Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “Yes, yes, I agree,” Arthur said, smiling.

  “What else has the show indicated?” Mark asked, curious.

  “Hmm, well, let’s see. Mr. uh, Manny had an incident with the guards yesterday, and he’s currently being remedicated. Oh! The highlight hour spotlighted the fact that Mr. Cassidy and Miss Vanderhaven seem to be growing … close, but, oh, um, I seem to be gossiping again,” he glanced nervously at the cameras overhead once again. “Thanks so much for coming in!”

  “OF COURSE I’M GETTING armor! Are you crazy?”

  Moses Morton was wheezing in between breaths. They’d been running for six miles now, and Moses started looking like death around four. He was certainly strong, as Mark had watched him deadlift roughly the equivalent of a semi-truck in the gym earlier, but his endurance needed work.

  “I figured,” Mark said, having barely broken a sweat.

  “I think I drove that kid nuts. I was in there for four hours, fussing over every detail of the armor. And you should see the maul I’m having him make. It’s exquisite! I based it off a seventh-century …”

  Mark had a tendency to tune out when Moses started going off on one of his history lesson tangents. He turned his gaze outward to the path they were running on, which snaked all around the compound. Electric carts were zipping back and forth with maids shuffling towels and laundry around. Glasshammer security patrolled the grounds periodically wearing suits that looked stifling.

  “… and the armplates have a bit of Germanic influence. It’s really going to be quite the ensemble. Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about designing my own set of armor? I’m going back for another session with Arthur to put the finishing touches on the design.”

  That much talking caused Moses to slow his pace, holding up his hand for Mark to fall back.

  “Just … need a second,” he panted, his jog now little faster than a brisk walk. “Nolan’s always telling me I need to run more. If he’s watching the stream, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

  Moses pointed upward to a hovering drone high up in the sky that was much larger than the tiny dragonfly-like ones that were normally zipping around the mansions. The bulbs in its core made it look like cameras were sprouting on it like cancerous tumors.

  “Nolan been calling a lot?” Mark asked.

  Moses nodded, holding his side as he ran.

  “Absolutely,” Moses said. “He’s been busy setting up the scholarship fund now that the paperwork’s been signed.”

  “What scholarship fund?”

  “Oh, that’s where the money’s going!” Moses said. “However many million I end up with when this is all said and done, I decided I’m creating a scholarship for students interested in history. Depending on how much I win, the fund could send thousands of kids to college for free. Tens of thousands even!”

  Mark was taken aback.

  “Whoa, really?” he said. “You’re keeping none of it? Or … not giving any to Nolan?”

  Moses laughed.

  “Nolan’s a partner at the top law firm in Salt Lake. Has been for ages. For our fifth anniversary, when I was still teaching at community college, he bought us a house in cash. Trust me, he couldn’t care less about the money.”

  “Still, it’s tens of millions, maybe more.”

  Moses shrugged as he jogged.

  “We just like giving back.”

  “That’s great,” Mark said. It seemed as if he’d been wrong guessing at Moses’s husband’s motives.

  “I can’t wait until he gets to come here and see this place for visitors’ weekend,” Moses said. “He’ll be blown away. I mean, he’ll think it’s tacky, but it’s hard not be a little impressed.”

  Mark looked around the beautiful garden they were passing through, filled with arcing trees and a rainbow assortment of exotic flowers, and had to agree.

  “When is visitation anyway?” Mark asked.

  “Didn’t you hear? It’s practically right before the tournament starts at the end of August,” Moses said. “You know, so we can … say good-bye if things don’t go our way. Who do you have coming?”

  Mark hadn’t even thought about that. Brooke obviously couldn’t. Rayne? He doubted she could leave the bar for that long. Maybe Carlo’s little brothers and his mother? But they should probably stay by his side. Mark drew a blank past that.

  “Um,” he said.

  Moses looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

  “It’s okay,” Mark said with a half-smile. “Lone wolf, remember?”

  “Hah!” Moses laughed. “Of course. Oh, did I tell you about the bear fur I’m embedding into my armor? Faux of course, I’m not a monster. Who would possibly turn down armor? Do you think it was one of the girls?”

