Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “Look at these chumps, man. This ain’t even gonna be fair.”

  Carlo bounced around like he was in the ring already. Mark continued to scan the crowd. Steroid-blasted bodybuilders. Pudgy ex-linebackers. Those were the obvious ones. But others he couldn’t get a read on.

  It took about half an hour for him and Carlo to reach the desk. They split between the two closest receptionists, and Mark walked toward a diminutive brunette who looked slightly on edge from the rowdiness of the room. Mark tried to look reassuring with a forced smile. Her expression remained unchanged and he realized he probably just looked creepy.

  “Hello!” she said. “Look here please.”

  She pointed a manicured nail down to the desk, and as Mark glanced toward the spot, a tiny light flashed briefly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wei,” she said, his information now undoubtedly coming up on a screen he couldn’t see. “You’ll be in 1258 today. Elevators are back and to the left.”

  She pointed in the direction and Mark saw others filing into the open doors. He wondered how many fights would break out in the elevators themselves, judging by the energy of the crowd.

  “Thanks,” he said, and she slid him a clear digital ID badge with his name, picture, and a long number on it. The headshot was one that was submitted with his application, and had been one Brooke took on her phone in his apartment. He looked hungover.

  He took the badge and turned to leave.

  “Good luck!” the girl called after him, and it almost seemed like she meant it.

  Carlo got out one floor below him, and told Mark he’d meet him afterward, whenever that was, at a diner down the street. The doors closed as he gave Mark a wink. A few more levels, and Mark stepped out onto the twelfth floor.

  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but from what he could tell the floor was deserted. Opaque glass doors didn’t give anything away about what was behind them, and starting at 1200, he had to walk for quite a ways and around a few bends before he reached 1258. Once he did, his ID badge chirped and the door’s lock clicked open. He walked inside, taking one last look around the eerily empty hallway.

  Clearly, the space used to be an office. He could still see the tracks in the carpet that had once housed cubicle walls and the footprints of desk chairs. There was even a large, rectangular imprint and a black ink stain where a copier used to be. But it been stripped of everything and replaced with just one thing, a six-sided ring with clear polyglass walls, raised a few inches off the ground and almost touching the ceiling. Standing in front of it was a man and a woman in business attire, wearing bored looks and CMI badges. The man checked his flexscreen.

  “Mr. Wei, is it? Welcome,” he said in the most unwelcoming way possible. “Please familiarize yourself with the equipment provided.”

  He turned and gestured to a small table behind him. The woman said nothing and just stared ahead with lightless eyes.

  Mark approached the table and saw two sets of lightly padded MMA-style gloves and two armored jock plates. He took the collection on the right.

  “No weapons of any kind are allowed, nor any protective gear other than fabric clothing and what has been provided before you,” the man said, clearly reading from a file on his screen.

  “Scans indicate you have brought no contraband or restricted items with you, and Crayton Media Incorporated appreciates your respect for the spirit of the competition. Please make yourself ready for your bout, which will begin shortly.”

  Another click, and the door to the ring popped open. Mark wandered inside, and stripped off his sweatshirt and track pants. He wore a simple T-shirt with NAVY in bold, block letters across it, and a pair of loose-fitting white shorts. He kicked off his shoes and socks, and tossed all his extraneous clothes over the side wall of the ring. He velcroed up the gloves and shoved the jock down his shorts, praying Crayton had sprung for never-used gear.

  The whole set-up seemed rather haphazard for a megacorp like CMI, but he stopped to think about how many times over this scene was probably being repeated around Chicago, and in all the rest of the qualifier cities. There were probably thousands of rooms just like this one, all set up in what, two weeks? He couldn’t imagine the manpower that had gone into making that happen. He looked around for cameras and found tiny black half-orbs in the ceiling, and two more embedded in the corners of the ring. An audition indeed. And the two Crayton employees were what, referees? Judges? Was he in some sort of tournament? He needed Brooke to get more info on what the hell he was getting into during this qualifier stage. It seemed silly to feel uncomfortable given all he’d endured in the past, but the dim, torn-up office was strange, and the fact that he was auditioning to try and kill people on national television, and doing so for the US government, was so bizarre he felt like he was dreaming. He shook out the thought, and started swinging his arms and legs to warm them up. A minute later, the door to the office opened.

