Arena Mode

by Blake Northcott

The idea was insane – there was no other word for it. But in my situation, it was the sanest idea I had to work with.

  My countdown to Arena Mode began. The tournament was less than six weeks away, and I had more than a few obstacles to overcome if I wanted to secure a position.

  I may have had the intellect of Lex Luthor, but unfortunately, I also had his body. It’s not that I was fat, but I was hardly muscular. I played a season of high school football during my sophomore year, but since then my thin, wiry frame hadn’t seen any physical activity in well over a decade. At the time I was relatively fast and strong, and could jog for hours. Now I got winded running up a flight of stairs. Hiring a personal trainer and a nutritionist wouldn’t transform me into a world-class athlete, but it would certainly improve my current situation.

  I’d never taken a martial arts lesson in my life, but it was time to start. If I was going to survive a physical encounter I needed the basics, so I enrolled in a number of classes during the weekdays, including boxing, Muay Thai, judo, and submission grappling.

  My weapons training was reserved for the weekends. I traveled to a shooting range for several hours on Saturday to work with an ex-marine, and on Sunday I’d visit a bladed weapon specialist in upstate New York where I could learn the fundamentals of swordfighting.

  Even if I was somewhat fit come game-day, and marginally prepared for battle, two major issues surrounded my participation in the tournament: first of all, I wasn’t a superhuman, and second, no one had invited me. Thankfully, Gavin had a pair of solutions – solutions that were crazy, even for him, but solutions nonetheless.

  As it turns out, his friend Darren (the tourist with the English accent who I had the pleasure of meeting the previous day) worked as an intern at a burgeoning nanotech company in The City. For a modest price and a few comics in trade, he could provide us with the parts for a device that would mimic a specific brainwave pattern, convincing the New York State Athletic Commission that I was, in fact, an actual superhuman.

  As far as receiving an invitation, Gavin felt that, if I could impress Cameron Frost in a grand public display of heroics, I’d be accepted into the tournament with open arms. He assured me that he would take care of the details – we just needed to tie up some loose ends first. I didn’t mind the wait, because getting a protective suit was high on my priority list.

  Full Contact Swordfighting suits were state-of-the-art; strong, flexible, and in some ways offered more protection than a bullet-proof vest. If I could get one custom designed, and modified with some additional armor plating, I actually stood a chance in The Arena.

  Only two locations in the tri-state area had a licence to construct high-quality FCS suits that were premium grade and approved for league use. Premium suits could withstand a direct hit to the head, chest and shoulders with any blade, from a katana to a broadsword, but were light enough to sprint in.

  The quotes I received were north of three hundred thousand dollars, which left me no choice but to sell off some of my comics. Within a week I’d generated a hundred grand selling some of the more sought-after books in my collection, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Time was ticking away and I needed a huge influx of cash. There was only one place left to go, and one person who could take me there.

  Being born and raised in the Dark Zone, Gavin was familiar with the ins and outs: where to go, where not to go, and who to trust – just a few tidbits of useful information that I required in order to avoid being executed.

  I gazed out the passenger window of our rented blue sedan, captivated by the decaying urban sprawl that I’d only seen in photographs: abandoned stores, burnt-out cars, and graffiti-covered buildings that looked like they should be condemned – many of them riddled with bullet holes. The Fringe had seen better days, but compared to this hellhole, my neighborhood looked like Beverly Hills. Even more depressing were the living quarters that resembled Brazil’s notorious ‘favelas’. Occupying nearly every parking lot, the makeshift homes had been cobbled together with discarded metal left over from Manhattan’s construction sites.

  The further we drove, the more attention we were attracting. Curious eyes peered at us from cracked windows and darkened alleys. With every passing minute my anxieties grew; I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of travelling to The Dark Zone, even with Gavin as a guide, but I had no other options. The banks weren’t going to front me two hundred grand considering I had no assets and no recent work history. And as far as the government was concerned, I was living ‘off the grid’ – I didn’t even have an official address that I could write on a loan application.