  “Why them?” Mark asked.

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe it’s too heavy? Err, is that sexist? I’m not trying to be sexist,” Moses was flushed.

  Mark laughed.

  “I don’t think so, but maybe, who knows.”

  “I still feel a little bad about potentially fighting women,” Moses said. “Do you?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “I’ve seen what some of the ones here can do. Trust me, you don’t need to feel bad.”

  “I know, it’s just … I was always brought up very strictly in terms of how to treat a woman. Opening doors, pulling out chairs. I mean, I grew up and married a man, but still. Fighting women is just a little strange.”

  “You didn’t fight any women in qualifiers?” Mark asked.

  Moses shook his head.

  “Well, that’s all very chivalrous, but I would put that out of your mind. Trust me, anyone here deserves to be here. And can probably hold their own.”

  As if to prove a point, Kells Bradford suddenly sprinted past them on the path, her skin glistening with sweat, tiny buds embedded in her ears audibly blaring music. She hadn’t heard them, then. She was moving fast, as least twice their pace. Her muscled legs took her around the next corner, leaving them behind.

  “Man,” Moses said. “Maybe I really am too old for this. Can’t keep up with you kids.”

  They rounded the corner and saw Shin Tagami sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of a tree. As they rounded the bend, Mark saw his eyes were shut.

  “If he’s here, you certainly can be,” Mark said.

  “Oh god, I’m done,” Moses said as they passed Tagami, who didn’t acknowledge their presence. “I can’t win this tournament if I die of a heart attack.”

  “More tomorrow,” Mark said, clapping a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “Only if you bench twenty more than you did today,” Moses said. Mark groaned. The man had already forced him to his absolute max earlier.

  “Deal.”

  They slowed to a light jog and turned again to try and find a quicker way out of the garden. Instead the hedges grew taller, and it became harder to see where they were going. The trees were thicker as well, which let them hide from the sun. The jog turned into a walk, and the soreness in Mark’s muscles returned from the previous day’s weapon experimentation. He was ready for bed, and it was barely mid-afternoon.

  Something odd pricked his ears. A muffled yelp. An animal? Mark peered into the brush.

  “What?” Moses said.

  “Did you hear …” Mark said, holding his finger up, stopping to listen.

  Another sound. Then a word. “Please.” The tone was strained, pleading.

  Mark tore through the bushes with his bare hands, and ripped through the other side. There he saw a young girl in a black maid’s uniform being pressed up against a tree, her hair being grabbed and pulled upward and tears spilled down her cheeks. Another hand was around her throat.

  Easton.

  The lanky creep wore a tank top that showed surprisingly muscular arms. Mark could see the bullet wound scar in his shoulder that he’d suffered during his arrest. He let go of her throat and turned toward them.

  “Oh hi,”
he said, as if nothing was wrong. “Nice day out, isn’t it?”

  “Let her go, Easton,” Mark growled. He tensed. Ready to strike. Moses crouched as well.

  “What?” he said, “Me and Mimi here were just getting to know each other. Isn’t that right?”

  He looked at her, but her terror-filled eyes were locked with Mark’s.

  “You want to get kicked out?” Mark said, trying logic. “They see you and …”

  “No cameras here, friends. No little flying snitches either. Just us and the beauty of artificially crafted nature. Now please, run along so I can finish my conversation.”

  “I don’t think—” Mark said, but heard the brush rustle. Drago Rusakov lumbered out from behind a tree.

  “What is happening?” he said, his Russian accent thick.

  “These gentlemen were interrupting me.”

  “Go away,” Rusakov glowered, turning toward them. He was even taller than Moses, and was blocking out the sun better than the trees.

  “She’s coming with us,” Mark said.

  “She is his,” Rusakov said. “Do you not know? Everything here is ours. Food. Drinks. Women. Ours for being brave. For facing death. Riches for the damned.”

  “That’s not how it works, my friend,” Moses said, his voice stern.