  “This right?” came a voice from a large shape in the doorway. “I’m Mick Dillon. They said I should come here.” The man flipped up the badge attached to his shirt.

  “Yes, Mr. Dillon,” the Crayton Media man said. “Please come in.” The man approached the ring, and as he did so, the judge gave him the same spiel as Mark, which the man “Uh huh-ed” and nodded his way through.

  “Let’s do it!” the man said as he scooped up the gloves and jock at the conclusion of the reading. He glanced up at Mark for the first time, and the door popped open for him to enter the ring. He lumbered inside, threading stubby fingers through the gloves, and awkwardly trying to shift the jock in his pants as he walked.

  Mark sized up Mick in about eight seconds. He was 6’4, 230, mostly muscle, but a fair bit of it flab. He was probably close to forty-five, and thankfully, Mark quickly deduced, one of the rowdy meatheads who had probably signed up as a boast. He had a thick black beard that stood out starkly against pale white skin, and beady brown eyes glinted under thick brows. His hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and he wore a moderately clean tank top that revealed a small archipelago of isolated tattoos. He seemed to favor his right side, hinting at an old knee injury.

  He eyed Mark, trying to size him up in a similar way, but no doubt doing so less effectively. He started with the obvious.

  “Navy man, huh?” Mick said, pointing a gloved hand toward his shirt. “I was a Marine myself.”

  He tapped a stretched-out USMC tattoo on his shoulder.

  “That right?” Mark said, not knowing what else he was supposed to respond with.

  “So why does the Navy use powdered soap?” Mick called out.

  Mark was confused. He knew the Navy in and out, but was this something he missed he was supposed to remember? If so, he was blowing his cover story already.

  “Uhh,” was all he could come up with.

  “Because it takes longer to pick up in the shower!” Mick said, and roared with laughter. The two judges outside remained stonefaced.

  Lovely.

  He tried to give a courtesy laugh, but it was mostly just a smirk.

  “And oh shit, they gave me an Asian! Don’t tell me you know karate and taekwondo and all that shit!”

  Some stereotypes were set in stone.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Mark called back to him, and danced back and forth in place, continuing to warm up. Mick laughed. Mark realized he actually kind of liked the guy, despite the fact that he was a crude, vaguely racist moron.

  “Gentlemen,” the male judge called out from behind the glass. He and the silent woman were now sitting at a table facing the ring, flexscreens in hand. “Let’s begin.”

  Mark waited for them to continue speaking. To explain what was to happen next. They said nothing, and just stared.

  “So, ground rules?” he finally asked.

  Nothing.

  “Time limit?”

  Nothing.

  “Win conditions?”

  Finally, the man spoke.

  “Unconsciousness or submission. Now please,
we have a great many people to see today. Begin.”

  From somewhere in the ceiling, a chime sounded. Mick and Mark stared at each other, practically dumbstruck.

  “Alright, Navy,” Mick said, curling his hands into fists. “Let’s settle that old debate.”

  Mark was sure he was alluding to some Navy/Marines rivalry he couldn’t care less about, but he had a mission. And Mick, bless his heart, was step one.

  After making a single half circle of the ring, Mick threw out a heavy haymaker that had probably once made him the pride of his unit twenty years ago. But all it did today was sail right over Mark’s head as he ducked under the swing and responded with a lightning-fast uppercut to both of Mick’s chins.

  Mark watched the man’s eyes unfocus as he instantly crumpled to the ground. He did not move, and simply lay on the mat like a fleshy tumor growing out of the surface.