  Navigating through a series of winding roads and narrow alleys, we arrived at an abandoned steel mill, surrounded by an imposing chain-link fence topped with a coil of barbed wire. We pulled up to the front gates. Gavin rolled down the window and made a series of hand gestures to the overhead camera, and within a moment the gates pulled open.

  Gavin parked and strolled into the gutted-out mill through an unlocked side door.

  I followed closely behind with a metal briefcase in-hand. The expansive building was equipped with an endless supply of flood lights that illuminated the dusty interior, giving the air a stale yellow quality. I was surprised by the flagrant waste of electricity. With energy grids being squeezed to capacity, rolling blackouts were necessary in order to maintain a consistent flow to the more affluent neighborhoods. And if somewhere was going to be blacked out, it was the impoverished area west of The Fringe – hence the name ‘Dark Zone’.

  We were confronted by a pair of heavily armed guards wearing black suits and matching ties. After a brief pat-down, we were promptly escorted through several security doors until we reached a smaller, more dimly-lit room, illuminated by a single overhead lamp that cast a spotlight beneath it.

  The room was littered with paintings; some hung on the walls, some were displayed on easels – Picassos and Rembrandts and a hundred other works by famous artists that I never bothered to learn the names of. In the dark corners of the room were at least ten men that I could make out, all wearing interchangeable suits, and brandishing military rifles.

  Just beyond the spotlight’s reach was a small metal desk – possibly owned by someone who at one point worked for the mill – where a stout, olive-skinned man sat, cradling a glass of red wine. Standing behind him was someone whom I could only assume was his personal bodyguard. The guard looked not unlike his counterparts, but with two small distinctions: his head was shaved, and he was roughly the size and shape of a refrigerator.

  I might have laughed at the cliché if I wasn’t sure they’d shoot me on the spot for it.

  The middle-aged man with a slick of black hair plunked down his wine glass and stood to greet us, stepping beneath the overhead lamp. The light revealed a horrible scar on his pockmarked face, stretching from his cheekbone down the length of his neck. It looked like the result of a nasty gunshot married with a second-degree burn.

  “As I live and breathe,” the man grumbled. His voice was like sandpaper scraping across my eardrums.

  “Johnny the Bull.” Gavin flashed his trademark grin. “It’s been a while.”

  “I’ve gone legit,” he was quick to announce. “No more hits for hire. It’s ‘Mister Abruzzio’ now.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I passed Gavin the metal briefcase and he dropped it on the tabletop, flipping it open with one smooth gesture.

  Abruzzio’s dark eyes flicked to the empty case, and then back at Gavin. “I’m guessing you’re in a hurry. How full do you want it?”

  “Two hundred K.”

  The loan shark blew out his cheeks. “That’s a tall order, Gunner.”

  “You’ve lent me more.”

  “Those were different times,” Abruzzio said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Right,” Gavin said without missing a beat. “I was broke and you were better looking. Shit changes.”

  The room fell silent.

  So silent I
could hear the beating of my own heart.

  Abruzzio threw his arms around Gavin with an avuncular embrace, and let out a bellowing laugh. “You’re still a funny son of a bitch, Gunner.” The rest of the guards were quick to join in, forcing out a chorus of awkward chuckles once they realized Gavin’s behavior was permitted.

  “Look,” Abruzzio continued, with one arm loosely draped across Gavin’s shoulders, “I’d like to help you, I really would ... and I know you’re good for it. But we have one little problem.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “We’ve had a lot more heat than usual around here lately, and I’ve heard a few whispers about undercovers in The Zone.”

  Gavin scoffed. “The PD never comes this deep into The Zone, you know that.”

  “Be that as it may,” Abruzzio continued, “I haven’t stayed alive this long by throwing my balls onto the craps table.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Gavin replied with a quick nod. “If you’re gonna dance with the dragon you’d better have a big goddamned sword.”

