over the internet like stickers. It’s too late to run. I stay frozen as Keira continues to search, her expression turning more stunned as she goes.
“They can’t possibly be talking about me,” I stammer. “They can’t. I must still be asleep.”
“You’re not asleep.” Keira holds up her phone again. I read a feed littered with my name. “You’re the world’s top trending topic.”
Over by the dining table, my phone dings again. We look at it in unison.
“Keira,” I say, “do me a favor and look up a number for me.” She follows me to the dining table, where I pick up the phone and scan the endless string of identical texts. “212-555-0156.”
Keira types it into a search. A second later, she swallows and looks at me. “It’s the number for Henka Games’ Manhattan headquarters.”
A prickling sensation of dread travels down my spine and along my arms. Henka Games has sent me over eighty text messages. Keira and I look at each other for a moment longer, letting the commotion outside fill the silence in our room. “It’s probably their lawyers,” I whisper. A rush of light-headedness makes me sway in place. A flurry of thoughts flash by: police sirens; handcuffs; courtrooms; interrogation chambers. Familiar experiences for me. “Keira—they’re going to sue me.”
“You better call them,” Keira replied. “It won’t be any better for you if you wait.”
She’s right. I hesitate for a second before finally grabbing my phone. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely dial the numbers. Keira crosses her arms, pacing in front of me.
“Put it on speaker,” she adds. I do, then hold the phone between us.
I’d expected some general thank-you-for-calling-Henka-Games-for-English-press-1 automated message—the typical greeting from a corporate number. But instead, the phone rings only once before a woman answers.
“Miss Emika Chen?” she says.
I’m so startled by her personal greeting that I fumble all over my answer. “Hi. Here. I mean, me. I mean, that’s me.” I wince. Why am I even surprised? Obviously, they know my phone number, judging by the text message avalanche—they must’ve forwarded me straight to a live operator the instant I dialed them. They’ve been waiting.
“Excellent,” the woman says. “I have Mr. Hideo Tanaka on the line for you. Please hold.”
Keira sucks in her breath and stops pacing. She looks at me with wide eyes. I stare back, paying attention to nothing but the hold music now playing on the phone. I’ve lost my mind. “Did she just say . . . ?”
We both jump when the music abruptly cuts off. A man’s voice comes on the line. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, one I’ve heard in countless documentaries and interviews, one that belongs to the last person I thought I’d ever talk to.