Arena Mode

by Blake Northcott

  Peyton reached into the front seat and massaged the back of my neck. “You were amazing, Matty. That couldn’t have gone better.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded. Everything went according to plan, and our gambles paid off. The Petrovic brothers took the car that Gavin had supplied them with, and more importantly, they used his ammunition.

  The low velocity round did very little damage when it bounced off of my chest plate, so there wasn’t much risk of injury, but there was no guarantee that one of them wouldn’t swap out Gavin’s bullets with something more powerful prior to the heist. Military-grade bullets were expensive and difficult to come by, but they were all the rage in the Dark Zone; a week didn’t go by when there wasn’t a report of some exotic designer bullet being introduced to the black market. The names for the exciting new killing tools were as impressive as the destruction they caused: the Dragon Slayer, a nasty red slug that burst into flames when it made impact, the Green Scorpion, a long silver bullet filled with acid that was capable of searing through armor, and Thor’s Hammer, a bright blue projectile that zapped its target with a million volts of electricity. If I’d been on the receiving end of one of those, there’s no telling if my chest plate would have held up.

  Having my face scanned by a security camera was a necessity – I had to go public. The state of New York was one of the more progressive when it came to superhumans, but that was little consolation at the time. I didn’t know if the local police would see a vigilante with powers as a threat, or if they’d simply shrug it off as one of the hundreds of violent crimes committed every day in and around the Dark Zone – most of which weren’t even investigated. I couldn’t imagine the cops getting emotional about a trio of career criminals being beaten and tied up outside of a liquor store, but public reaction to superhumans wasn’t always rational.

  The one assurance I had was that no bomb fragments would be found at the crime scene. According to Gavin’s supplier, the state-of-the-art explosive he purchased was designed to disintegrate; made of a new synthetic polymer, every part of the device would turn to dust during detonation.

  Gavin pulled the van up to my apartment block, and I finished packing my armor into a protective suitcase, snapping it shut. Peyton hugged me from the backseat and gently kissed my cheek, assuring me that everything would be fine. I nodded and smiled, but didn’t know what to say. Gavin patted my shoulder and told me he’d call later, and I thanked him for everything; I never imagined anyone would risk this much for me, and go to such lengths to save my life. I felt like he wanted me to live more than I did, and I couldn’t figure out why. Whatever Gavin and Peyton saw in me, they felt it was worth saving – and it made me want to prove them right.

  The next few hours in my apartment were the most tension-filled of my life. I paced, hyperventilated, and consumed so many cans of Red Bull that I was practically vibrating. I couldn’t relax, knowing that this part of the plan was completely out of my control. I had to simply wait and see if Cameron Frost took notice of the incredibly dangerous publicity stunt that we pulled off, less than ten miles from his megatower in The City.

  Night fell, and my anxiety only worsened. I checked the internet incessantly, and news reports continued to spread about the incident. I had been identified, and my name was all over the web: Matthew Moxon, age twenty-nine, a resident of The Fringe. Average height, short brown hair, presumed dangerous. No one mentioned Hoboken or my specific apartment block, so I had to assume they didn’t know where I lived.

  Aside from a handful of my close friends (two, to be exact) and a landlord who didn’t know my real name, no one knew my location, which is why the blood in my veins froze solid when I heard a series of loud thumps resonating along my concrete walls. Someone had bypassed multiple security measures and was now knocking impatiently on my steel door.

  I rushed to my laptop and accessed the security camera installed in the hallway, and when it blinked into focus my heart stopped. Six police officers armed with assault rifles.

  And as the knocking persisted, one of them shouted my name.

  In the comics, Batman made it look easy. When his back was up against the wall, he’d just reach into his utility belt and pull out one of his toys: a smoke grenade, a grappling hook, a laser, or any one of a hundred other gadgets that would assist him with a life-or-death situation. Not to mention he was a bad-ass ninja. Unfortunately, the deadliest weapons I had in my apartment were the contents of my kitchen, and I sure as hell wasn’t rushing into combat against a half-dozen cops, armed with no more than a frying pan and two weeks’ worth of kickboxing lessons.