  I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about at that point – or why the scary looking Italian mobster kept calling Gavin ‘Gunner’ ... or why we were standing in a room filled with a small army of hit men who were armed to the teeth. I knew he grew up here, but certain parts of his past had always remained a mystery, and I was starting to see why. I wanted to ask my friend a few million questions, but in the interest of getting out of the room alive, I felt silence was the best option.

  “I know you, and I trust you, Gunner – but I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.” Abruzzio pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “Now you explain exactly who this son of a bitch is in the next ten seconds, or I empty the contents of his head onto one of my Picasso’s.” Without instruction, the fridge standing behind his desk leveled a machine gun, aiming the barrel squarely at my face. “And you know how much I love my Picasso’s, so make with the talking.”

  “I’m his Counter,” I blurted out.

  Abruzzio squinted at me, and then glanced at Gavin. “His what?”

  “I’m here to count the cash and verify it’s legit,” I explained. “Calculate the total and make sure we’re not being scammed during a deal. I can authenticate in seconds: both the amount, and any signs of counterfeiting.”

  “A ‘Counter’?” The fridge said in a thick Jersey accent, “I’ve never heard of this before.”

  Abruzzio glared at his bodyguard. “Shut your goddamned mouth, Sal.” He quickly turned back to me. “Yeah, I’ve never heard of this before.”

  “Gunner never does a deal without me,” I replied with complete confidence. Which, with a gun in my face, was quite the accomplishment.

  “Is that so?” Abruzzio said. He scooped the wine glass off his desk and took a quick sip, taking a moment to dab the corners of his mouth with the crimson handkerchief in his breast pocket. “So tell me, mystery man, how fast can you count cash?”

  I motioned towards a small stack of bills that were neatly piled on the corner of his desk. “Throw that in the air.”

  “What is this, a magic trick?” Abruzzio shouted, his patience clearly wearing thin.

  “Toss it.” I insisted. Suddenly every eye in the room was fixed intently on me. A cold drop of sweat rolled down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades.

  Abruzzio shrugged. He slapped his hand on the pile of money and threw it into the spotlight.

  “Two thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars,” I announced, even before the stack of fluttering bills reached the floor.

  Abruzzo glanced at his bodyguard. “Sal, get down there and count it.”

  “I don’t have to, Mister Abruzzo.” Sal lowered his gun and stared quizzically at the pile of scattered cash. “I counted it in the car just ten minutes ago. He’s right on.”

  “So he’s legit,” Abruzzio said, stepping towards Gavin until their noses were nearly touching. “Which means you brought someone here to count and verify my money? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Gavin held his ground and replied with a wide grin. “I haven’t stayed alive this long by throwing my balls on the craps table.”

  “Ah, that’s the Gunner I remember!” Abruzzio threw his arms around Gavin once again and let out a boisterous laugh.

  “Gotta love this guy,” his bodyguard cheerfully exclaimed.

  “Sal,” Abruzzio shouted, “shut your fat face before I shut it for you, alright?” He glanced at me while he patted Gavin on the shoulder. “But I do love this guy.”

  With a finger snap and a gesture, Abruzzo’s men filled the briefcase with crisp one-hundred dollar bills. At thirty percent interest it wasn’t exactly the competitive rate I’d hoped for, but in all honesty I trusted a career criminal with my financial matters more than most of the banks.

  Gavin had done an amazing favor for me, and I hoped more than anything that I’d be alive to pay off the debt. He insisted it was an ‘investment’, and that I’d be able to reimburse Abruzzio with ease after the tournament. I wasn’t so sure. The pressure to escape Arena Mode with some prize money was mounting, and now I wasn’t just fighting for myself.

  Ten days later, my custom armor was complete, and it fit like a second skin. The blue titanium body suit was light and allowed for a full range of motion. The reinforced Kevlar plates covered my shoulders, chest, gauntlets and thighs; according to the designer, they would stand up to a direct hit from a sniper rifle.

