Chapter 1: Jade

My boyfriend never called me ‘babe’.

(Read about this project here.)

My boyfriend never called me ‘babe’.

Not my real boyfriend, anyway. But the glowing figure of Wes Belmont standing in front of me is a carbon copy in every other way. The same wide grin. Same thick, dark brows. Same eyes that I swear could lead me right off a cliff, if he ever used them for evil instead of good. Even now.

And the same strong, clean-shaven jawline. Though if the real Wes is still alive, somewhere out there in the desert— no ‘if’s, Jade— I’m sure he’s got one hell of a five o’clock shadow by now.

“I miss you so much, babe,” the alternatively-generated version of Wes says, leaning against a marble pillar that’s also not really there, just a figment of the holographic projection at the base of the altar he’s standing on. I make a mental note to tell the Belmonts’ AG oracle about the unrealistic term of endearment after the vigil is over. She’s been refining this version of Wes every month for the last twelve months, adjusting his appearance and mannerisms based on feedback from the ones who knew— know— him best.

“I miss you, too.” I can feel the emotion swelling in my throat, making my words thick. Around the seventh or eighth vigil, I got numb to the AG constructed version of my boyfriend. Sure, he looks like Wes. Sounds like him. But I can’t touch him, hold him, dance with him. Not even so much as a thumb wrestle, without my hand whooshing clean through the photons. As the month’s passed, I used the private time in here to think, without having to worry about my followers obsessing over every second of my livestream. Religious services are off limits to streamers.

But now, as we turn the corner on a full year without any sign of Wes’s return, I’m beginning to wonder if anyone in the room outside this glorified closet even feels like he’s missing. I’m beginning to wonder if the only version of Wes in my life from here on out is the one standing in front of me.

That’s not acceptable. But even less acceptable is the possibility that Wes might be suffering. Might be in pain.

“Are you… happy? Where you are?” My voice wavers. I’ve never asked the construct a question like this, because I’m terrified of what the oracle might have programmed him to say. Everyone in New Palisades can cast basic alternatively-generated constructs. But Oracles are the most adept at it— and are thus the most powerful, important people in New Palisades. By casting constructs, they shape our lives, our knowledge— our very reality. And nothing that valuable comes cheap; the Belmonts have paid top dollar for Lorelei Cantor. The woman is such a good oracle, she teaches other oracles how to be oracles. Like any service provider, she wants to keep her clients satisfied.

Which is why the construct’s answer to my question matters so much. Have Mr. and Mrs. Belmont asked Lorelei to imply that Wes is at rest, after having his head bashed in from some Bounder in last year’s Melee race? Or will AG-Wes tell me he’s still out there in the Mojave, waiting for us to find him?

Have the Belmonts given up on their son?

AG-Wes exhales slowly, the space between his brows pinched, just like it always did when he pondered my philosophical curveball questions, as we sat on his compound’s roof overlooking the city. “Happy… that’s a loaded word. Happiness is complex, right? It’s a cold glass of water on a hot day. An inside joke with a friend. Right now I’m finding happiness just by looking in your eyes, babe.”

Babe. My eye does an involuntary twitch at the word. It’s like a splinter in the back of my mind. In some ways this version of AG-Wes is the most realistic I’ve ever seen— there was a system update a couple weeks ago, and it must have been a doozy, because the telltale light blue tinge to AG-Wes’s features is gone, replaced by a faithful mimic of the flawless walnut brown skin I remember. His full lips are the exact shape of the lips I remember caressing. Remember claiming.

But he’s not my Wes. Not really.

I never should’ve let him do the death race. It’s not really for New Palisaders, anyway. He didn’t need to prove anything. But Wes told me he wanted to feel alive, for once— whatever that means. In an ironic twist the best holo-soap writers could only dream of, his wish probably got him killed.

