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Here's the fifth chapter. This is where I'd say things start kicking into gear. I hope it is to your liking.

Current music: Lonely With Me - Parachute

From the moment I woke up the next morning, I understood exactly what the words cabin fever meant.

They referred to a time when you were so bored, so sick of being cooped up inside, that you just wanted to scream. It means being forced to stay in one place when everything else in your body (no, your soul) is urging you to do otherwise.

The sun was rising over the city of Boston; in fact, its rays were streaming their way through my window, and I wanted nothing more than to bound my way down the stairs, out through the lobby, and frolic around in the sun like a happy child or dog. And believe me: It took everything not to do that.

But no. Instead, I had to sit in this room all day, order food from room service (that I hoped wasn't being charged to my credit card), and meditate on what would happen next.

I should be ecstatic, I kept telling myself. I should be thrilled beyond words. Isn't this what I've always wanted?

However, as I put on my haptic glasses once more and scanned the room, I realized that there just wasn't anything there. The plant in the corner had already been watered; I wasn't gaining any more experience points from that.

I turned on the TV, desperate beyond belief for something to do. That was a double-edged sword, though, because while it pumped me up for the tournament, it also reminded me of the sheer amount of time that lay before me.

Just like they had last night, CNN displayed a live feed of Fenway Park. To the tune of INXS' "Never Tear Us Apart", workers were setting up a stage on the field, presumably for Dr. Escalade (flanked by all his security) to stand on while he presided over the Pokédraft.

Eventually, the display shifted to the image of a tall, skinny young woman with dark hair. She wore a bright red leotard with a yellow sun-like shape above her stomach, as well as a slight scowl on her face.

"Among the established players for this year's championship", the CNN talking ahead announced, "is Kyrgyzstan's own Izzy Lando. She is the highest-ranked player in the Central Asian republic, clocking in at Level 109, and this year she is playing for the Lion's Pride, which is looking for one wildcard player."

"Wow," I mouthed. "That's awfully far away for a tournament like this."

Izzy Lando's image shifted to the left side of the screen, and was promptly accompanied by the emblem for her team, a red shield with a golden yellow lion in the middle. The anchor continued her speech.

"As anyone who's been paying attention knows, there are sixty-four teams in the tournament, ranging from the Blue Barracudas to the Silver Snakes. There will be no shortage of choices as the existing teams size up the wildcards and decide who to draft for their teams."

Suddenly, I had the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Perhaps there were already cameras in my room, watching my every move, for the existing teams to analyze in order to make their decisions. At that moment, I knew exactly what animals feel like in the zoo.

Forget a lion's pride. I paced around my room like a caged lion, constantly checking the door to see if there were any cameras in it. It was a seemingly ridiculous thought, to be sure, but just because something sounds crazy doesn't mean it can't be true.

My room service lunch arrived, and it was objectively pretty good. There's nothing wrong with gyros lathered in white yogurt sauce, but I just didn't taste it as much as usual.

On top of that, I knew without question that I didn't belong here. Staying in a five-star hotel, chowing down on exquisite food… those weren't things people like me did. Even before my family had gone into a downward spiral, we'd rarely been able to afford a splurge, even if it was just dinner and a trip to the cinema.

Don't react too oddly to it. If you do, teams won't want to pick you.

There are enough spots for everyone. I guess they really have participation trophies here.

Still, it's never a good look to be the last one chosen in a schoolyard pick. Everybody's going to think you're useless, Lucas. And you don't want that, do you?

I sighed, then returned to bed. If there was nothing to do in this room (and there wasn't, not unless I wanted to torture myself further with thoughts of public humiliation), then the next best thing was to sleep as much as I could. It would make the time vanish.

Well, it turns out you can only sleep so much before your body decides it isn't tired anymore. Once I'd passed that point, I was left to sit on my bed, looking out the window at the bustling city far below.

What I wouldn't have given to explore Boston! As thrilled as I was for the championship, I can't say I was thrilled to stay in this room any longer.

The only thing that sustained my spirit was the knowledge that in just three days, I'd be living the dream. In just three days, I'd be on the big screen, playing in the tournament that I'd lucked into.

But do I want to be world-famous?

Fame, of course, had its downsides. There was every chance I'd find myself wishing that I'd never bothered with it all.

