This isn’t a game. They shouldn’t treat it as one.
That’s what Jackson’s been saying all along.
I study the numbers, trying to figure out what’s bugging me. Something’s off, but I can’t figure out what it is.
Jump in thirty. That’s the Committee, mainlining thoughts directly to my brain whether I want them there or not.
We respawn in a room—big, dim, smooth gray walls. Metal? I touch the closest one, then tap my fingernail against the surface. Yeah, metal.
In front of us is a huge corrugated door, the black rectangle centered above it lit with glowing red bars. No, not bars . . . an LED number: seven. Beside the door is a keypad with a slot for an ID card.
“Where are we?” Lien whispers.
I hold a finger to my lips. I want complete silence until we know if it’s safe to speak. I point over her shoulder so she’ll see what I see. There are two black sedans parked against the far wall. The license plates have three kanji—Japanese letters—followed by a number and, below that, larger numbers. So either we’re in Japan, or these cars were imported with license plates intact. I’m not sure it matters, but I store the info away in case I need it later.
Catching Luka’s eye, I nod toward the corrugated door as I pull my weapon cylinder. It’s smooth and cool and instantly contorts its shape, conforming to the contours of my grasp. He gets the message and pulls his weapon cylinder. The others take the hint and do the same, backs to one another, alert for any threat. I walk over and rest my hand on the hood of the first car. Cold. Same with the second. So they haven’t been driven in at least forty-five minutes or an hour. Again, I don’t know if that info is relevant, but I gather what I can.
I check my con. There’s a rim of green around the outside to measure my health, but most of the screen is taken up with a live feed of our surroundings. In the left corner is a small rectangle—a map of the room—and within it, a clump of five green triangles. Us. I hold up my wrist and gesture for everyone else to show me theirs—all green, no maps or live feeds. That means I’m the only one getting instructions. The Committee wants us to stick together. For now.
I move to the keypad by the door and stare at the numbers.
“Safe to talk?” Luka says against my ear, so soft I feel the words more than hear them.
I listen for any sound, anything at all. Nothing. If we can’t hear the Drau, I’m going to work with the idea that they can’t hear us, either. Actually, it isn’t just an idea; it’s a certainty. Perks of being the leader. The Committee dumps knowledge in my head: no threat. Not yet. But they’re out there, and they’re close.
“Safe to talk,” I say.
Lien looks around, frowning. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah.” Tyrone nods, and his agreement’s enough to snag my attention.
“Why?” I ask.
“There’s something familiar about it. Something weird,” Lien says.
“Familiar like . . . you’ve been here before? On a mission?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But I feel like I’ve seen this place before. Does that make sense?”
“Does to me,” Luka says. “I feel the same way.”
“Resident Evil,” Tyrone says. “Or maybe Half Life.”
Luka frowns. “Yeah. Not quite, but close.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Big elevator. Two cars. Massive metal doors. Underground facility.” Tyrone pauses, then says to Luka, “I’m the guy who’s here to save the world.”
Luka snorts. “I thought I was the good guy.”
“No, no,” Tyrone says. “You’re on the team with the supersecret underground base. I’m the guy breaking into the base. That makes me the good guy.”
“What are you talking about?” Lien snaps.
“Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory,” Luka says.
“A game?” Lien asks, incredulous. “You’re quoting lines from a game?”
“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand, palm forward. I turn my attention back to Tyrone. “You’re saying you’ve seen this in a game? This place?”
“Not exactly this place but something like it. The elaborate underground base.” He shrugs. “It’s a common trope.”
I try to figure out why it matters. It shouldn’t. We’re in a big elevator leading into the ground. Games have big elevators leading into the ground. So do movies and books and manga. It is a common trope. But the whole thing has a creepy vibe.
“Heads up, eyes open,” I say. “If something’s off about this place, at least we have a warning, right?”
“There’s no if,” Lien says.
“So what now, CL?” Tyrone asks, and he and Luka exchange one of those I’m-a-guy-and-that-makes-me-awesome looks.
I hold on to my patience by a thread. “CL?”
“Clan leader. That’s you. We’re the clan,” Lien explains, her tone terse.
“Nice,” Luka says, “and a little surprising.”
She shoots him a passive look. “What? You’re not the only person who’s ever picked up a controller.”
“I thought clans are teams that play other teams in FPS or MMO,” I say. “You counting the Drau as a team?”
Luka’s brows shoot up. “Been reading up on first-person shooters and massive multiplayer online?”
