Arena Mode

by Blake Northcott

  Frost cracked a knowing smile. “I can only assume that the show you put on was meant specifically for my viewing pleasure.”

  I didn’t want to tip my hand. I was hoping he didn’t have any suspicions about the crime that Gavin had staged. “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because I don’t believe in coincidence,” he replied swiftly. “Humans manifest their powers in their mid-to-late teens, and you’re nearly thirty. So you’ve had your abilities for several years, am I correct?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a quick nod, “it’s been a while.”

  “So for more than a decade you could have done what you just did. You could have chosen to stop a crime, protect your city – but you didn’t. You waited until now.” He wheeled back around the far side of his desk and tapped his finger into a tablet, generating a holographic projection that floated in mid-air; he produced my yearbook photo, driver’s licence, and a number of documents that I hadn’t bothered to look at since I graduated.

  “You’re an interesting person,” Frost said, looking up at the projections. “I reviewed your high school test scores, college GPA, IQ results ... you’re not just clever. You’re far beyond that, aren’t you? You knew exactly what would get you into the tournament, and what would catch my attention.”

  I nodded again, more tentatively than before. I didn’t know how he was able to acquire my academic records so quickly, but if he had equal access to my medical history there was no way I would be permitted to compete in the tournament.

  He turned off the hologram and illuminated the room with a voice command, flooding his office with a crisp white light. “So, Mister Moxon, I’ve already learned quite a bit about you. The only thing I don’t know is what you want.”

  “That’s a pretty vague question,” I replied.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with sincerity, folding his hands on the surface of his metallic desk. “I’ll rephrase. Why, specifically, do you want to compete in my Arena Mode tournament?”

  I was confident that he had no idea about the massive tumor inside my head, or he would have mentioned it by now. I decided to go with the obvious reply, which made sense given the fact that I was a resident of The Fringe. “That’s easy. Money.”

  “Right, of course. It’s simple, isn’t it? Get your hands on as much money as possible, because it’s the source: power, happiness, security – it provides everything you could ever want. I thought like that once.” Frost glanced down at his legs. “Long before this happened. Do you know the story?”

  “No,” I said quietly. To my knowledge, no one did. I was surprised that the details of his accident hadn’t been leaked to the media by now. The story must have been very closely guarded – and for whatever reason, he wanted to share it with me now.

  “It was a yachting accident off the coast of Bermuda,” he began. “Stupid, really. Most people assume that I was paralyzed in a swordfight, or during one of my other hobbies: skydiving, rock climbing – but it was nothing like that. I was wearing the wrong shoes, holding a wet railing. Nothing more. I fell from the top deck and my spine folded ninety degrees the wrong way when I hit the starboard bow. I flipped into the Atlantic and started sinking. As the salt-water filled my lungs and the darkness closed in around me, you know what I couldn’t get out of my head? It wasn’t my bank account. It was this.” Frost reached under his desk, triggering a hydraulic noise that hissed from behind his chair. A display table emerged from the floor, with a long Japanese sword resting horizontally on a wooden stand. “My katana,” he said with pride, running his hand along the ornate scabbard. “I thought of what I’d accomplished with it, and how I might never hold it again while I peered into an opponent’s eyes.”

  Every swordfighting fan had seen the weapon; the long, curved blade with intricate red braiding on the handle, synonymous with Cameron Frost’s legendary career. It was the sword that he had used to win the first three Full Contact Swordfighting tournaments, by defeating, and sometimes killing, fifty-seven opponents over the course of his career. He had come close to breaking a record held by Japanese legend Miyamoto Musashi, who was widely considered the greatest swordfighter of all time (having won sixty duels back in the early 1600s.) Frost made no secret about his desire to best Musashi’s accomplishment, and even admitted to creating and bankrolling the FCS league just so he could participate himself, showcasing his abilities.

  “In the end,” Frost continued, his voice thick with emotion, “money is just paper. Numbers on a screen. What matters in life is following the way of the warrior, and achieving enlightenment. In combat there’s a moment that can’t be duplicated ... for a split-second it’s as if your souls clash.”

  I began to stammer, digging my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I’m so sorry ... I didn’t know – it must mean a lot to you ...”

  “Don’t be,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “I had my chance at glory. And unfortunately, I had no control over the outcome. Although to be in your position, I would trade it all: my robotics corporation, real estate holdings, my entire empire ... just for that one day.”

  Having heard his speeches on simulcasts was one thing. Standing before him, hearing his words in person – it was a completely different experience.

  An awkward moment floated by, and I was at a loss for words.

  “So,” he said abruptly, rapping his palms on the surface of his desk. “Let’s get back to business, shall we? I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I won’t waste any more of your time.”

  I offered a small nod. “No, you’re not wasting my time at all.”

  “As I said, I enjoyed your performance out in The Fringe, but I have to be honest with you: I have a long list of potentials who could take part in this event. If I select you as a competitor, what do you believe your chances are of winning?”

