Missing Stars

Chapter 2 | Before

Chapter 2 | Before

I walk into the crowded ballroom, my footsteps swallowed by the murmur of voices. Out of habit, my gaze darts to every exit. Two doors to the left, one marked with a STAFF ONLY signboard and another one partly hidden by a colorful tapestry. An escape chute lies to my right. It rests behind the buffet table, tucked into an alcove.

A number appears over my eyes—the total tally of the people in the ballroom. That is the only thing my cybernetic chip cares to inform me. If it detects no danger, it refuses to engage in battle mode. As the number blinks out, I gaze up at the dark man standing on the platform. He wears a leopard mask.

I recognize him even in his disguise. A jagged scar slides along his neck, slits his chin in half and disappears into his mouth. Mwangi, the Graceless, Leader of the Tricksters, and the man I am to meet if I intend to join his team.

He is leaning against the railing, hands resting beneath his chin. I wave at him but he doesn't see me. It puzzles me why he chose this place for the pre-test briefing. A simple message would have done the job but he insisted on meeting me in a ball. No, a masquerade ball.

My mouth pulls into a sneer. As if pretty dresses and prim suits would make us any more civilized. The masks feel like a mockery. We're the Renegades, the most notorious criminals in the galaxy. I give a little chuckle. If my mother knew what her seventeen-year-old daughter was doing in her spare time, she would be horrified.    

I scan the crowd, my nostrils twitching at the overpowering scent of perfume. I turn to the viewport and release a deep breath. Mars floats away from our spaceship, a giant red planet streaked with smears of white, blue and green. It looks exactly like the real terraformed Mars.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself that this world exists only in a game and I am nothing but a player. I know I am actually lying on the cold floor of my room, head resting on a pillow, ears covered in a headset and eyes clamped shut. Scepter feels so real though. It is a virtual reality online multiplayer game, capable of stimulating the five senses. The only exception is pain. Whereas a bullet to the gut would hurt immensely, here in Scepter, it would be nothing but a pinch.

A waiter approaches me. His identity is hidden by a volto mask. He holds out a silver tray and offers me a drink. I take a glass of mango juice.

"Thank you," I say.

He winks then walks away. I saunter through the crowd, frowning when a woman collides with me. She vanishes into the crowd, her skirt swishing like the strike of a whip. The mango juice has sloshed over my hand, cold against the heat of my fingers. I abandon my drink on a table and wipe my palm against my black dress.

"May I have this dance?"

I whirl around, staring up at a young man. He appears to be the same age as me. He quirks his head to the side, strands of blond hair falling over his forehead. A black domino covers half of his face but I can tell beneath that mask, he looks gorgeous.

I find myself taking his hand before I can mumble an excuse. His fingers nestle against my bare back. My cheeks feel hot as my palm finds his shoulder. I suppose I can afford one dance before I meet Mwangi. It is not as if he has noticed my presence.

"Tell me your name," my dancing partner says.

I smile but say nothing. The music shifts to a slow tune. I let the song flow into my body, brush over me from head to toe. My dancing partner takes me through the steps with ease and I'm relieved that not once have I stepped on his foot.

"Can you not speak?" He spins me then pulls me closer to him but not close enough to make me feel uncomfortable.

I am curious to see how far he'll go to make me talk. We sway back and forth, oblivious to the other dancers and I allow myself to be ensnared in our own little world.

"Her smile, a kiss of dawn. Like stardust scattered across the sky, so does her sorrow."

Unable to resist, I laugh. I can't believe he picked a line from the cheesiest poem by Matthew Hauffman, a famous poet and playwright in the twenty first century. We had to study his poetry collection in Literature. My classmates and I performed a parody of his Spinner's Fortune play for the annual inter-school drama festival. Another laugh leaves my whole body shaking as I remember my role. I was the cross-dressing Mateo, a boy who took the guise of an old lady to steal from the rich folk.

"That's better," he says, his grey eyes bright with amusement. "I knew a beautiful girl like you would have a sweet voice."

I roll my eyes. My stranger grins. I hope he isn't one of the Paragons masquerading as a fugitive because if he is, I'll be happy to shoot him in the face.

My gaze drifts away from him, past his shoulder and up towards the platform. Mwangi is watching me. He nods once as if beckoning me then turns away. It's time to leave. A shot of panic courses through me. Once I get the briefing done, I'll need to pass the test. It's the only way Mwangi will let me join the Tricksters. I want to be among the third best team in the world. I want it so badly.  

When my stranger spins me again, I release my grip on him and inch away. I gasp as he wraps an arm around my waist. He tugs me back to him, closing the distance between us.

"I'll tell you my name." He dips his head to my neck, his breath warming my ear. "Alex...also known as Gunslinger85Z."

My eyes widen in surprise. Gunslinger85Z is the second most powerful member of the Tricksters. Known for his swift reflexes, incredible strength and an uncanny ability to improvise in any situation, he makes a formidable enemy but a valuable teammate.

A curse rolls off my tongue. Alex has the muzzle of his gun pressed to my back.