Spark(3)

“You making fun of me?” Bix punched his shoulder, hard enough to make it count.
“Hey—not my fault you’re all well-adjusted and middle class. But you’re not a geeklet.”
Bix wanted to be edgy, but befriending Aran was the nearest he got. Not that Aran would recommend his particular lifestyle. Even Bix didn’t know about Aran’s other existence as the prime hacker known as BlackWing. He could find the exploits in any game, slipping in between the cracks in the code. Sadly, selling game hacks on the gray market wasn’t making him rich. In fact, it was barely enough to survive on.
He needed enough cash to get his own apartment instead of couching it at Bix’s and living off high-jolt soda and packaged ramen.
Aran’s folks would feed him, grudgingly. Even though he was eighteen now, he still had a room at home. It stayed empty, though—just a place to store his stuff. That house held too much history and not enough forgiveness. Not even close. Unsaid words piled up like knives until he felt he was being sliced alive by their sharp edges.
He swigged the last of his super-caffeinated drink. The carbonation stung his throat and nose, but he needed the boost. It was way too early for him to be awake.
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing his bag, a brown messenger pouch he’d liberated from his older brother.
Bix followed him out of the garage, carefully locking up. Aran had an extra key, though he’d resorted to climbing through the back window a couple times to keep Bix’s parents from seeing him. He didn’t think the Chowneys would approve of Aran squatting in their old garage. Not that they ever used it, with the fancy new construction they’d built out front to house their grav-cars.
The metro stop was six blocks away. Aran hunched his shoulders against the February drizzle and let Bix babble on about how excited he was to go to SimCon. It was the first time their city had hosted the gaming convention, and the nerds and geeks were completely turbo.
“Can you believe VirtuMax is finally unveiling the FullD system?” Bix’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “It’s been years since they announced the project. I hope it’s as prime as they claim.”
“Me too.”
Despite the nonchalance he projected, Aran was excited—though not for the same reasons. He was burning to see VirtuMax unveil their long-delayed FullD system and try the immersive new game that came with it: Feyland. If he could get a head-start on cracking the programming, he’d be set. Make enough cash to move someplace where the sun actually shone in the winter.
Maybe he’d buy one of those old-style camping vans, figure out a way to install his gaming systems, and travel around, following the warmth and the cons.
But first, he had a game to hack.
“Spark Jaxley will be at the debut.” Bix grinned. “I hope we can get close enough to touch her.”
Practically every gamer in the world was in love with the celebrity simmer—guys and girls alike. She was cute, sure, but Aran would bet that most people never realized—the way he, as a true hacker, did—that her gaming skills were flawless.
Which probably meant she was a class A diva.
“You can ask her out,” Aran said as they headed down the dingy steps of the subway station. “Guy like you, how could she refuse?”
“Shut it,” Bix said. “At least we’ll get to see her play.”
In the stink and whoosh of the tunnels, Bix passed his wrist, with its embedded chip, over the gate scanner. Aran dumped a handful of grubby coins into the machine. If Bix weren’t with him, he would have jumped the gate, but he was playing it straight today. No thrill of eluding the security guys and dashing onto the train at the last second.
It was a quiet ride down to the convention center, though the train filled the closer they got. Half the passengers were dressed for a day at the office. The rest were obviously on their way to SimCon, flaunting their gamer garb and inner freaks. Aran concentrated on relaxing, sinking deeper into his character of regular-gamer-geek.
“Do you think the plan will work?” Bix asked as the train pulled into the downtown station.
“Of course.” Aran hoped.
They went along with the flow of people headed out of the station and toward the gleaming glass and steel complex housing the convention center. Once inside the main building, they were hit with the smell of industrial carpet and the babble of excited fans.
“Volunteers, over there.” Bix pointed at the sign, then cut across the crowd.
Aran followed, rubbing his thumb over the chip glued on the inside of his wrist. As long as no one took a close look, he’d pass.
“Slow down,” he said, tapping Bix’s shoulder.