  High-powered magnetic strips were inserted into the thigh plates, allowing me to ‘holster’ a blade or firearm to my leg should I locate one. The helmet was impact resistant up to a ninety mile-per-hour collision, and even the glass visor could withstand a gunshot at close range. The mouthpiece was able to filter two hundred different toxins, and provided up to twenty minutes of oxygen should I get trapped without air.

  There was no way to ensure my armor would stand up to the punishment that a dozen superhumans were capable of dishing out, but I wouldn’t have to wait long to test it out.

  That night I met with Gavin and Peyton at Excelsior. Suited up, I stared at myself in a full length mirror, and for the first time in forever I cracked a smile. A real smile ... despite my circumstances I was actually happy. It was my childhood fantasy coming true, like I’d leaped from the page of a comic book and was prepared for an epic adventure. I couldn’t fly or shoot plasma bolts from my palms, so I wasn’t exactly Iron Man ... but I felt damn close.

  “Check you out, Mox. You look like you’re ready to win this thing.” Gavin stood behind me and ran his hand over the left shoulder plate, admiring the craftsmanship.

  I placed my fists on my hips and struck a heroic pose. “You know what they say: clothes make the man. Think I’ll intimidate any of the competition with my new suit?”

  “Hey,” Peyton shouted from the front of the store. “Get over here, the Chronicle is about to announce some new competitors.”

  Gavin and I raced to the living room and joined her on the couch, and she turned up the volume on the Trinitron.

  “Good evening,” a young reporter greeted the audience, addressing the camera with her most official-sounding voice. “We interrupt your regular programming to bring you this breaking news. I’m here in Phoenix, Arizona at the scene of a shocking crime, which has left one man dead and five injured.”

  “One guy dead and five injured?” Gavin rolled his eyes. “Just another day in paradise. How is this even news?”

  Peyton shushed her brother and slapped him across the leg. “If you shut your face for a second maybe they’ll tell us.”

  “An hour ago,” the reporter continued, “a local construction worker by the name of Dwayne Lewis was assaulted here at the Thirsty Cactus Bar.” She turned and motioned behind her, and the camera zoomed to capture the destruction: a rustic tavern that had been smashed to pieces. It looked as if it was torn apart by a violent tornado, reducing the entire structure to a pile
of kindling. A photo appeared on-screen of an impossibly muscular man: a familiar bearded giant with dark skin and a large tribal tattoo that coiled down his right arm. His trademark dreadlocks were tied behind his head, with wild tendrils flowing in every direction. “Lewis, a former NFL hopeful, is best known for being one of the few superhumans in the world to live openly. Several years ago he began to grow, expanding in mass and height – he recently made it into the Guinness Book of World Records as being the tallest person in recorded history at nine feet, two inches tall.”

  Everyone knew Dwayne Lewis. He was legendary for his strength; there are clips on the internet of him lifting everything from boulders to bulldozers, scooping them off the ground with terrifying ease. Lewis was drafted to the National Football League out of college, but was unable to play due to his superhuman status.

  A picture of a pudgy man with a thick moustache and long, unwashed hair appeared on the screen, dressed in a green body suit. The image was almost comical, the way he was dramatically posed with a stern look on his face, wielding an oversized gold trident. “The attack took place when Morgan Pittman, a thirty-three year old insurance salesman from Pittsburgh, travelled to Phoenix – to this very bar – just a mile from Lewis’ home. Pittman mounted a surprise attack on Lewis, apparently with the hopes of attracting mainstream attention and gaining entry into the upcoming Arena Mode tournament.”

  “Why the heck is that guy holding a giant fork?” Peyton asked.

  “Shh,” Gavin playful smacked his sister’s knee.

  The camera cut back to the reporter, who was wading through the wreckage, pushing aside overturned stools and tables. She stopped and motioned towards a large jagged opening in the hardwood floor that led to the basement. “This is where the initial attack took place. We’re now going to show you some exclusive footage of the attack, which was captured by several security cameras. Please be aware that what you’re about to see is very graphic, so sensitive viewers may want to leave the room.”