“And now,” he concluded, “I give you the elite – the best of the best. Here are the thirteen warriors who will do battle inside The Arena.”
A laser light show and fireworks display illuminated the sky, and music blared in preparation of the first competitor to step on stage.
As I waited impatiently for my turn, I heard someone shouting my name, trying to attract my attention. “Matthew Moxon! I can’t believe it’s really you!”
I turned to face a man around my age, who appeared to be as ordinary as I was; average height, brown eyes, brown hair, and with a slightly pudgy frame that made me look like an Olympian by comparison. I was confused as to how he snuck by security, since this area was reserved solely for superhumans, but I was even more baffled by his attire. His bright blue costume and mask looked home-made, like something you’d see at a fan convention; it was complete with matching gloves, boots, and a large insignia sewn onto his chest in the shape of an eye.
Cosplay was one of the few comic book-related activities that I didn’t take part in, but I’d always admired people’s dedication at designing and constructing outfits that paid homage to their favorite characters.
I studied him for a moment. Even with my wealth of knowledge when it came to comics and anime, this costume went way over my head. If this guy was trying to emulate a character, it must have been an obscure one, because it didn’t resemble any superhero I was familiar with.
“I’m Kenneth Livitski,” he said, beaming with child-like enthusiasm. “But you can call me ‘The Living Eye’. Check this out!” He stuck out his chest, placed one hand on his hip and extended the other in front of him, revealing a white glove with the same eye logo sewn into the palm.
I nodded and smiled awkwardly. “Cool, man. Look, I’m going up on stage in a bit, but if you want my autograph or a picture or something ...”
He held his stomach with both hands and threw his head back, laughing boisterously. “No, you don’t get it. I’m in the tournament as well. I’m a superhero, just like you!” He paused for a moment, and added, “But if you’re cool with it, I’d really love it if you could sign something for me after the weigh-ins.”
“Of course,” I replied with a friendly smile. “So, this costume ... you made it?”
“That’s right,” he said with pride, running his hand up and down the stitching along the seam of his glove. “I was up sewing every night for three weeks, and I finally got it done, just this morning. I had to do it by hand because my mom’s stupid sewing machine broke.”
“That’s some nice work,” I said, looking it up and down. “But you know we’re not required to wear costumes. Competitors are just going into the tournament with armor, or regular clothing.” I paused for a beat. “You’re not going to actually wear that on game day, are you?”
The heat rose in his face as his enthusiasm faded. “Well ... I’m not now.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just saying – well, you never know ... other people might wear them too.”
His smile quickly returned. “So Moxon, your armor looks amazing! How long did you work on it?”
I was wearing my full body suit, with my helmet resting under my arm. I figured that since I didn’t have a power to actually display on stage at least I could appear somewhat heroic – hopefully a few spectators would recognize me from the internet. “I had it custom made to fit me, actually. It’s a modded FCS suit.”
“No shit!” he exclaimed. He poked and prodded at my chest plate, and ran his hands over my gauntlets. I wanted to explain the concept of personal space, but I was afraid of hurting his feelings again.
After thoroughly inspecting my armor, Kenneth looked around suspiciously, ensuring that we weren’t being spied on. “So,” he said in a hushed voice, cupping one hand over the side of his mouth, “do you think we should team up tomorrow?”
I wasn’t aware that teams were allowed, but I hadn’t seen any rules to the contrary. “Sure ... I guess? I’m not really shooting for first place anyway. When I make the final four I’m tapping out. You can keep the first place winnings all for yourself.”
“Really?” he said with genuine surprise. “Can’t you blow stuff up with your mind? I figured you’d shoot for first place.”
“Yeah, my powers are pretty impressive.” I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced away. “So, ‘Living Eye’ ... that’s interesting. How did you come up with the name?” Awkwardly changing subjects was the only way I could think to avoid answering questions about my alleged super powers. When playing cards I was a master of misdirection, but lying in real-life scenarios never seemed to work out.
