Deal

Chapter 2: Forced Alliance

When Summer’s AP Calculus notes were scattered by the downdraft from a drone's propellers, she finally understood her mother’s favorite saying, “It never rains but it pours.” Ryan Jiang’s modified drone was hovering near the lab's air vent, anti-surveillance stickers plastered on its wings reminding her of the robot that had scorched the admissions officer’s suit last week.

“Move it, Honor Roll.” Ryan Jiang’s soldering iron traced blue-violet sparks across a circuit board. “Unless you want the principal finding out about his security system’s blind spots.”

She clutched her SAT prep book and took half a step back, noticing the edge of an MIT Robotics Challenge invitation sticking out of his backpack – the same competition page she’d refreshed obsessively on the Common App portal while pulling an all-nighter on her essays. Suddenly, the lab’s alarm shrieked, and the fire suppression sprinklers drenched their laptops.

“Congratulations,” Ryan slammed his waterlogged Advanced C++ Programming textbook onto the table. “You just fried three thousand dollars’ worth of sensors.”

Principal’s Office, 4:30 PM

Mr. Harper’s combat boots beat a judgmental rhythm on the floor. The ex-Marine’s office featured three large monitors: The left displayed real-time Early Decision acceptance rate stats, the middle scrolled through club disciplinary infractions, and the right showed a freeze-frame from security footage: Summer tearing up the robotics team sign-up sheet.

“The Peer Partnership Initiative,” the principal slid a tablet across the oak desk. “You have two options: team up and win next month’s StannyHacks hackathon, or share a permanent black mark on your academic records.”

Ryan scoffed. “Let me guess, you got this brilliant idea from The Hunger Games?”

“Fifty percent correct,” Harper pulled up the drone footage from the restricted zone. “Considering your father’s auto shop has its debt restructuring hearing next week, Mr. Jiang, I’d think you’d have a better grasp of risk management.”

Summer’s nails dug into her palms. Her mother’s text from this morning pulsed on her phone screen: Did the MIT admissions officer reply? Don't let this robotics team fiasco affect your GPA.

Underground Garage, 9:47 PM

Three holographic projectors cast an ethereal blue grid from the bed of a rusted Chevy pickup. Ryan’s “workshop” looked like a cyberpunk junkyard: Tesla battery packs were jury-rigged to a homemade MRI machine, a 3D printer was replicating medieval armor, and Summer had just cracked the Fibonacci sequence encryption on his hard drive.

“Aether?” She scrolled through concept art for the MMORPG prototype. “You’re using the school’s server farm to develop a game?”

“Correction,” Ryan aimed an electromagnetic pulse gun at a server rack. “I’m borrowing idle resources from the Quantum Computing elective.”

The holo-display suddenly flashed red. A hacker wearing a Guy Fawkes mask appeared on screen, a Bitcoin wallet address flickering within the fractured firewall: “72 hours, or your precious code becomes the dark web’s newest fire sale.”

“Looks like you failed Risk Management.” Summer set her SAT timer to count down. “Let’s be clear—I’m saving my Early Decision application, not you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Ryan tossed her a blood-stained medical bill. The pediatric ward number was starkly visible under the green glow of a nearby monitor. “My sister’s chemo can’t wait for your bleeding heart.”