But could it really be worse than my life before traveling here?

The day finally arrived, and not a moment too soon.

As I got dressed (I hadn't even bothered to get out of my pajamas the last few days; they'd gotten pretty ratty), I had a newfound spring in my step. All I could think about were the instructions from the rulebook, which kept replaying themselves in my mind.

I ordered pancakes for my last meal here, which came in a heaping stack, covered in fresh Hawaiian pineapple. Exactly how such a fruit had been flown in so fresh, I had no idea, but I wouldn't question Dr. Escalade's connections. Not when they benefited me so handsomely.

Just as before, everything tasted as delectable as it had looked on the menu. That was the one good part about staying at Aquarium Towers - the food. Some of the first food in a while that hadn't come out of a box.

They'll probably be waiting for me pretty soon, I thought. I'd better get down to the lobby.

It was quite startling. After so many hours of having nothing to do, no obligations whatsoever, I was suddenly in a hurry again.

Once I'd finished my meal, as well as packing my few belongings that I'd brought, I scampered down the steps and into the lobby. There were odd looks on a few peoples' faces, which I didn't understand; isn't it normal to act like I was after so long trapped in a hotel room?

A long line of taxicabs waited just outside of the entrance, into which young men and women were climbing. And there were a lot of cabs - the line went about as far as I could see.

"Isn't that rather inefficient?" I inquired. "Shouldn't we have less than a hundred cabs in order to save energy?"

"Don't worry about that", the driver in front told me. "They're all electric. Get in the car."

I put on my haptic glasses, and was suddenly arrested by the sight of neon blue letters above each of the cabs. Not only did they list the names of the drivers, but also the vehicle's make, model, and year, as well as the number of miles the cab had been driven.

"Wow," I mouthed in awe.

"Get in the damn car," the driver repeated. "There's no time to waste."

I didn't need to be told a third time. I climbed into the cab, and then the driver shifted the vehicle into Drive. And then we were making our way through downtown Boston.

"Wow," I repeated. "This city is beautiful."

"You like it, huh?" the driver said. I couldn't see his face, since it was turned to me, but he had skin the color of coffee and a bald head.

"Well, duh. It's pretty much built for virtual reality, but reality is even better."

"You're not wrong," my driver responded. His name, according to the neon letters, was ROBERT LUMUMBA - LEVEL 63. "I've lived here all my life, and I'm still amazed by it. You're from California, right?"

"Los Angeles, yes" I said.

"I knew that; just making sure," Mr. Lumumba told me.

This gave me pause. How much had the drivers been told about us? They had such a minor role to play, but Mr. Lumumba already knew where I'd come from. Maybe they had been watching us in our hotel rooms.

Either way, I tried to forget about that and focus on the cityscape. We passed several parks, the trees within them not yet in full bloom. Perhaps the most surprising part was that many people were milling around them, walking dogs and whatnot. (In L.A., you didn't hang out in a public park unless you were a gang member, an idiot, or both.)

Finally, we pulled into a part of the city that seemed a little less upscale. The buildings were a bit run-down, though it was more like going from an A to an A-; they were still better-looking than almost anything in Los Angeles.

"This is the Fenway area," Mr. Lumumba mentioned. "The Pokédraft, as you know, is being held inside the ballpark. That's where I was supposed to take you."

"Yeah, I know," I muttered.

The driver swiveled around to face me, and I saw that his eyes were covered by very dark shades. Despite this, those eyes seemed to stare directly into my soul.

"Good luck, Lucas."

I nodded, then disembarked from the vehicle. I then glanced up at the walls surrounding Fenway Park.

It wasn't hard to find the entrance, for it was swarmed by journalists. It seemed like everybody, their mother, and their grandmother had elected to show up to the ballpark today, and why wouldn't they? With the rest of the country having gone to shit, everyone needed to escape it all for a little while.

Excitement and apprehension dueled within me as I climbed the steps into the hallway just outside the field. Unlike the ballparks in L.A., which were mostly abandoned as baseball had lost its appeal, this one was very much alive.

Vendors sold T-shirts, hot dogs, soft pretzels, kettle corn - you know, the sorts of things associated with going to a ballgame. Of course, my stomach was full to the brim with butterflies, so there was no way I could have eaten anything.