“It’s kind of a crazy story,” Kenneth began. “One day last summer when I was bored, I started reading about these spiritual concepts, like higher consciousness, auras, and the gate that leads to our inner realms. You know, all that junk they write about on yoga blogs. Of course I thought it was all bullshit, but it turns out that to do this, I just needed to open up my chakras.” He flattened his hand and stared intensely into his palm, directly at the eye logo sewn into his glove. A swirl of blue dust appeared out of nowhere, rotating like a miniaturized tornado. The particles coalesced, and solidified into a bright blue helmet – a perfectly rendered duplicate of my helmet. And it was small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. “Go ahead,” he said with an enthusiastic smile. “Pick it up.”
I removed my gauntlet and ran my fingers across the top of it, feeling the smooth, metallic texture, cold against my skin. I couldn’t believe it was real.
“Just go ahead,” Kenneth repeated with a laugh. “It won’t bite you, buddy.”
I picked up the replica and lifted it to eye level, studying the fine details. Using my thumbnail I flipped open the visor, and it functioned exactly like mine. “This is incredible. How long will this last?”
“As long as I focus,” Kenneth replied. He snapped his hand into a fist and the helmet fell apart. Thousands of glowing blue particles spilled through my fingers like sand, sparkling and disappearing as they fell. “Pretty awesome, eh?”
I was barely able to process what I’d seen. “So can you create anything you want?” I asked. “Is there a size limit?”
Kenneth cracked a goofy grin. “Anything, any size. If I can imagine it, I can create it. You and I can sit back and relax, and I can summon a giant angry lizard or a kick-ass robot to tear apart our competition. Before you know it, we’ll be billionaires.”
Suddenly this odd-looking cosplayer seemed like a very good ally to have inside The Arena. “You make it sound easy.”
“Trust me, with our combined powers we’ve got this thing in the bag.” He motioned to the stage where the rotating spotlights were starting to converge. The music was lowering in volume, and the weigh-ins were finally about to begin. “When I go up there I’m gonna put on a show to intimidate our competition. I’ve been reading a lot of H.P. Lovecraft lately...I was thinking about conjuring a giant Cthulhu, just for fun.”
I wasn’t sure if Kenneth was joking. Creating an enormous, scale-covered hybrid of a dragon with a squid for a face might not be the best way to win over the crowd, but it would certainly be memorable. And create some unique photo-ops. Before I could suggest a more subtle display of his abilities the host stepped out from behind the curtain and strutted on-stage, ready to start the proceedings.
My new friend made Arena Mode sound like a whimsical adventure; an opportunity to dress up, run amok on a giant island, and live out a real-life role playing game. For him it was like stepping into a fantasy. Why roll twenty-sided dice, pretending to swing swords and cast enchantments when you can do it for real? It was a naive and dangerous way to view this competition – and if the first person to step out on stage didn’t change his perspective, nothing would.
I recognized the host instantly. Strutting around on stage was Daniel Tate, an English talk show personality, notorious for his quick wit and scathi
ng sarcasm. The scrawny blond Brit was dressed in black, with the exception of his jacket – an oversized red, blue and white abomination, plastered with the Union Jack.
Tate skipped his typical opening monologue and introduced the first competitor, reading from a stack of cue cards that he yanked from his inside pocket. “First on stage is a young girl from Rome: ‘Serafina the Butcher’. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” The big screen behind him illuminated with her name, vital statistics and a graphic of a waving Italian flag. He pointed towards the curtains with an exaggerated motion. A tall, thin girl with long raven hair emerged, casually holding a meat cleaver at her side. Her ash-white complexion appeared even lighter in contrast with her black dress, and her cold expression sent chills throughout the hushed stadium.
Tate looked her up and down, taking note of her sickly pallor. “For an Italian you look even paler than I do. When was the last time you went to the beach, love?” He held the microphone in front of her, but she passed by without even offering a sidelong glance, ignoring the verbal jab.