  A few seconds later, another, deeper, chime sounded. The door to the ring popped open.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wei,” the man said, and motioned toward the ring door.

  Mark looked back and forth between the prostrate Mick and the judge. Both he and the woman were now standing. She was scribbling something in her flexscreen with a stylus.

  “Is that it?” Mark said, a bit confused.

  “We’ll be in touch,” the man said, and reinforced his gesture toward the door.

  Mark slowly approached it, turning back as he opened it.

  “Shouldn’t someone …”

  “Mr. Dillon’s vitals are stable and he will be attended to by medical personnel shortly. If you would please return to the lobby, you will receive further instructions.”

  This time he gestured toward the office door. Mark scooped up his pile of clothes next to the ring, and walked toward the exit, slowly shaking his head.

  “MOTHERFUCKER BROUGHT A BAT!” Carlo exclaimed as he sat down at the table of the diner where they said they’d meet after the fight. Mark was already halfway through a grease-soaked burger when Carlo showed up.

  “A bat?” Mark said, eyebrow raised.

  “An aluminum one, too; not even wood,” Carlo laughed.

  “What happened?”

  “They took it away. Said it was contraband or some shit. Guy said he thought they could use weapons like in Prison Wars.”

  “I suppose there’s some sort of logic in that.”

  “Shit, they should have let him keep it. Wouldn’t have mattered.”

  Carlo thumbed through the tablet menu, hungrily eyeing Mark’s fries periodically.

  “Who was he?” Mark asked.

  Carlo shrugged.

  “Some white dude. Decent boxer, but not used to getting kicked in the fuckin’ head.”

  “So I take it you won?”

  Carlo made a noise and a hand gesture that roughly translated to “bitch, please.”

  “Hey!” he called out to someone who wasn’t their waitress. “Three more steakburgers and a diet soda!”

  She nodded and smiled, and moved toward the kitchen.

  “What about you? You don’t even look like you broke a sweat.”

  Mark supposed that was true. He flexed out his hand, which ached a bit, but he had lingering bruises from the tac team invasion that still hurt more.

  “Big, ex-Marine jackass. But he was harmless. Shit fighter. Lights out on the first straight upper.”

  “Of course, you train with me,” Carlo said, swatting at Mark’s arm. “Man, I’m glad to get out of there though, that place was creepy as shit. Freakin’ robot referees writing things down. No crowd. No nothing.”

  So Carlos’s experience was similar to his, then.

  “What did they tell you downstairs after?” Mark asked.

  “Come back Wednesday. You?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Surprised none of this is on TV,” Carlo said, motioning to the flat set over the bar currently showing yet another twenty-car pile-up in an auto race. “Kicked off all around the country today.”

  “And there were cameras,” Mark mused.

  “Really?” Carlo said, clearly not used to spotting surveillance like his life depended on it. “Shit, I didn’t even see ’em.”

  “It’s too early,” Mark said, guessing at Crayton’s strategy. “They have to narrow it down and figure out who’s good and who’s worthless. Broadcasting now would be like people tuning in thinking they’d be seeing the NFL, but getting Pee Wee football instead. No faster way to kill all this Crucible hype than that.”

  “When I’m done with this city, they’ll have somethin’ to watch, that’s for sure,” Carlo said, puffing his chest out, and snatching a handful of fries from Mark’s plate.

  “I’m sure,” Mark said, and stared into the flames emanating from the racetrack on the screen.

  7

  MARK HAD FOUR MORE fights in the next two weeks, none lasting more than a minute. Upon returning to the same building each time, he saw the crowd get smaller and smaller, and the receptionists and Crayton Media wranglers all knew him on sight by now, though they still made him do the retinal scan every time, regardless.

  His opponents began to get somewhat more competent, but he tore through them quickly all the same. A few days after Mick had gone down for the count he was paired up against a squat wrestler who kept diving for his legs until Mark finally just kneed him in the face so hard his nose broke. After that, the weekend brought him a veteran cage fighter who knew his way around the ring, but no amount of fearsome-looking tribal tattoos could save him from Mark’s hard right cross that rendered him unconscious a millisecond before his head cracked into the polyglass wall.