As I followed the crowd (really, it was like a river of people), I couldn't help but feel self-conscious. They'd all dressed a lot more formally for this than I had - clearly, they'd wanted to make a good first impression on their prospective teammates. Meanwhile, I just hadn't cared.

No. I cared. I just hadn't been willing to put in the effort, and that was on me.

"Sir? Are you a member of the audience?"

I stood there, staring blankly into space. But then the speaker, a burly police officer, sidled up in front of me with a scowl.

"Well?"

"Uh… no, sir. I'm a wildcard."

The cop frowned. "Show me your papers, then."

"Huh? Is this some dystopia?" I blurted out, instantly regretting the fact that I'd opened my big mouth.

"No, it's not. In fact, it's the most exciting event of the year," the police officer replied. "But if you're a wildcard, I expect to see some proof. Did you bring your Silver Ticket with you?"

Oh, fuck.

I'd forgotten the damn thing. It was probably still in my backpack, which I'd neglected to bring to the stadium. That had probably been out of my instinctive distrust of the people of Boston. It wasn't their fault, of course - it's just that where I'd grown up, carrying a backpack through the city was a no-no.

"I'm afraid I don't have it with me," I admitted sheepishly. "But I can go back to the hotel and grab it."

"No ticket, no entrance," the cop muttered. "Or, as you young whipper-snappers like to say these days: No pics, no proof."

I can't accept that. I didn't stay locked in a hotel room like a caged lion for three days in order to accept that. I can't let this all be for nothing.

We stared one another down for a few moments, and then someone else walked in. Someone I would have recognized from a mile away.

"This is him. He's a wildcard, Officer."

Dr. Shawn Escalade stepped into view. He was tall and skinny, with slicked-back brown hair and thoughtful eyes in the same color. When I looked into that pair of eyes, I could almost convince myself that everything would be okay.

"Very well, Dr. Escalade," the officer said. Turning to me, he donned a look that suggested: You got lucky today, kid.

"Th-thank you, Dr. Escalade," I told the CEO of Beantown Games. "I… I promise I'll bring the Silver Ticket next time."

"Organization is important, Lucas," Dr. Escalade responded with a shrug. "In the future, don't count on me for everything; I cannot be present whenever you might want me to be."

"Okay." I'm not a child anymore.

"Anyway," the CEO said, jabbing his thumb in the opposite direction, "the wildcards go that way. You'll have to fight against the current, I'm afraid."

I bade Dr. Escalade goodbye and fought the human river to a far less crowded entrance. This one had significantly fewer media personnel around it, which was comforting, but also unnerving. There could easily be hidden cameras in here, but why would I worry about the frying pan when I was about to enter the fire?

The crisp, sunny spring day illuminated Fenway Park's grass in a brilliant shade of emerald. Just past the outfield, what had once been the scoreboard was now a JumboTron containing the images of several of the world's top Pokélife players.

One of them was Manuel Velazquez, the fourth-highest ranked player from the Philippines and captain of the Wasp Nest. I'd heard the name before - while his size was nothing to write home about, he was one of the most violent Guards the game had ever seen, ripping his opponents to shreds without much visible effort. (Of course, the deaths of his opponents were only virtual - and that was good, because he had a high body count.)

I and the other ninety-nine Wildcards (no, I didn't count them, but I knew there would be 100 of us total) stood in the stands for some time, glancing at one another as though daring each other to say something, anything, to break up the anticipation. But that didn't happen.

What are they waiting for?, I wondered. It's not like anything important is happening behind the scenes. This is the most important event going on right now - all the networks will have their attention firmly trained on the Pokédraft.

"Good morning, Boston!" a familiar voice rang out from somewhere on the field.

Sure enough, the face of Shawn Escalade appeared on the JumboTron, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He held a microphone in one hand and wore a broad grin on his face.

I saw him in person!, I thought, recalling a recent event with significant excitement. And here he is again - this is the closest I've ever been to the championship!

Now let's hope I get chosen soon. I don't want the suspense to last too long.

"All of you know why you are here," Dr. Escalade continued. "Today is the Pokédraft, the meeting at which all sixty-four teams in the tournament will assign wildcard players to themselves. The order in which the captains will make their selections has been randomly determined, and it's displayed on the Green Monster's JumboTron."