Making her way towards the front of the stage, two athletic commission appointees directed her to the oversized metal plate that was attached to an electronic scale. She stepped forward and was registered at one-hundred and eighteen pounds.
Tate followed her and clumsily flipped through his cards, searching for additional information. “It says here that you discovered your powers while working at your family’s butcher shop, when you accidentally burned three customers. I have to say, that’s some rubbish customer service! How did you manage that?”
Staring into the audience she extended her hand, slowly dragging the razor-sharp cleaver across her palm. The blade opened a gruesome laceration, but to everyone’s surprise it didn’t bleed – it poured acid. A stream of searing black liquid hissed from her skin, dripping through the scale at her feet. The metal smoked as the acid continued to melt the platform, opening a sizable hole in the stage beneath.
Without a word, Serafina turned on her heel and strode off-stage, brushing past the awe-struck host.
“Well, well,” Tate said with a small shrug. “Not the chattiest, is she? So, let’s keep things moving, shall we ...”
“Do you know her story?” Kenneth asked, leaning towards me. Before I could answer, he excitedly filled me in on the details. “She’s an aspiring model who was working part-time at her parent’s butcher shop, until one day she slips and cuts herself with a knife. She panicked when she saw the black acid coming from her cut, and started waving her arm around. She sprayed a bunch of people waiting in line, and rumor is that one of them was disfigured pretty badly. Then she had a mental breakdown or something.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“There’s this forum that follows every superhuman activity that gets reported around the world. I log in, like, ten times a day. Pretty cool, eh?”
The following competitor was Ayumi Ozaki, a twenty-five year old former baseball player from Japan; a pitcher with a killer fastball who was bestowed with the nickname ‘The Lioness’ by her fans. She was banned from league play when it was discovered that she was ‘pyrotactile’ (possessing the ability to ignite any object she touches.) She brought a wooden bat with her, and lit it on fire after her weigh-in to the delight of the crowd.
Next up was Winston Ramsley, a well-dressed fifty-seven-year-old man from London, with short, greying hair neatly parted to the side, and a very impressive moustache. I recognized him from the UK Swordfighting League. He was the only tournament winner to ever take home a championship using a fencing sword. His technique and accuracy were so precise that even the most skilled katana practitioners were unable to make contact with him. He was banned from the league for the same reasons: no superhumans permitted in sporting competitions.
“I’m seeing a pattern here,” I mentioned to Kenneth. “A lot of these people are former athletes.”
“Yeah, there’s some new research about that,” he explained. “Athletes have a higher level of mental focus than regular folks, and are more in tune with their bodies. Some scientists are saying it’s why they’re accessing their delta waves more easily and tapping into their potential.”
It made sense. When it was first announced that certain people possessed powers and abilities beyond those of normal humans, one of the first things to change, oddly, was sports. Every athletic commission in the country was testing athletes for urine, blood, DNA, and everything else they could think of. The concept of superhumans was so new that they didn’t even know what they were looking for at the time, but they were determined to ensure that no one was gaining an unfair competitive advantage. With their pro sports ambitions dashed, a number of athletes were turning to The Arena in an attempt to secure their financial futures.
Next on stage was Dwayne Lewis, a fan favorite due to his recent altercation in Arizona. Cheering fans held up signs inscribed with the word ‘Sledge’. The simulcast footage being circulated referred to him as having sledgehammer-like power in his fists after his now-infamous bar fight, and the moniker quickly stuck.
The crowd went wild as he stepped through the curtains, stooping to avoid colliding with a cross-beam. Making his first public appearance since the brawl, Lewis was also sporting a new look: three long scars that stretched down the length of his face, and a cybernetic ocular implant. The injury he sustained from his attacker’s trident left him blind in his right eye, so as a ‘signing bonus’ for entering The Arena, Frost had agreed to foot the bill for the expensive procedure, fully restoring his vision.
At well over nine feet tall, Lewis was a menacing sight on the simulcasts; in person, he was far more intimidating. The stage shook beneath his weight with every step, and when he stood on the scale it creaked from the pressure. He registered at nine hundred and thirty-two pounds.
