I reach over my shoulder. Still there. Snarling, I unsheath my blade and stalk toward the drone. It stops moving, lying in wait, and I enter its range, adrenaline fueling my senses. One limb swings diagonally down. I sidestep and lean, feeling the molyblade neatly slice the tips of my bangs, then bring cold steel down in a two-handed grip on the exposed joint. The ancient metal does what it was created to do, and the leg falls limp, actuator fluid spurting like lifeblood. The last limb lashes out, a dying snake’s final deadly blow, but it’s not fast enough. I duck beneath the thrust and impale the Shredder’s control section, polymer splitting beneath the Musashi’s chiseled tip, delicate microboards and control chips splintering into ruin. Grinding noises sound from within, and then the Shredder falls still.
I exhale, hands trembling, and that’s when the fiery agony of a bullet smashes into the back of my leg, dropping me to the ground.
24
[Maru]
Air whistles between my teeth, the pain from my shattered leg threatening to overtake my entire mind. Sound intrudes, a slow clapping echoing around the room, chased by the clicking tread of dress shoes. Grimacing, I push myself over into a sitting position, leaning against the corpse of the Shredder, blood seeping through my hand. The Musashi juts out beside my head. A tall man with pale hair approaches, still clapping his hands slowly, thin black glasses covering his grim face. Next to him, a dazed-looking figure in a hapsuit and telltale hood holds a pistol aimed at me, his eyes seeing nothing but the Game. I incline my head at the man with pale hair.
“You’re… Ham’s dad. The WGSK exec.”
“And you are Ashley Akachi, or ‘Ashura the Terrible,’ perhaps the greatest player of our little game ever. Imagine my surprise when I discovered my heir was consorting with such… filth.”
The venom in his voice takes me aback.
“Excuse me?”
Might be tough going convincing him to shut this all down.
He examines his hapgloved hands, then brushes them against his exquisitely tailored suit.
“Don’t play coy, Ashley. Or should I say, ‘Persephone.’” I flinch, and he nods. “That’s right. When I caught my son sneaking around in my private messages, I wanted some answers. He tried being stubborn. Eventually, he came around.”
“You… forced him? To talk about… me?”
He takes a step closer, features pinched.
“I built his neural lace, and I ultimately control its inputs. Sometimes a father must be stern with a wayward child.”
“Child—he’s not… what did you do to him?!”
None of this makes any sense.
“Only what I had to. He’ll thank me for it, once he understands the gift he’s been given. Once you’re gone. Now, more importantly, why are you here?”
The rolling deck of a container ship. Melted eyes, running like wax. A dying man’s unspoken wish.
…because I don’t fucking lose. To anyone.
“…I wanted some answers.”
“Cute. I confess, when you first rose up the leaderboards, I found you mildly intriguing, a brown girl determined to succeed in our world, but then I put you from my mind. Entertainers can be found under any rock. They shine, they wither, they die, and those with power continue on.” Another step. “But then I find my son passing you messages. Acting on your behalf. With you. And then, after some digging, I discover that you’re working with the CCA, those religious zealots. Tell me, was this part of your plan? Turning my heir from me in order to please your masters? Using him to save your own worthless skin? What lies have you fed him?”
I can feel the pain coursing through my leg, warm blood seeping out in sticky waves.
Great. A fucking monologue.
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but I’m no fanatic, and the gummies know shit-all about Ham. We’ve been together for two years, and I only learned who he really was a couple days ago, when he told me. Then he told me he needed my help—to stop you. What the hell are you doing to him?”
“I’m saving him. My son.”
He laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. His hands clench at his sides.
“He was born incomplete, a cripple. A freak. When he was a baby, a newborn, the doctors said we ‘should let him go.’ That his life would never be ‘anything more than misery.’”
His voice rises, madness lurking in its depths.
“‘Anything more than misery!’ Like he was some kind of… of insect! That he meant nothing. But they were wrong. I proved them wrong, again and again. I’ve given him the bodies he never had, the life he’d never hold. Now he will finally have the freedom to run, and dance, and laugh. Forever.” Moisture gathers at his eyes, but all his attention is on me. “You and your friend, Sawyer, forced me to elevate him to his new position earlier than expected, but Hamlin is adjusting to the demands. To his new life.”
I almost want to tell him to stop talking and shoot—he wouldn’t last ten seconds in endgame.
“What do you mean, his new life?”
“Surely you understand that much, or you wouldn’t be here. Stupid girl. Who do you think is controlling all those hoods?”
A chill run downs my spine.
Teams. It has to be teams. No one person could control all those hoods… no…
“You’re lying. Even if Ham could do that, that’s not who he is. He wouldn’t start a war, kill innocents. He’s a Gamer. Like me.”
More laughter, sneering this time.
“‘Like me,’ you say, after slaughtering how many? ‘A Gamer,’ an otaku, as if that’s something to be proud of. A Gamer. Not a contributor, not a creator, no, just another obsessing puppet, dancing on our strings and calling it life.”
My lips peel back in a snarl, and he advances again.
“No, this game you play, this Game you have wasted your life in, is nothing more than a plaything for my heir. I built it just for him—a tool to help him grow, a world to let him touch and feel and learn in ways he never should have been denied, and you were just another part of that. A little toy for him to play with, and break, and discard. As I taught him.”