  “I only gamble when I know I can win,” I said, pulling back my shoulders and straightening my posture. “It’s not a matter of ‘if’ – it’s just a matter of how long it takes me.”

  He raised his eyebrows, and a hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. I could tell that I’d piqued his interest with my abundance of confidence. I was bluffing, of course, but he seemed to be buying it. “You certainly aren’t lacking conviction, I’ll give you that much. Considering the competition you’d be facing, that takes nerves of steel. What’s your secret?”

  “I’ll tell you after Arena Mode ... when you’re handing over my check.”

  He nodded and smiled, satisfied with my response. “Well said, Moxon. I have a feeling you’ll be a great addition to the line-up. Can I count on your participation in the tournament?”

  I returned the smile and extended my hand across his desk. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Outstanding.” He firmly accepted my handshake. “I’ll have my lawyer go over the paperwork with you on the flight back, and we can make it official. And one more thing,” he added before releasing his grip. “Before you step into The Arena, find a reason to win.”

  “I already have one.”

  Frost’s gaze intensified as he shook his head slowly. “No, I’m not talking about the prize, or even the preservation of your own life. You and I, we’re different than most people – we accept that death is inevitable. You wouldn’t agree to participate in The Arena if you believed otherwise. But during combat you’ll come to a point where surrender feels like the only option, and it will take something greater to pull you through that moment. You need to find it.”

  It was a week until the tournament. My diet and training had been going well, and it was the best I’d felt since I was a teenager. I could swing a sword without falling over, and I was able to hit a target with a gun more often than not. I sure as hell wasn’t a trained assassin, but I was in better shape than I thought I’d be going into game day. There was just one final obstacle to overcome: my medical clearance.

  The fingernail-sized chip that Gavin’s friend had designed would emi
t a high amplitude frequency, mimicking a delta wave. When the athletic commission ran the EEG, it would register that I possessed superhuman abilities. I couldn’t afford to have it discovered during the examination, and it needed to be in close proximity to my brain; the chip had to be completely concealed, which meant I needed Peyton’s help.

  “This isn’t a Swiss picnic for me either, Matty.” She pushed me face-first into her soft mattress, and used a swab to sterilize the patch of skin on the back of my neck, high into my hairline. “This isn’t like implanting a tracking chip in a golden retriever’s ear – I haven’t exactly cut open a human in any of my classes.”

  “I know, and I appreciate you doing this,” I said. “I know this must be weird.”

  “Having you in my bedroom, or stitching a piece of metal into your head?” Peyton asked with a giggle.

  “Well both, I guess.” I glanced around her small, tidy apartment, which wasn’t much larger than mine. Like most of the middle-class dwellings in The Fringe, it was essentially a featureless concrete box, but she had the luxury of a small, round window that poured a shaft of sunlight into her room during the afternoon hours.

  “It’s not a problem,” she replied sweetly. “Gavin and I are the only ones who know about this plan, so it would be either him or me holding the scalpel.”

  Shit. I wish she hadn’t said the word ‘scalpel’. “Look, I know you’re going to slice open my skin and stick something inside of me, but just while you’re doing it, can you please not use the actual names of the tools you’re using? It freaks me out.”

  “You’re squeamish.” I felt the needle pierce the skin on the back of my neck as she administered the local anesthetic. “What are you gonna do before you go in for your real surgery? Aren’t they going to chop the top of your head off?”

  “No,” I mumbled into the mattress. “It’s not like that. Nanotech surgery is almost completely non-invasive. The cancer cells are destroyed with a number of small injections, so no slicing and dicing. But I’m not too concerned about it just yet – I need the money first.”

  “You’ll get it,” Peyton said with absolute confidence, carefully dabbing my skin with a cloth. “It’s meant to be.”

  I sighed and rolled over, sitting up on the edge of her bed.

  “We’re just getting started, Matty. You need to lie down for...”

  “Stop.”

  “You can’t chicken out on the implant,” she said, gently trying to push me back into place. “This is the last step before the tournament.”

  I took hold of her hands. “No, I mean stop being so hopeful.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said softly. “You don’t want me to hope that you’re going to get through Arena Mode?”

  “No. I don’t want you to fall apart if I don’t.”

  “Matt,” she replied with a tiny smile, “this is ... it’s meant to be. It just is. You’re going to pull through. We came this far, and I believe in you ... it has to work out.”

  I pulled her close and gently squeezed her hands. “No, Peyton, it doesn’t have to. Nothing does. I’m just doing what I always do; I’m playing the odds, and I’m going to do my best to survive until the final four. Believing in me won’t make a difference.”

