Chapter 1

Daily Log—12:11 PM, 03/08/2094

Location: Krylarian Walled City, New Angeles, California

User ID: sugar_and_spyte

People disappear in the Walled City.

Here, the buildings are crushed so close together that the whole city is practically one giant structure, with only thin alleyways winding between the stacks. Houses are stacked one on top of the other, and I have a feeling that if they weren't crammed so close together, they all would've toppled over by now. Everything is a mishmash of spare parts and spare people—this is where you go when you've got nothing and no one. And in a place like this, it's all too easy to walk in and never come back out.

Daddy always told me not to go into this part of town. But Daddy died last June, and if I don't wanna end up rotting in the same pit where they dumped him, I've gotta make a change.

I weave through the crowded buildings, past flickering neon storefronts and through alleys so narrow my shoulders brush the walls on either side. The stacks are so high that I can barely see the sky, only catching slivers of hazy gray-blue in between rooftops so close they almost touch.

Twilight is a dangerous time to be walking around the Walled City, and yet the streets are bustling. I keep my hands in my pockets. Thieves abound in these parts, but one look at my dirty backpack and ratted hoodie is all it takes for most to realize I don't have anything worth stealing.

The building I'm looking for is just off the main alley—a slightly wider, yet nonetheless cramped boulevard that serves as a community center of sorts for the citizens of the Walled City. People call out to me as I pass. I don't pay attention to what they're selling—I don't have any money, and it's probably not legal anyway, else they'd be selling it in Downtown New Angeles. But law enforcement doesn't come here. This is where the runoffs of society come to die.

I come to a stop in the middle of the alley when I reach my destination. The building is tall and narrow—no doubt the only reason it's yet to fall down is because of the structures on either side of it, keeping it from leaning too far in either direction. I wrinkle my nose, double checking the address scrawled on my hand. There's no way the man I've spent all this time looking for lives here.

But the address only confirms that I'm at the right place. Oh, how the mighty fall.

A rusted metal staircase zig-zagging across the front of the building seems to be the only way up. Taking a deep, bracing breath, I start to climb.

The trek would be arduous even if the steps were in good condition—which they're most definitely not. The metal creaks ominously under my feet as I climb, and the handrail is missing in several sections. A couple of stairs are missing entirely, and I can't help but wonder what happened to the unfortunate souls who were on them when they fell.

I don't let myself look down—the gaps between the steps provide an all-too clear view of the pavement below. I've always hated heights.

My chest is heaving by the time I make it to the eleventh floor. I give myself only a moment to catch my bearings—any longer, and I'll chicken out before I get what I came here for.

I walk along the jutting metal walkway, rusted from decades of too much rain and too little cleaning, until I reach the door I'm looking for. It's narrow, barely wide enough for a particularly wide person to squeeze through. There are no windows.

I close my eyes. 'This is it, Niko,' I remind myself. 'This is what you came for.' Straightening my spine, I lift my hand to knock.

The door only opens a crack—a busted old chain lock snaps taut after an inch or two, keeping it closed partway. A dark, lone eye peers out at me from the crack, squinting from beneath a furrowed brow. "Sorry, kid," says a low, gravely voice, roughened from smoking too many cigarettes for too many years. "I don't got no money for you."

"I'm not here for money," I say, squaring my shoulders the way Daddy taught me. 'Stand up straight, Niko,' he used to say. 'It don't matter what you say so long as you sound smart when you're sayin' it.'

"Then piss off, why don'tcha." The door is already swinging closed before I have a chance to say anything. I try to shove my foot in the jamb, but only manage to stub my toes against hard metal—denting it slightly, I notice with grim satisfaction. I curse, shifting my weight off my aching foot and spitting out an assortment of the vilest, dirtiest words I know, words that Daddy only used when the betting was going bad and he thought I wasn't listening. From the other side of the door, I hear the unmistakable click as a lock slides shut.

Fuck, no. That's not how this is supposed to go.

I pound my fist against the narrow tin door again, so hard it hurts. "Hey, open up!" I shout. No response—I guess you don't escape the Sparrows by showing your face to just anybody.

I let out a breath through my nose. I really didn't want to lay all my cards on the table this early, but he's not giving me much choice. "You're SeaDrake," I say, pressing myself as close to the door as I can in hopes that he hears me. "Aren't you?"

For a long, taut moment, I don't hear anything from behind the thin metal door—not a step or a shift or a breath. I don't even know if he heard me.

Then the lock clicks again. I hear the long, slow drag of the chain lock being undone. And the door swings open.

The man who stands in the doorway is, in a word, huge. My daddy was in no way petite, but this man would've towered over him by half a foot at least. I have to crane my neck way up to look him in the eye. He's broad and barrel-chested, with hands so big he could probably crush my head between them. His long, wavy hair looks like it hasn't been brushed in days—it's been shoved into a messy bun at the base of his neck that does little to keep it out of his face, and flyaways frame his hollow cheeks and square jaw. He's sporting a wicked scar that cuts down his cheek and through his lips, warping the shape of his mouth into a permanent scowl. The bridge of his nose is crooked—I can tell just by looking that it's been broken at least once.