“Now that is one big lad,” Daniel Tate laughed, dragging a chair across the stage with one hand. He positioned it next to Lewis and stood on it, raising the microphone as far as he could reach, just below his bearded chin. “Do you have anything to say to your fans out there, Sledge?”
“No,” he said solemnly. “But I want to say hello to Taylor. Daddy loves you, and he’ll be home soon. Take care of mommy for me while I’m gone.”
I was struck by his demeanor. It seemed like Lewis was resigned to the fact that he had to compete – like he didn’t want to be here. “He doesn’t exactly seem thrilled about the tournament,” I said. “But I guess a new eye was too much to pass up.”
“No, that’s not the reason,” Kenneth replied. “Well, not the only reason. He’s here for his daughter’s treatment. It’s such a sad story: she has this rare blood disease, and their insurance company refused to cover her expenses. His wife has been petitioning for aid, but the government isn’t budging. If Sledge doesn’t come up with some serious cash, she might not make it through the year.”
When Lewis spoke, his voice was etched with a gritty determination. He was the first competitor I’d seen who didn’t seem interested in money or fame – he had something much more powerful driving him. With a motivation like his, Lewis might be the most dangerous man in the competition.
Next, the name Darko Simić appeared on the big screen, alongside the Serbian flag. He was listed as being from Belgrade, but a question mark appeared beside his age.
“That’s weird, eh?” Kenneth remarked. “No age listed? What is this dude, a vampire or something?”
A narrow, middle-aged man emerged from the curtains, trudging across the stage as he adjusted a pair of wire-framed glasses. He was enveloped in an out-of-date suit that looked like a relic from a museum, complete with a bow tie and patent leather shoes. It immediately drew chuckles from the crowd. Although his fashion choices were odd, it was the man’s hair that struck me: a frizzy, greying mess that shot out in every direction, as if he’d been comically electrocuted by sticking his finger into a socket. If Albert Einstein was in his mid-forties and had done away with hi
s moustache, Darko Simić is how I imagine he’d look.
The host stood back and observed the man’s outdated attire. “What do you call this look, mate: ‘mad scientist chic’? I know that fashion trends go in cycles, but are we really back to 1890?”
Darko brushed off the snide remark and proceeded to the edge of the stage. He confidently threw his hands apart and clapped them together, causing a loud electrical buzz. When he drew them apart, a solid beam of purple light extended between his palms, eliciting some ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the audience.
The Serbian smiled, apparently satisfied with the response, and moved his hands in small circles. The beam of light waved and bounced, dancing off his fingertips. When he felt it was time to conclude his demonstration, Darko clapped his hands back together, presumably to extinguish the beam – but to his surprise it persisted. In a panic Darko shook out his hands, causing the beam to twirl out of control. The sleeves of his suit ignited, and within seconds it travelled up his chest, engulfing his entire torso. He bellowed and staggered backwards, flailing wildly. Darko collided with the host, instantly causing Tate’s jacket to burst into flames.
The fire spread unnaturally fast, travelling across the stage and up the curtains. Within seconds it was scorching the bottom of the oversized screen, and the first several rows were scrambling towards the nearest exits in fear for their lives.
As firefighters quickly moved in to battle the blaze, a number of police officers arrived to escort us to safety. “Come on,” Kenneth urged me, pulling at my shoulder, “there’s nothing we can do to help here.”
I had only been in the dressing room area for a moment when my wrist-com beeped, signaling an incoming transmission.
When I touched the device, a hologram of my friends projected into the air. “What the hell was that, man? Are you all right?” Gavin was in a panic after witnessing the live simulcast.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I assured him, attempting to steady my trembling voice. My nerves were shaken, but I didn’t want to concern him any more than he already was. “I’m in the back, and I’m safe. The fire is already under control, and the producers are getting the crowd settled before we finish the event.”
Arena Mode Page 8