  Eventually, Mark’s solemn judges were joined by two others, all four scribbling notes and checking the camera feeds on their flexscreens. They watched him dismantle a bodybuilder who thought two months of judo and ten years of bench press maxing was enough to know how to brawl. His muscles were like round globules of flesh glued haphazardly all over his body, which were good for absorbing Mark’s blows, but once he went to work on the man’s fragile joints, he was on the floor permanently within fifty seconds.

  Mark was surprised by his last opponent, a woman. She was nearly as tall as him, and had stone-cut abs below a black sports bra that had flattened her to the point of androgyny. A buzzed head completed the effect. Her fighting style was erratic, but effective, a combination of a half-dozen different martial art styles, and for the first half-minute, Mark was actually on his back foot, fending off her lightning-quick high kicks. Finally, he simply grabbed her leg and swung her around into the cage wall, stunning her. She regained her balance, but Mark respected her enough not to pull his punches because of her gender. She blocked five, but the sixth ended the bout decisively. He offered her hand to help her up when she regained consciousness, but she simply glared at it, and got to her feet on her own, storming out of the ring and room shortly after.

  “What’s next?” Mark asked the now six CMI employees in the room.

  “You’ll receive further instructions downstairs,” was the reply, the same as ever. Nothing had changed. Was he going to have to knock out every single person in the city? Brooke said the end was near, and he thought she was being purposefully vague about the details to keep him on his toes. “The show will begin soon,” she said, and left him to wonder what that meant.

  After Mark left, he got a ping from Gideon to meet him a few blocks from the building. He closed the door of the autocab he was about to get in, and headed east. He felt something wet on his cheek, and dabbed it with his finger. Blood. Probably from a rogue fingernail. He felt a little embarrassed that she had actually gotten through his defenses, even if it was just a scratch.

  When he arrived three blocks later, Gideon was sitting on a bench, and Mark was half-surprised he wasn’t feeding ducks bits of bread, judging by the age of his outfit and the gray in his beard. It had only been a few years, but his former handler looked like he’d aged a decade and a half. Mark supposed the same was probably true of him.<
br />
  “There’s our gladiator,” Gideon said with a smile.

  “Don’t even start,” Mark said, pointing his finger like a dagger.

  “Have a seat.” Gideon gestured.

  Mark obliged, and watched a parade of joggers pass by. He touched his face again, but the blood had dried. He unshouldered his gym bag and laid it to rest on the pavement.

  “Can I repeat how glad I am you’re doing this? Not just for us, but for you. You look alive again.”

  “Until I’m executed on national television,” Mark said, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “Then maybe not so much.”

  “You know it won’t get that far,” Gideon said. “No way. Once you qualify, we think you’ll be able to get what you need during training.”

  “Training?” Mark said, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  “In our digging, we’ve found bits and pieces of Crayton’s Crucible plans. Other than building that monstrosity in Vegas for the finale, there’s some sort of training period between qualifiers and the final tournament. Something up close and personal with you and the others who make the cut. And hopefully Crayton himself.”

  “Fantastic,” Mark said, rolling his eyes.

  “Get what you need there, and we can hopefully shut the entire thing down before it gets bloody.”

  “Alright,” Mark said. “I have no idea how close I am to qualifying though. It’s weirdly unstructured.”

  Gideon nodded.

  “Brooke told me. Just stay on your toes, and don’t get soft. You’ll get there. But there is something you should know.”

  “Something besides the training period?”

  “More pressing than that. A hill you may have to climb before you get there.”

  Gideon pulled out a flexscreen and brought up a mugshot of a man with tattoos creeping up his neck and spreading across his face like some kind of ink-scarred pox. Looking closer, Mark saw that there was a flaming swastika etched on top of his jugular.

  “Who the hell is this?”