That’s what Jackson’s been saying all along.
I study the numbers, trying to figure out what’s bugging me. Something’s off, but I can’t figure out what it is.
Jump in thirty. That’s the Committee, mainlining thoughts directly to my brain whether I want them there or not.
We respawn in a room—big, dim, smooth gray walls. Metal? I touch the closest one, then tap my fingernail against the surface. Yeah, metal.
In front of us is a huge corrugated door, the black rectangle centered above it lit with glowing red bars. No, not bars . . . an LED number: seven. Beside the door is a keypad with a slot for an ID card.
“Where are we?” Lien whispers.
I hold a finger to my lips. I want complete silence until we know if it’s safe to speak. I point over her shoulder so she’ll see what I see. There are two black sedans parked against the far wall. The license plates have three kanji—Japanese letters—followed by a number and, below that, larger numbers. So either we’re in Japan, or these cars were imported with license plates intact. I’m not sure it matters, but I store the info away in case I need it later.
Catching Luka’s eye, I nod toward the corrugated door as I pull my weapon cylinder. It’s smooth and cool and instantly contorts its shape, conforming to the contours of my grasp. He gets the message and pulls his weapon cylinder. The others take the hint and do the same, backs to one another, alert for any threat. I walk over and rest my hand on the hood of the first car. Cold. Same with the second. So they haven’t been driven in at least forty-five minutes or an hour. Again, I don’t know if that info is relevant, but I gather what I can.
I check my con. There’s a rim of green around the outside to measure my health, but most of the screen is taken up with a live feed of our surroundings. In the left corner is a small rectangle—a map of the room—and within it, a clump of five green triangles. Us. I hold up my wrist and gesture for everyone else to show me theirs—all green, no maps or live feeds. That means I’m the only one getting instructions. The Committee wants us to stick together. For now.
I move to the keypad by the door and stare at the numbers.
“Safe to talk?” Luka says against my ear, so soft I feel the words more than hear them.
I listen for any sound, anything at all. Nothing. If we can’t hear the Drau, I’m going to work with the idea that they can’t hear us, either. Actually, it isn’t just an idea; it’s a certainty. Perks of being the leader. The Committee dumps knowledge in my head: no threat. Not yet. But they’re out there, and they’re close.
“Safe to talk,” I say.
Lien looks around, frowning. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah.” Tyrone nods, and his agreement’s enough to snag my attention.
“Why?” I ask.
“There’s something familiar about it. Something weird,” Lien says.
“Familiar like . . . you’ve been here before? On a mission?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “But I feel like I’ve seen this place before. Does that make sense?”
“Does to me,” Luka says. “I feel the same way.”
“Resident Evil,” Tyrone says. “Or maybe Half Life.”
Luka frowns. “Yeah. Not quite, but close.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Big elevator. Two cars. Massive metal doors. Underground facility.” Tyrone pauses, then says to Luka, “I’m the guy who’s here to save the world.”
Luka snorts. “I thought I was the good guy.”
“No, no,” Tyrone says. “You’re on the team with the supersecret underground base. I’m the guy breaking into the base. That makes me the good guy.”
“What are you talking about?” Lien snaps.
“Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory,” Luka says.
“A game?” Lien asks, incredulous. “You’re quoting lines from a game?”
“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand, palm forward. I turn my attention back to Tyrone. “You’re saying you’ve seen this in a game? This place?”
“Not exactly this place but something like it. The elaborate underground base.” He shrugs. “It’s a common trope.”
I try to figure out why it matters. It shouldn’t. We’re in a big elevator leading into the ground. Games have big elevators leading into the ground. So do movies and books and manga. It is a common trope. But the whole thing has a creepy vibe.
“Heads up, eyes open,” I say. “If something’s off about this place, at least we have a warning, right?”
“There’s no if,” Lien says.
“So what now, CL?” Tyrone asks, and he and Luka exchange one of those I’m-a-guy-and-that-makes-me-awesome looks.
I hold on to my patience by a thread. “CL?”
“Clan leader. That’s you. We’re the clan,” Lien explains, her tone terse.
“Nice,” Luka says, “and a little surprising.”
She shoots him a passive look. “What? You’re not the only person who’s ever picked up a controller.”
“I thought clans are teams that play other teams in FPS or MMO,” I say. “You counting the Drau as a team?”
Luka’s brows shoot up. “Been reading up on first-person shooters and massive multiplayer online?”
