The Second Book in
The Arena Mode Saga
Assault or Attrition
Arena Mode Saga Volume Two
Cover Art by Amir Salehi
Arena Mode Logo by Dennis Salvatier
Arena Mode is Copyright © and Trademark
2013-2014
Blake Northcott, Digital Vanguard Inc.
and Noösphere Publishing
ArenaMode.com
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Except for the people on Kickstarter who paid to have superhumans and other characters in the book modeled after them. They’re in the book. But they asked to be. For realsies.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
My love and appreciation to everyone on Kickstarter who made this book a reality!
Extra special thanks to
David R. Lehmann
Sultan Saeed Al Darmaki
Teach Weaving
Steve McGarrity
Todd Dziobak
And love for the previous Kickstarter heroes
Kenneth Livitski
Tricia “Arirose” Tahere
J. Paul “Logan” Glendinning
Mariana Garcia
Ray Anderson
Stuart Dinneen
Jeremy J. Rivera
Very special thanks to
Morris Deutsch
Hugs and kisses for
Cassie & Cayden
and extra hugs for J.E.S.
Written By
Blake Northcott
with Sean Dyer
Editors
Jim Deley, Jeff Geddes & J.D. Hunter
With additional help from Kiri Callaghan
& Mike 'cleverpawn' Stephenson
Illustrations By
John Broglia
with grey tones by Jasen Smith
with additional greys and graphics by Sean Dyer
Character Designs By
Natasha Allegri
Jason Baroody
John Broglia
Comic Book Girl 19
Dave Johnson
Derek Laufman
Steve McNiven
Mark McKenna
Dan Panosian
John ‘Roc’ Upchurch
Fair warning: this page is not part of the story. It’s what we industry insiders call a ‘Dedication Page’, ie. the part of the book where the author drones on with her self-indulgent nonsense that nobody reads.
I know, it’s annoying – I hate these things too. I’ll make it brief.
I considered not writing one at all, since I said everything I wanted to say in the dedication of my previous book, ‘Arena Mode’, but these two simple words definitely bear repeating: thank you. If you contributed to my Kickstarter campaign, you truly are one of the creators of this book – and for that, I owe you everything.
Since the summer of 2013, more than 1,500 people from 18 different countries contributed to the ‘Arena Mode’ and ‘Assault or Attrition’ Kickstarter campaigns. And 23 different editors, illustrators and various amazing people have helped craft these two books (not to mention the audio versions – Kiri and Jeff, you are wizards!)
Thanks to everyone involved, ‘Arena Mode’ hit #1 on Amazon UK in the Sci-Fi/Superhero category, became part of a high school curriculum in the state of Florida, and it is being translated into Italian for its first print run with a publisher. As the saga continues and the universe grows, I can’t help but think, a) how the heck did this happen?! and, b) I’d better make this sequel pretty damn good, or I’ll let a lot of people down.
Whether you’re a backer on Kickstarter, an acquaintance, a dear friend, or one of my co-pilots on this crazy project, you (yes, you specifically) have driven me, day and night, to make this book as great as it could possibly be.
So again, I thank you.
All right, enough of the mushy crap...I’ll stop with this drivel so you can get on with the rest of your life. Hope you like the book.
Love and hugs,
Blake xox
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Heroic Contributors
About the Author
Chapter One
“How did it feel to kill a superhero?” Her words were muffled by a mouthful of spaghetti.
I couldn’t help but smile. Coming from a six-year-old girl the question sounded perfectly innocent – almost sweet. I knew my sister would have never allowed her children to watch the Arena Mode tournament, but she couldn’t isolate them from the rest of the world. Eventually, some way or another, they were going to discover the truth about their uncle Matt. And once they did, they’d undoubtedly have some questions.
Three months had passed since the summer of 2041, and I was still the most talked-about man on the planet. Simulcasts speculated about every aspect of my life: my physical condition, my whereabouts, and the psychological toll the tournament had taken on me. And whenever the name Matthew Moxon appeared in the media – almost without exception – my unfortunate moniker accompanied it: The God Slayer.
The fact that I’d won a dangerous sporting event designed for superhumans made headlines across the globe; the footage had been replayed, discussed and analysed by everyone from anchormen to astrophysicists. The little details about how I competed without a super-power of my own, all while a massive tumor was eating away at my brain – big news as well. But what the press had really been obsessing over, day and night, was who I’d eliminated en route to crossing the proverbial finish line: Sergei Taktarov. A man who could fly, shoot lasers from his eyes, and was nearly invincible. A man who many believed to be the Second Coming. The same man who was now lying on a slab in the morgue beneath the Kremlin...and all thanks to Uncle Matt.