  “I’m coming out,” I shouted. With a few swift taps on the touchpad, I initiated my computer’s kill-switch sequence, erasing the hard drive. There was nowhere to hide my armor, so I slid it under my bed for lack of a better option – as if anyone searching my tiny unit wouldn’t think to flip over a mattress.

  As the rapping continued I slipped on my shoes and hoodie, thinking that if I was going to get tossed into a prison cell at least I wouldn’t be in bare feet. After unlatching a number of security bolts I swung open my door, and looked up at the officers.

  The one doing the knocking was a broad, dark-skinned man who towered nearly a foot above me. I came face-to-face (so to speak) with the silver name plate on his chest: ‘T. Dziobak.’ He studied my face for a moment before looking back over his shoulder. “This is the guy,” he announced to the other officers. “He’s the one from the video.”

  An equally imposing man in a dark blue police uniform stepped forward. “Moxon, I need to tell you something. That shit you pulled uptown this morning,” he said, pointing his finger in my direction, “that was awesome.” A few of the cops began to smile, and others stared at me with a look that I could only assume was admiration. The officer extended his hand and I nervously shook it. “I ... um ... thanks?”

  I wiped the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my sleeve and tried to steady my voice, wondering if this was some kind of a set-up – possibly to get a confession before they had to read me my rights. “So just to be clear, I’m not under arrest?”

  “Arrest?” Officer Dziobak said with a hearty laugh. “No, nothing like that. We’d never arrest someone for blowing up trash from the Zone, especially members of the Petrovic family. Those bastards had it coming.” Everyone either chuckled or nodded in agreement. “Believe me, if I had your powers, I would have done a lot more than just blow up their shitty car.”

  A female officer asked if she could take a picture with me. She explained that her son had watched my video on repeat all afternoon, and was already asking if he could dress as ‘the armored blue superhero’ for Halloween. I posed with her, as well as several of the others. Two of them asked me to record outgoing messages on their voicemail, shouting, “That’s what happens when someone commits a crime in my town.” Apparently that line was a big hit down at the station, and elicited cheers when they first saw it on the simulcast. I couldn’t wait to rub it in Gavin’s face.

  When everyone had met me and thanked me for my service, I asked the obvious question. “I’m assuming you didn’t all come here just for a meet and greet.”

  “Believe it or not, these slackers did,” Dziobak said with a broad smile, pointing his thumb behind him. “But I’m here to escort you upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” I asked, curiously arching an eyebrow. “Officer ...” I squinted at his name tag, afraid to attempt the pronunciation.

  He grinned. “I know, it’s a mouthful. You can call me Todd.”

  “Officer Todd,” I repeated. “The only thing upstairs is the hover-pad on the roof.”

  “Mister Frost sent a ship for you, and until you’re safely in his office, I’m your shadow. Right this way, sir – it’s time to get moving.”

  Inside the elevator, the officer slid his gold card into the horizontal slot below the control panel. The all-access key card, possessed by police, fire and emergency medical teams, all
owed them to override locks and security systems if they required access to a restricted area. Years ago, the government implemented fingerprint scanning technology to give authorized users the same access, but anyone who’s seen a science fiction movie in the last century knows what a terrible idea that was. If a criminal wanted to gain entry into a building, few of them had moral qualms about slicing off someone’s finger to use as a portable key. The card system was recently put back into place by popular demand; if a public sector employee was going to get mugged for their security clearance, they preferred to have their gold card stolen than one of their digits.

  “Rooftop,” Officer Dziobak commanded after extracting his card. The lift obediently shot upwards.

  A moment later, we stepped outside into the warm night air, seventy stories above the ground. The flat, rectangular hovercraft was humming gently in the distance, with a small metal ramp inviting us to step aboard.