“Wes, it’s been a year… where did you go?” I whisper. I’m not expecting an answer as I look into the construct’s brown-black eyes. My time’s almost up, anyway— soon Wes’s best friend Jasper will get his turn at the altar. Jasper confessed to me at the five-month vigil that he doesn’t take the construct seriously— that he uses his time to get it to tell as many dirty jokes as possible. I have to admit it does sound like something Wes would do— the boy was always full volume, high saturation. It’s how he broke down my walls. But dirty jokes at a vigil? I guess we all grieve in our own ways.

Anyway, I must have a few seconds left on the clock, because AG-Wes cocks his head to the side. “They didn’t tell you?” he asks.

My skin prickles with sudden awareness. This is new. “Tell me what?”

“When they found my clothes on the race course, there was a note.”

I blink at the construct as I search my grief-soaked memory. There’s never been any mention of a note, from the media that reported on Wes’s disappearance from the Melee, or even from the Belmonts themselves. Does anyone else know about this? Or is the construct revealing new information to me, something new its synthesized from the race’s surveillance footage since the system update?

“What did the note say?” Before the question’s even fully out of my mouth, a screenshot appears beside AG-Wes’s holograph. The words ‘Courtesy of the Buzzard’ are scrawled on a piece of scrap paper, in hastily-written chickenscratch. I squint at the paper, my head reeling with all of the possibilities. But first things first…

“Enter computational mode,” I command the construct. Instantly, AG-Wes goes rigid, no longer mimicking my boyfriend. His eyes glow iceberg blue.

“Source check for this screenshot,” I say, trying to steady my pounding heart. As AG-Wes processes the command, I give a sigh of gratitude for one of the Consortium’s founding edicts. With a whole city running on constructs, it’s essential to be able to verify the source of what you’re being shown. Otherwise we’d be too easily manipulated. Though come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone ask for a source check. I don’t blame them. Life in New Palisades moves quick; who has time to investigate every little thing?

This, though? This is worth taking the time to be sure.

“Source: enhanced analysis of 2423 Annual Melee surveillance footage, processed August 28, 2424,” the construct says. Okay, so this isn’t some fake image planted here by a twisted mind. This is real, and new information as of just a couple days ago.

Wes wasn’t killed, he was kidnapped.

He’s still alive.

“Search 2423 Melee contestants for alias ‘the Buzzard’,” I tell AG-Wes.

“Sorry, I didn’t find the alias ‘the Buzzard’ among the year 2423 Melee contestants,” AG-Wes says in a customer support rep’s bright singsong.

My heart drops. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Performing secondary search.” AG-Wes’s eyes shift to neon green. “Alias match found in the Boundary. ‘The Buzzard.’ Legal name: Nathan Cervantes.”

“The… Boundary?” I guess it’s not surprising— most of the Melee’s contestants are from the Boundary, the collective name for the border slums that surround New Palisades’s edges like a colony of ants around a melted popsicle. But I’ve never ventured out there. Why would I, when New Palisades literally has everything I could ever dream of?

AG-Wes is back in emulator-mode; his brown-black eyes twinkle mischievously. “Guess I’ve still got a few surprises up my sleeve, huh babe?”

I glance from my boyfriend’s perfect face, to the screenshot still hovering in the air beside him. “I guess you do.”

Rejoining the vigil repast in the Belmont’s reception hall is disorienting on multiple levels. For one, the pitch black of the altar room is gone, replaced with sunlight and glowing blue AG-torches in sconces on every pillar. The five major families of New Palisades each decorate their compounds according to their own aesthetic preference. The Belmonts have chosen a classic Italian villa. Deep green vines of ivy climb their way up terracotta walls. Butler bots roam the hall, offering ornately-plated hors d’ouevres. The chatter of the crowd is a far cry from the comfortable silence Wes— that is, AG-Wes— and I shared.

But nothing is more jarring than the flood of follower comments back into my visual feed. The thousands of messages I missed in my ten minute break in the altar come rushing back in a blur. It’s too fast for me to catch them all, but a couple jump out:

Meagerparellel89: wonder what they’re talking about

Foolishheart4u[AG]: that’s so rude! You know that stuff is private

Waterymiracle1000: why does she even get to keep her streak going if she takes these breaks?