“Addison!” my sister hissed. It was that special combination of a shout and a whisper that parents use to scold their children without making a scene. “We talked about this.”
“It’s all right, Liz.” I put down my steak knife and dabbed at the corner of my mouth with the edge of a napkin. “Let them get it out of their systems. Better to hear it from me than a kid on the playground.”
I’d spent months in seclusion, aggressively avoiding every interview request that came my way, so I suppose I had this coming to me. With my permission, and a reluctant nod from their parents, Addison and her four-year-old brother Austin unleashed a
barrage of unfiltered questions:
“Was that guy you killed Superman?” No, but he kinda dressed like him.
“Are you smarter than Lex Luthor?” Yes. Way smarter. And I have better hair.
“Are you rich now?” Yes.
“Will you buy us dessert?” Ask your mother.
“Do you have any super powers?” No. There are some things that even money can’t buy.
“Did it hurt when the doctors zapped your tumor?” No, I was asleep when it happened.
“Does your brain still work?” Aside from a little bit of short-term memory loss, yes. At least I think it does.
“Are you Batman?” No.
“Are you Iron Man?” Nope.
“Are you a Power Ranger?” Yes. Yes I am.
“Who is that girl you came in here with?” My accountant.
Austin squinted at the young redhead sitting at an adjacent table. “Why did your accounter come here with us?”
It was a fair question. The petite, well-dressed businesswoman was becoming my second shadow. Valentina, who was engrossed in a romance novel, must have overheard my nephew; her lips curled at the edges with the onset of a smile, but she didn’t reply.
“Yuck,” Addison blurted out, before I could offer an explanation. “These fries are gross. Mom, can we go upstairs to the look-out deck?”
My sister let out an exasperated sigh. “No, but if you finish your milk you can be excused from the table, and go look out the window.”
The sentence had barely finished before Addison started chugging.
“And take your brother,” Gary added. “And stay where we can see you.”
I could have afforded a much nicer restaurant, but when dining at the top of the CN Tower, food wasn’t the main attraction. Like everyone else, we were there for the view. While not nearly as impressive as the megatowers that dominated London, Dubai and New York City, it was still the largest freestanding structure in Canada, and offered an expansive view of downtown Toronto, rotating slowly to allow guests a three-hundred and sixty degree look at the skyline. Even on a cloudy October afternoon you could see halfway across Lake Ontario.
As the children scampered off towards the window Elizabeth’s expression immediately hardened. I hadn’t spent much time with my sister since we lived together at our parents’ house, which was almost fifteen years ago, but I could still read her tells. Liz was never much of a poker player – every emotion spilled out of her eyes like water from Niagara Falls.
“Matthew,” she said sternly, sounding even more maternal than usual. “Since Arena Mode ended we’ve barely heard from you. Gary and I have been worried sick.”
My brother-in-law nodded in agreement.
“I’m fine, guys – really. I just needed some time to decompress. Take a breather, you know? My surgery went as well as I could have hoped, and—”
“Not that,” she interrupted. “You called us when you came out of surgery. I’m talking about after. We haven’t heard anything since August. The news is talking about this Red Army coming after you, seeking retribution for killing that Russian man, and then you up and disappeared.”
Gary leaned in on his elbows, removing his wire-frame glasses. “We don’t let the kids watch the simulcasts, but they do hear things, Matt. They’ve been worried, too. Did you know that the news has been reporting that you might have been captured by these radicals – or worse?”
Spend a little time in Maui and everyone starts losing their minds. After enduring a deathmatch-style fighting tournament and major surgery in the same week, you’d think a guy could enjoy a little rest and relaxation without being cross-examined. “I appreciate your concern guys, but it’s all good. Most of the freaks who identified themselves as ‘Red Army’ killed themselves in that big suicide pact when Taktarov was pronounced dead. They were a crazy cult filled with crazy people. The media is running out of things to report since I won’t talk to them, so now they’re spreading rumors and bullshit theories.”
Elizabeth went on to explain that it’s not only my physical well-being she was concerned about, it was my state of mind. I had a long history of going into self-imposed exile, and she felt like I might be hurting my chances at a meaningful relationship with Peyton.
I assured her that Peyton – my committed girlfriend – is totally fine with our time apart. She knows I need some space now and then, and she knows how I feel about her.