  She shook her head and glared at me. I could see her sadness, but it was more than that. It was a look of disappointment, and it sliced into me deeper than her scalpel ever could. “You spend so much time locked in that windowless apartment with your nose buried in a book that you don’t even see what’s going on around you. Think about it, Matty: those heroes you read about in your comics – they’re real. People are tapping into something. Some unknown, unseen force that no scientists have been able to fully explain – and they’re using it to fly in the air and lift cars, and who knows what else. And you’re telling me that you have all the answers. That you think ... no, that you know, that belief isn’t going to help you in The Arena.” Peyton placed her warm hands on the sides of my face and pulled me closer. “You could be more powerful than anyone in that tournament,” she whispered, her lips hovering dangerously close to mine. “But if you don’t believe it’s possible, you’ll never find out.”

  Peyton and I spent the night together, and we connected. Not just physically (which had been so long for me that I nearly forgot how it worked) but on a deeper level; I felt like I’d ‘let her in’, somehow, as stupid as that sounded when I rolled over the words in my head.

  We laughed and shared and confided. I revealed my fears, and she revealed hers; not surprisingly, my list was several miles longer than Peyton’s, but she listened intently, giving me her full attention. Never judging, or offering anything more than support.

  We talked and talked until time slipped away, and at some point before sunrise, we drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  The next day, I was awoken by a shaft of bright light flooding into her room, warming my face. I opened my eyes and saw Peyton beside me. Lying still in her crisp white linens, and looking beautiful and radiant and perfect – as she always did. I reached over and brushed a pink tress from her face, curling it over her ear. And in that instant I knew everything had changed; my friendship with Gavin, my relationship with her ... and then my stomach tied itself in a painful knot. I was paralyzed.

  I feared that I’d made the worst mistake of my life.

  In America we value human life, but above that, we value our liberty. Sports ranks a close second.

  “No, we don’t want to see our sports heroes die. But it happens, and we’ve always been okay with that. Auto racing, without exception, kills drivers every year. When was the last time you heard about a protest to ban NASCAR or Formula One? Or even heard a suggestion about how to make them safer?

  “And what about football, hockey and boxing? These sports cause one devastating concussion after another, shortening life-spans and turning otherwise healthy athletes into drooling vegetables. Should they be modified? Probably. But they’re part of our culture, engrained into our society. Those sports aren’t going anywhere, and they aren’t going to change – now or ever.

  “No, full contact swordfighting is not a safe sport, and sometimes the athletes die. But that’s the sport. And people simply accept it, both the spectators and the participants. Arena Mode will be no different. We will take every precaution necessary to make it as safe as possible, but there will be injuries...and unfortunately, there will also be fatalities.

  - Cameron Frost (New York Chronicle Simulcast, May 2041)

  It was the day before the tournament, and excitement for Arena Mode had reached a fever pitch. Cameron Frost’s media blitz was about to culminate with the spectacle that would serve as the appetizer for the main course: the weigh-ins. Fifty-two thousand screaming fans were packed into Yankee Stadium, awaiting the arrival of thirteen super-powered competitors.

  I received instructions from a producer beforehand. My role was simple enough: walk on stage, strike a pose, and step onto a scale to officially register my weight. I had no idea why we needed to be weighed since there were no weight classes within the tournament, but the athletic commission insisted. It had always been done for boxing, mixed martial arts, and most recently swordfighting, so the tradition (for whatever reason) continued. If there was one thing that politically appointed commissions were good for, it was following rules to the letter, regardless of how little sense they actually made.

  After a tense few days of training, I was glad to be away from The Fringe. I had been avoiding Peyton whenever possible, dodging her messages and cutting conversations short when I passed through Excelsior. I needed to create distance, for both our sakes. I had to focus one-hundred percent on the event – my life depended on it. And she needed to stop clinging to the hope that I would be there for her in the future, when the odds were that she’d be attending my funeral before the end of the week. At least if Peyton resented me, just a little, it would make that day easier for her to get through.

/>   I tried to clear my mind and focus, and think of the day as an opportunity – I could finally get a closer look at the other competitors. To date, the only entrants I’d seen were Sergei Takarov, the flying kid from Russia; Dwayne Lewis, the mammoth construction worker from Arizona; and Jérôme Fontaine, a tall, lanky sprinter from Montreal who was fast enough to outrun most man-made vehicles.

  I stood in front of the stage, safely separated from the crowd by a wall of police officers in full riot gear. It was like a rock concert, only there were more armed guards than a maximum security prison. As we awaited the first competitor, the enormous screen behind the stage played highlight footage from the Full Contact Swordfighting League. Clips of Cameron Frost’s most notable victories were rotating by, accompanied by loud heavy metal music. The sea of onlookers was being whipped into a frenzy.

  When it seemed like the anticipation was about to boil over into a full-scale riot, Frost finally appeared on-screen. His face elicited a roar from the audience. “Welcome, New York City,” he shouted, “and welcome to everyone watching around the world, wherever you are. This is the beginning of a monumental day. When historians look back at the most significant moments of the twenty-first century, they’ll start by studying the event that changed sports forever: the first Arena Mode tournament. And it all starts right here, right now.”

  The chants of approval increased in volume and intensity. The noise level inside the packed stadium went from thunderous to nearly deafening.