  The officer placed his hand on my shoulder and stopped me from proceeding forward, and he cautiously levelled his weapon. Peering through the telescopic lens, he pivoted in every direction, scanning the surrounding area. Satisfied, he lifted his wrist and spoke into a com. “We’re clear, red team. I have the package.”

  < Copy that, > a voice crackled back. < The bird is ready for flight, blue leader. Bring him in. > He walked me to the craft and motioned for me to step aboard. I had no idea why I was being treated with the same level of security as the President, but at the time I didn’t question it. I ducked inside the dark passenger bay and buckled myself into a seat, directly across from a short balding man in a drab suit and tie. His small, deep-set eyes were focused on his clipboard. I sat, and he didn’t even acknowledge my presence; he adjusted his reading glasses and kept flipping through paperwork as we buckled in and prepared for lift-off.

  Officer Todd sat next to me and made a hand signal to the pilot in the cockpit. The craft ascended vertically, and we headed towards the most iconic building in The Big Apple’s skyline: Frost Tower.

  “Sorry about the theatrics,” the businessman said in a low grumble, finally averting his eyes from his reading material. “We’re necessarily cautious at the Frost Corporation. This is our first time dealing with superhumans in person, and as you can imagine, we have our reservations.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “I’m Matthew Moxon.”

  “Jerry Epstein,” the man said with a barely perceptible nod.

  I extended my hand in friendship, expecting him to shake it. He responded by peeling the top sheet of paper from his clipboard and pressing it into my palm.

  “Read this over before we arrive,” he said flatly. “Mister Frost likes people to be aware of his latest policies before meetings. It saves time and reduces unnecessary questions.”

  I switched on the small reading light over my head and examined the paper. It was a memo. I had no idea that companies still distributed physical messages to their employees anymore, but it definitely wasn’t the strangest thing I’d seen that day.

  “Mister Frost likes hard copies,” Epstein said in a low monotone, as if he’d already explained this countless times before and was tired of continuing to do so. “He feels that people take instructions more seriously if they’re printed out.”

  He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and stuck it towards me without looking. “Sign the bottom when you’re finished reading it. Mister Frost also likes to know that people have read his memos.”

  From: The Desk of Cameron Frost

  To: All Employees

  Subject: Rules and Regulations for the Upcoming Tournament

  Date: June 16, 2041

  There has been harsh public scrutiny surrounding the rules of the upcoming tournament, which the media has simply dubbed a ‘death match’. This term is derogatory, and ultimately misleading.

  As with all sports there are strict rules and regulations that the athletes must abide by when competing. To clarify this, I am instructing all employees, as well as the competitors, to make use of the following information when interacting with the press:

  1) Always refer to the rules as ‘Arena Mode’. This tournament is not a death match, street fight, or a no-holds-barred brawl. The term Arena Mode simply refers to the fact that a number of athletes – thirteen in this instance – will be competing against each other simultaneously, in a single-elimination format.

  2) Refrain from using the term ‘fight’ altogether. If two competitors are battling, this is to be referred to as an ‘engagement’.

  3) Remind people of the ‘tap out’ option. If a competitor is injured and wishes to exit the tournament, they can retire. This can be done by verbally surrendering at any of the medical stations (which will be accessible at various locations throughout The Arena) as well as at both bridges that lead off the island.

  4) There will be no engagement during medical intervention. If a competitor is receiving care, other players are forbidden from attacking them for the duration of their treatment. Making contact with an athlete while they are inside a designated medical zone will result in a disqualification.

  5) There are no corporate sponsorships. To preserve the integrity of the tournament, no logos or company names are to be worn on the athlete’s attire.

  6) No personal weapons are allowed. A variety of firearms, explosives and bladed weapons will be available for use inside The Arena. To maintain a level playing field the competitors are not permitted to bring their own armaments into the tournament.