LuxeGirlie444: 10m once a month is too much for u? bro go touch grass, seriously

“I’m back, chat! I missed you so much!” I say cheerily, and bask in the tidal wave of heart emojis that briefly fill my vision. I spot Jasper across the room, stuffing his face with a plate of deviled eggs and steak tartare.

“If it isn’t the heartbreaker of all New Palisades,” I say as I join him. “He’s all yours.”

“Jade.” Jasper has a knack for saying your name— saying everything, really— like it’s part of a private joke he shares with you, and only you. Pair that with his flawless physique and killer smile, and the boy can get anything he wants.

Almost anything. I resist the urge to clench my teeth as I sense him eying my cleavage while my head is turned.

“It’s been a minute,” Jasper says. Sorry I haven’t been at the last few vigils. Busy, you know how it is.”

“Of course.”

“You look good.” He scans my body appreciatively, then chooses something appropriate to focus on, like a gentleman. He gestures to his own hair. “I like the, uh… what color would you call that, exactly? Like a… lime?”

“Chartreuse.” I primp it playfully. “You really like it?”

His eyes light up when I seek his approval. “I love it. How are you holding up? How was he?”

This question drives me crazy. As if I’m the only one who’s lost something. As if there’s not a big hole in all of our lives where Wes used to be. I decide I’m not going to give Jasper the satisfaction of the whole truth, that I can’t breathe without Wes beside me. Until he’s back I am chrome: shiny, polished, perfect, impenetrable. Jasper will only know as much as I want him to know.

“You know Wes,” I force a chuckle as he shoves another egg into his mouth. There is a veritable shit ton of food on his plate. “Expecting company?”

“Would you be interested if I was?” He offers a cheeky smile… is it for me, or for the followers he knows are watching?

MariefromParis923: does he have a private channel? asking for a friend

MariefromParis923: its me. i’m the friend

Jasper laughs. “Joking! Joking! It’s all for me. I’m bulking right now.” As if on cue, the glowing blue AG tattoos on his biceps shimmer, drawing my attention. Everyone in New Palisades uses AG to enhance their appearance somehow. For me it’s the hair, for Jasper, it’s his tattoos. Though I’ve heard rumor of other enhancements below the belt that I’d rather not contemplate right now. Or, you know. Ever.

“Few of us are going to a holo-concert tonight,” Jasper quirks a brow in a self-assured way that I’m sure works on other girls. “Want to come?”

“Shoot. Wish I could. Promised my followers an AMA tonight, in honor of one full year of streaming.” My notifications go wild at this new information. Thanks for bailing me out, chat.

“Ask you anything?” Jasper leans in conspiratorially. “Anything anything?”

I lean right back. “For paid subscribers? Absolutely.” As in absolutely not. At nineteen, it wouldn’t be illegal. But even with a 24/7 livestream for the past year, a girl’s got to have some boundaries. To give the channel somewhere to go, if for no other reason.

Jasper stands, and dumps his still-full plate on a passing waiter’s tray without even looking. “A pity. Next time, then.”

“Next time.”

Jasper heads for the altar, leaving a whiff of musky cologne in his wake. I take a seat at the table he abandoned, nervously playing with the AG-casting cuffs around my wrists as I watch the crowd socialize. At the first vigil, Mrs. Belmont was barely composed enough to put out a cheese and cracker plate. But in the months since, the offerings have gotten more dazzling. There’s been less tears, more business chat. As Wes’s girlfriend, the Belmonts have always expected me to be a visible presence at the vigils, almost a cohost— shaking hands and posing for photo ops. Which is why today I’m more grateful than ever that the networking has become everyone’s focus. It gives me all the cover I need to slip out of the room and dash down the hall to my room. I need time to think. To plan.

Because tonight—somehow— I’m going to the Boundary.

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