In short, he looks like a mean ol' bastard—not the sort of guy you'd wanna piss off, and from the look of it, I've done just that.

He glares down at me. "Where'd you hear that name, kid?"

"That doesn't matter right now," I say.

"It matters a damn lot to me," he replies, crossing big, bulging arms over his chest. "You're gonna fess up, or I'm gonna pitch you off the goddamn roof."

I lift my chin. "If I answer one of your questions, you answer one of mine. Deal?"

The man's scowl deepens. "You're in no position to be negotiating right now," he says.

"I mean, if you want the Sparrows to find out where you live, then I guess—"

A hand wraps around my wrist and pulls me forward. I stumble a little, crossing over the threshold just before the door slams shut behind me. "Jesus Christ, kid, not so loud," SeaDrake hisses. "Place like this, you can't take a piss without somebody else knowing about it."

I wrench my wrist out of SeaDrake's hold, and he doesn't fight me. I take a step further inside the run-down apartment as SeaDrake latches the door behind us.

I don't know what I expected the home of a living legend to look like, but it definitely wasn't this. The whole place reeks of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. A fine layer of dust has settled over everything that isn't frequently used, and the apartment's only window has been boarded over. A bare mattress has been shoved into a corner, draped only with a sparse blanket and a pillow with no pillowcase.

The only thing here of any real value is the monitor in the corner. It's an older model, at least two or three years out of date, but I can tell at a glance that it's been well cared for. It's the only thing in the entire space that's been recently cleaned.

I smirk. "Nice place you've got here."

"Shut your damn mouth," SeaDrake snaps. "Now tell me what you want before I string you up for the goddamn birds."

I square my shoulders. It's now or never. "I want you to join my Squadron."

SeaDrake barks out a short, mean laugh. "You've gotta be sick in the head."

I trail after him as he makes his way to the busted old minifridge in the corner. He grabs a beer from inside—there's no condensation on the can, I notice. I'd be shocked if that thing even still ran.

"I've got a lot I can offer you," I say, watching as SeaDrake pops the cap and takes a swig. "We win it big, you can have whatever you want—enough money to buy your freedom from the Sparrows, and for real this time. Unless you're happy living out the rest of your life in a shithole like this."

SeaDrake studies me from beneath heavy, lowered brows. "How old are you, kid? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"I'm fourteen."

SeaDrake snorts. "Even fuckin' better."

I open my mouth to retort, but SeaDrake keeps talking before I can get a word in edgewise. "Tell me if this sounds familiar," he says, taking a step toward me. I back away, keeping the distance between us even. "You get yourself in some deep shit with one of the Eight. You're pretty good on the computer, win games on community servers, and you think to yourself, why the hell not. This is as good an opportunity as any. So you join a Squadron, thinking you're hot shit, only to realize that you're nothing but a stupid kid in way over her head. Sound about right?"

I bristle. "No, I'm—"

"Trust me, kid." SeaDrake sets down the beer can, bracing his hands on the dusty countertop. "You're gonna look back ten years from now and realize you've only been moving backwards. You wanna save your skin? Take my advice: this is as good a place as any to disappear."

"Yeah, and do what?" I demand. "Drink my life away, sad and alone like you?"

SeaDrake's mouth twists down at the corners. The scar cutting through his lip makes it look less like a frown and more like a grimace. "You don't know shit about me," he says.

"I know everything about you." I think back to those days, so long ago, now, when Daddy and I used to watch SeaDrake's matches on our cracked monitor screen. That was before, when Pandora X was just a game and SeaDrake was just another player. Those memories are so distant that it feels like they're from another life—another girl. "You were a legend," I say. "Now you're just a washed-up old guy livin' in a backwater slum that the world forgot."

SeaDrake sighs, long and slow, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "If you think so low of me, then why are you here?"

"Because you can be that man again," I say. I round the countertop, facing him from the other side of it. "If SeaDrake comes back, we can win this. I know we can."

SeaDrake's shoulders slump. Suddenly, he doesn't look so big or scary—just endlessly tired. "You're lying to yourself, kid. You need to get out while you still can."

"It's not just my pride on the line, it's my life. If I can't figure out how to pay back the Daylights, I'm done for."

"Then negotiate." SeaDrake shrugs. "If you make yourself useful to them, you won't have to play. Raker is a bastard, but unlike Bridges, he doesn't hurt kids unless he has to."

I shake my head. "You know what that would mean. If I don't play, they'll own me for the rest of my life."

"Better be their dog than be dead, kid."

"You're wrong." I lift my chin. I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye, but I won't break his gaze. To look away would be to admit defeat. "I'd rather be dead than belong to them."

SeaDrake cracks a smile. "You sound like me when I was a kid," he says. He takes another swig of his beer.

"Then help me." I'm practically begging now. Without him, I'm screwed—he and I both know it.

"No. Because when I was a kid, I was stupid. Just like you." His eyes harden. "Now get out of here if you know what's good for you."