Everyone in the stadium swiveled in that direction to see that the JumboTron had in fact been programmed to show a list of professional Pokélife teams, their emblems displayed in a veritable rainbow of colors. I recognized a few of them - the Wasp Nest, the Blue Barracudas, the Silver Snakes, and a couple of others. (There was also abundant cheering in the ballpark, which only contributed to the sensory overload.)

"As you can all see, the first team to make their selection will be the Wasp Nest, captained by Manuel Velazquez of the Philippines. Mr. Velazquez, please make your decision and display it on the JumboTron."

He's just a player. Why would he have access to whatever's on the JumboTron? Why would he be able to alter the display?

Apparently captains had a special permission, because Manuel swiftly showed up on the screen, holding up a sign with the name of a player. And it wasn't me.

Catnip Everlean. Who the hell is that?

"And the first player drafted is Catnip Everlean of West Virginia. She will be playing for the Wasp Nest - again, the captain of that team is Manuel Velazquez."

Again, dude, we know all that already.

More applause ensued, so much applause that I was forced to cover my ears. I understood why they were enthusiastic, but couldn't they have shown that enthusiasm in a more muted fashion?

Anyway, Catnip Everlean, who resembled a huntress of sorts (don't ask me why I thought that; I just did) made her way down to the field and was presented with what looked like a medallion. She then went off somewhere, presumably to join Manuel and his team.

"The next team to select will be the Alien's Lair, also known as the Lime Green Team. Captain Yerevan, you have the next choice of wildcard. Who will it be?"

Again, the choice was not me, and so I tried to disengage from the event. Once my name was held up on that screen, I'd know. They would practically shoo me out of this section of the stands and onto the field.

Although I knew I'd be on a team eventually, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Nobody wants to be the last person chosen for a team - it's true in a schoolyard game of pickup basketball, and it's true in a globally televised video game tournament as well. And as the crowd surrounding me dwindled, and the number of wildcards on the field holding medallions grew, this anxiety only grew until it seemed to consume me.

Twenty players had been chosen. Then thirty. Then, before I knew it, fifty of the wildcards were on the field, and forty-nine others remained standing around me.

I'm in the bottom half! Nobody here seems to want me on their team! They must think I'm useless or something!

Well, aren't you only like Level 7 in Boston? If so, it's no wonder they're skeptical of you, Lucas - you have to prove you're worthy of being here.

By the time the number in the stands was down to thirty, with seventy already on the field, I was willing to make a fool of myself if necessary. I might have even dropped to my knees and shouted "I'm not worthy!" in order to get a team to choose me. (Of course, that would likely backfire; I'm just saying that to show how desperate I was.)

"Twenty-five players left. Mr. Bush, you have the seventy-sixth pick; who will it be?"

By this time more than an hour had passed, and my legs felt like they wouldn't support me much longer. I stood with my knees locked, simply because I couldn't bend them to save my life.

My heart hammered in my chest, threatening to make my ribcage burst into flames. Every time a player was selected, and that player wasn't me, it felt like a tiny little shank to the heart. How much longer could I stand this?

It's not that bad if I'm last. Maybe they'll underestimate me. I'll still get to play for a team, so it's not the end of the world.

Yes, but you'll still be the punchline to every joke that's told about this tournament. They'll mock you endlessly, and you'll never be taken seriously for anything ever again.

"Enfield Canaan, captain of Lion's Pride, has selected Lucas Weathers for the team. Will Mr. Weathers please make his way to the field?"

I didn't need to be told twice. I bounced at least two feet in the air, nearly tripping over one of Fenway's iconic red seats as I landed. I then glanced at the ten or so wildcards around me.

I still felt sorry for them, mind you. I just didn't have much emotion to spare, not after the roller-coaster that had been the last two hours for me.

As I bounded down to the field, I tried not to think about the thousands (no, millions) of eyes that were no doubt analyzing my every move. Yes, it was normal to be enthusiastic about this, but surely not so enthusiastic that it looked like one was wearing moon shoes?

Anyway, I headed over to Dr. Escalade and accepted my medallion. Then, I figured that I should find the captain of Lion's Pride - wouldn't that be Enfield Canaan, or whatever Dr. Escalade had said his name was?

In any case, I didn't have long to think about that, because at that moment, the JumboTron went dark.