  Mark took a step forward toward the crying girl. Easton wrenched her hair tighter and suddenly whipped out a large knife from the belt of his dark paints, the blade aimed at Mark. Rusakov flexed and puffed out his chest. The man was probably the most terrifying human Mark had ever seen. Beady black eyes narrowed and the wind whipped his long beard. He curled his fist and Mark tried to read the Cyrillic letters scrawled on his knuckles.

  Suddenly, as if appearing from nowhere, Shin Tagami was suddenly standing at the edge of the brush, having arrived in complete silence.

  He walked slowly over to the five of them, the girl now turning her tearful gaze to the small old man. He was walking with a wooden staff that was taller than he was. He was completely bald, and didn’t even have stubble on his face. He was wrapped in a long kimono, and held his fingers to his lips in a “shhh” motion as he approached. But he made no sound.

  He walked up to the girl, Mimi, and made a beckoning motion toward her. She tried to take a step toward him, but Easton wrenched back on her hair, and she let out a little shriek. He pivoted around and pointed the knife toward Tagami.

  “What, old ma—”

  Almost too fast to see, the top of Tagami’s staff lashed out and smacked Easton’s hand that was holding the girl’s hair. He released his grip on the maid, who stumbled forward toward Mark. Easton cried out and made a move with the knife, but the staff flashed again and hit his wrist so he dropped it blade-first into the earth. One final swing cracked across his face, and his skull rebounded off the tree behind him. He crumpled to the ground.

  They were left staring at Drago Rusakov, who hadn’t blinked since Tagami lashed out. There were now three of them, but Mark had a sinking feeling the colossal, legendary Prison Wars champion might be able to still beat them all to death on a whim, if he wanted to.

  “Go,” was all Rusakov said. That was enough for Tagami, who turned around walked slowly toward one of the mansions in the distance.

  “Come on,” Mark said to the maid. “Let’s get you back.”

  He took Easton’s knife and tucked it in his pocket, resisting the desire to plant it in his neck. Rusakov had wandered back into the trees like a forest troll.

  “Thank you,” Mimi called out breathlessly to Shin Tagami. The old man paused but didn’t turn around. He gave a slight nod, and continued walking through the garden.

  21

  TIME WAS HURTLING FORWARD, pulling them all to their inescapable fate as the Crucible’s final tournament loomed. Mark had snooped through the mansions, dodging guards and servants alike through Brooke’s tracking systems, but found nothing of use. After all this time, they were still trying to crack the security of Crayton’s main office, which was taking a worrying amount of time for a supposed team of experts at Langley.

  Training was no longer an abstract concept and had been integrated into their lives fully. After they had spent a week playing with wooden practice weapons, they’d been upgraded to blunt steel, which weighed a hell of a lot more and had the potential to cause serious damage, despite the lack of a razor edge. They also wore armor meant to mimic the form and weight of the set Arthur was crafting for them. Crayton’s team offered one-on-one training with all of the weapons experts he’d brought in, but Mark, Moses, Aria, and Ethan drew comfort from their little clique, and mostly sparred with one another. As time progressed, other groups had formed as well, the Prison Wars trio, obviously, but Asher Mendez, Naman Wilkinson, and Dan Hagelund had formed some kind of “professional athlete” club that sparred together and didn’t talk to many others. Chase Cassidy and Soren Vanderhaven were rarely spotted more than ten feet from each other, and Rakesh Blackwood tagged along like a third wheel whenever possible, though his hungry looks at Soren were more than a little transparent. The rest were mostly loners. Mark almost never saw Tagami, Manny, or Bradford, who he assumed were training in isolation. Mark saw the strategic benefit in that, but it was hard to pry himself away from his group, who made ten hellish hours of training every day bearable.

  “Moses!” Aria shouted. “I’ve told you a hundred times to stop pulling your punches. I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

  Moses swung his maul at her, but probably at no more than half speed.

  “I’m sorry, dear, I’d just feel terrible if I broke something.”