  7) There is to be no excessive use of violence. If a competitor dies during an engagement, no additional damage to their corpse will be accepted. Decapitation, evisceration, flaying, and other forms of mutilation are frowned upon, and could result in a verbal warning and/or fine.

  8) The golden rule is ‘sportsmanship’. Foul language, obscene gestures, and revealing attire will not be tolerated. The tournament is a family viewing event, and all athletes are to act accordingly.

  Cameron Frost

  As I finished reading (and signing) the memo, we’d already begun our descent, touching down quietly on the hover-pad at the top of Frost Tower. The officer stepped out first, repeating his thorough security check. After searching the perimeter, he motioned to the pilot, indicating that the coast was clear, and we filed out onto the circular tarmac.

  At the pinnacle of America’s tallest structure, the air was cooler and the wind was stronger than I’d expected. The panoramic view of Manhattan was spectacular; an endless array of glittering lights scattered across the island, converging to form a powerful spotlight that stretched into the clouds. I could see as far north as Times Square, where a spectrum of neon blinked and danced in the distance. It was in stark contrast with the surrounding area. Across the river, the significantly dimmer lights that emitted from The Fringe paled in comparison, and gradually faded to an inky blackness that consumed the Dark Zone.

  Officer Dziobak tapped my shoulder, indicating it was time to go. He ushered me down a long narrow ramp that led to a steel door. He pulled it open after inserting his gold card and ushered me inside with a friendly wave. “This is the end of the line for me,” he said with a firm handshake. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  The officer slammed the door behind me, and for a moment I stood in complete darkness. I must have tripped a motion sensor, because the long, narrow hall began to illuminate. One by one, a series of wall-mounted torches burst to life, lining the length of the corridor. It felt as if I was exploring a secret underground pathway located beneath a castle, and no architectural detail had been neglected.

  The firelight flickered dramatically off the dark stone walls, highlighting a countless number of paintings. The gallery must have been worth as much as the building I was standing in. Ambling past the iconic pieces that I recognized but couldn’t name, I arrived at an equally iconic series of comic books towards the end of the hall, mounted in protective glass cases. His collection put mine to shame; mint-condition first issues
of the most well-known comic series’ in history – The Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk – all meticulously preserved. And the highlight, without question, was his copy of Action Comics #1: the first appearance of Superman.

  I stopped and gazed at the cover, depicting The Man of Steel hoisting a car above his head, and couldn’t help but think of its value. Not just in terms of its monetary worth (at seven million dollars, that one book alone could more than pay for my surgery) but of its significance as a historical artifact. Without it, superheroes as we know them might never have existed in fiction. I was always a fan of Cameron Frost, but I never knew we had so much in common.

  The scarred wooden door at the end of the hall was flanked by a suit of armor on each side; decorative medieval knights stood at attention, clutching a broadsword in one hand and a shield in the other. I contemplated whether I should knock or twist the heavy iron knob. Then a series of electronic beeps echoed through the hall, and the door slowly swung upon, inviting me to enter.

  The dimly-lit room was cavernous – sparsely decorated with no more than a round metal desk as the focal point, and a wall of glass towering behind it. The sheer size of the floor-to-ceiling window created a dizzying effect, as if the office was floating nearly three hundred stories above Manhattan. I was expecting something upscale – even extravagant – like an office I could picture inside of Wayne Manor. As far as luxury goes, this puts the Fortress of Solitude to shame.

  “A few weeks ago I asked the superhumans of the world to impress me,” Frost proclaimed as he wheeled his chair towards me. “What you did today was impressive, Mister Moxon. Very impressive indeed.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a warm smile, feeling more star-struck in his presence than I’d anticipated. I was also taken aback by his appearance; well dressed, clean-shaven, with his hair neatly parted, he hadn’t looked this polished in years. Certainly not during his simulcast just weeks ago. It was as if Frost had turned back the clock, and for whatever reason he seemed invigorated – almost youthful. It felt like I was meeting the man who inspired me with his speeches years ago, before the tragic accident that spiralled him into depression.