My sister’s problem is that she can’t imagine that anyone could experience love differently than she does. She’d been married to Gary for over ten years, and they seemed more infatuated with each other than ever. They were one of those annoying couples who wouldn’t spend a night apart without chatting in a holo-session for an hour before bed because they couldn’t bear the separation. Not everyone needs that. Peyton and I have our own thing, and both of us know it’s real; it doesn’t need to be constantly reinforced by hand-written notes and trails of rose petals and leaving origami birds on each other’s pillows.
As I continued to explain my very normal, non-codependent relationship to my overbearing sister, I heard a rattle. My knife. It was chattering as my hand trembled, rapping involuntarily against the edge of my porcelain dinner plate.
“What’s that?” Gary asked, scratching at his beard.
“Just a tremor,” I replied as casually as possible.
“A what?” Liz shouted, much louder than she had intended. She drew the attention of a handful of guests, as well as a waitress who was refilling water glasses at a nearby table.
“A temporary side-effect of the surgery,” I explained in a more reasonable tone of voice. “It’s very common according to Doctor Anderson, and it’s nothing to worry about.”
I struggled to steady my hand and slice through the remaining piece of tenderloin, but the trembling persisted, and I dropped the knife. It bounced off the table and landed at my feet. Before I could lean over to retrieve the cutlery a friendly waiter intervened, stooping to assist me. “No, please sir,” he said in a thick accent that I couldn’t quite place. “I will get that for you.”
I was in the process of thanking him when the blade slid into my stomach. It penetrated beneath my ribcage; deep, twisting, scraping the bone as he yanked it out. I toppled from my chair. The waiter had time for one more frantic stab, slashing my forearm as I reached up to defend myself, before Gary tackled him to the ground.
Clapping my hands over the blood-soaked wound, it spurted like a faucet through the space between my fingers. Screams echoed throughout the restaurant. My vision blurred and the room spun. I glanced up to see Gary being shoved away by the burly waiter, who started making his way back towards me, determined to finish what he’d started. And that’s when he began to drown.
My water cup emptied. The remaining liquid rose from my glass and splashed into his face. As if on command, a ribbon of water traveled through the air in a split second, directly into my attacker’s airway, filling his throat and nostrils.
Gasping and hacking, he attempted to expel the water, but his efforts were futile. The waiter’s face reddened as he choked, unable to produce more than a few drops from his mouth.
Undeterred, the man lunged towards me; wild-eyed, knife poised above his head; his white dress shirt spattered a dark shade of crimson.
The room dried instantly.
Every drop of liquid in the restaurant – beverages, the humidity in the air, even the moisture from people’s eyes and mouths – gathered in front of Valentina. It formed a massive, gyrating ball of water, hovering inches away from her outstretched hands. When she unleashed it, the force struck my attacker’s chest like an oversized cannonball.
Engulfed in a tidal wave of water and shattered glass, his body sailed through the window, across the highway and into the distance, disappearing into the dense fog that hung over the lake.
Gary called an ambulance while Elizabeth rushed to my side, pressing a wad of napkins into my wound with both hands.
Valentina raced off to
secure the perimeter.
“Oh my god,” my sister whispered, her voice trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks.
I tried to force a smile. It was the only way I could think to calm Elizabeth’s nerves, and convince her that my injuries weren’t as bad as they looked. “Don’t worry about me,” I winced. “It’s almost impossible to kill a Power Ranger.”
Partial transcript from the CNN Simulcast ‘Shootout’
Hosted by William O’Neill, October 2041
William O’Neill: I’m not condoning violence, Senator. I’m saying that we live in a religious country – a country of folks who take pride in their faith and celebrate it. Is that wrong?
Sen. Alex Jenkins (D-N.Y.): I don’t see how that—
O’Neill: And look, I’m no theologian. But I am a religious man. I have beliefs, and those beliefs won’t be trampled by the left-wing media. I’m a practicing Catholic, for cryin’ out loud!
Sen. Jenkins: As am I, Mister O’Neill, but that doesn’t really—
O’Neill: With all due respect, Senator, don’t interrupt me. You’ll get your turn, all right?
As I was saying, this is very, very simple: it’s about justice. ‘An eye for an eye.’ But the liberal media doesn’t see it that way. They’re trying to spin this into some kind of a sob story about Matthew Moxon, this billionaire elitist –who is an atheist, by the way – did you know that? This atheist gets stabbed in some Canadian restaurant. Like we’re all supposed to feel sorry for him now, after what he did?
Sen. Jenkins: The stabbing was reported less than thirty minutes ago. With so few details about the incident I don’t think we can form an opinion about—
O’Neill: It turns out he’s fine. It was just a scrape, and he’s in stable condition.
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