  Aria lunged at him with a flurry of strikes from her dual swords, which Moses was forced to deflect. The dull clang of metal bounced around the gymnasium. Moses’s bulky practice armor was known to crater the floor, and construction crews had been in and out all summer fixing the damage. Mark’s was much lighter, but it was still enormously heavy compared to a spec ops darksuit. He hoped Arthur’s final variant would prove to be a bit lighter and more mobile, as he’d requested.

  “Very good!” Moses said to Aria as she kept striking. “But remember: when lunging with one sword, keep the other up to protect yourself.”

  Moses had turned into their de facto trainer, as he was more of an expert on wielding their weapons than the men Crayton had flown in. He’d shown Mark how to switch grips on his sword from single to double-handed, and back again. He was still fumbling with the transition, but was catching on quicker than most. Ethan, surprisingly, seemed to need the least instruction of all.

  Mark hopped back as Ethan lunged forward with his shield, which he’d downgraded from the enormous “tower” to more manageable “kite.” His practice sword was pretty close to a gladius, the type of short sword used in ancient Rome. Mark had range on him with his longer blade, but Ethan was incredibly adept at blocking his strikes at every turn. It would still be a while until their weapons and armor were built by Arthur and ready for use, so for now they were mowing through Crayton’s training gear, averaging a snapped blade or split shield every other day or so.

  In the midst of fighting, Mark glanced over at Aria, windmilling toward Moses with her swords. She still had trouble keeping the blades aloft over an extended period of time, but she never lost her grace, and Mark found himself—

  “Ah shit!” he yelled as hot pain spread through his shoulder.

  “Oh, sorry, did I get you?” Ethan said, a look of embarrassment on his face.

  “That’s kind of the point I guess,” Mark said, wincing through a smile. The blades were dull, but the tip of Ethan’s gladius was sharp enough to break skin if he found a crack in his armor. A trickle of blood streamed down the metal of Mark’s shoulder. He set his sword down, pulled the pauldron off and clamped a towel over it, but after a minute realized he’d probably need it sewn up. The pain was so intense it was blurring his vision.

  “I think you hit a nerve,” Mark choked out.

  “You been to the doc yet?” Ethan a
sked. Mark shook his head. “It’s a few floors up, I’ll take you.”

  Aria and Moses looked at him and the now-red towel with concern, but Mark assured them he was fine and took off with Ethan. A camera drone drifted silently behind them as they walked.

  The “doc” turned out to be an Army medic turned vascular surgeon named Dr. Hasan who had a perfectly sculpted white beard and eyes so dark they were almost black. The medical bay was as elaborate as Mark expected, given that Crayton had clearly spared no expense on anything in the compound. Hasan had a full support staff of nurses and techs and enough equipment to run nearly any test that needed running. Mark saw there was even an onsite surgical wing, though that didn’t seem to be necessary at the present moment.

  “Sliced clean through a nerve cluster,” Hasan said, confirming Mark’s theory. “Must hurt quite a bit.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Mark said. Hasan glanced over the litany of scars on his chest.

  “I can see that,” he said. “How did you say you got those again?”

  “Shrapnel,” Mark said. Hasan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Mhm, well, this one just needs some sealant, and I’ll give you something for the pain.”

  Before he’d even finished the sentence, he’d jabbed Mark with a small injector that shot something dark blue into his shoulder just below the wound.

  “Uh, I really don’t want morphine screwing up the rest of my training day.”

  “It won’t,” Hasan said. “And it isn’t morphine. We call this drexophine, and you won’t find it outside the military. Brand new. Passed all its trials with flying colors, but it’s so expensive to manufacture, only the government can afford it. And not much of it, at that.”

  “Drexophine?” Mark said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Don’t ask what’s in it, bunch of stuff that will sound Greek to you. But it’s complete pain management without foggy-headed side-effects. Non-addictive too, if you can believe that.”

  Mark couldn’t, but half a minute later and his shoulder felt like it had been dipped in a cool spring. And his head felt totally fine. It worked so well it was disconcerting. Dr. Hasan filled his wound with sealing gel and wiped away the last of the blood before wrapping it up in a bandage.