Arena Mode

by Blake Northcott

  The small group of paparazzi outside of Excelsior had grown to a screaming horde. An obnoxious, sweaty mob of belligerent photographers that hadn’t showered in two days were completely blocking the front entrance. No wonder celebrities were so fond of punching them in the face.

  According to simulcast reports, there was a considerable amount of mystery surrounding my involvement in the tournament; was I injured? Was I in hiding? Would I be competing at all? Reading comments about myself drove me as crazy as the wait for the tournament itself. Aside from the speculation about my status, it seemed that everyone with an internet connection had an opinion about my chances of winning. My no-show at the weigh-ins, coupled with the betting odds against me, made ‘Mox’ a hot topic across the forums.

  I tried to refrain from engaging in a flame war, but I couldn’t resist the urge. I wasn’t sleeping anyway, and I needed a distraction. I just had to respond to an iTube commenter who insisted that Dwayne Lewis would ‘eat the blue Power Ranger’ within the first two minutes.

  Sorry, WompaMuncher69, I had to respectfully disagree.

  Aside from scouring the web for gossip about myself, I was interested in reading everyone’s analysis after the weigh-ins. People had their favorites, but the consensus was that Russia’s Son would pummel the competition, smashing his way to an easy victory. And that opinion wasn’t limited strictly to the keyboard warriors; political spin and denunciations were already coming out of Moscow, with reports claiming that Sergei Taktarov was a Western spy, a traitor, and a pathological liar. I didn’t find the character assassination surprising. Should Taktarov claim first prize, a charismatic leader with ten billion dollars at his disposal would provide some stiff political opposition for their government, and they were undoubtedly terrified that someone might upset the status quo. When citizens are exposed to the truth, things like rigged elections and falsified news reports become a lot more difficult to get away with.

  After a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in an old armchair, I was startled awake by raucous banging on the security gates. I flipped on the Trinitron and switched to the exterior security cams.

  Peyton propped herself up and rubbed her bleary eyes. “What time is it?” she asked with a drawn out yawn. “And what the heck is going on outside?”

  “Paparazzi,” I said with a frustrated groan. “They’ve been here all night. Go back to sleep, it’s not even six in the morning.”

  When the security feed blipped into view, I saw a tall, narrow man with a thin moustache staring directly into the lens, dressed in a suit and bow-tie. He was standing amidst the photographers, and a long stretch limousine was visible in the street behind him.

  I felt an itch on the back of my hand, and moments later a bright green hologram projected from my epidermal implant. A three-dimensional image of Cameron Frost’s face appeared several inches off my skin, causing me to stumble backwards. “What the hell?” I shouted.

  “Good morning, Mister Moxon!” the projection said with a cheerful smile. “I hope you’re ready for game day. I took the liberty of arranging your transportation to The Arena. Suit up and we’ll see you in thirty.” The hologram winked off before I had the chance to reply – it must have been a recording, not a live feed.

  I started to gear up. I quickly snapped my armor into place, ensuring that my rings were secured on the chain beneath my breastplate.

  Peyton had drifted back to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake her. A tearful goodbye wasn’t going to help my mental state going into the tournament, and it definitely wouldn’t do her any favors in the likely event that I would never see her in person again. Leaning over the back of the couch, I kissed her forehead and tucked her in, silently promising that I’d do everything in my power to make it back.

  I was in no mood to eat, so I skipped right to the equipment check. I quickly gathered my helmet and prescription pill bottle. I didn’t need anything else.

  Before opening the security gates, I drew in a deep, shaky breath, and prepared myself for the first day of the rest of my life – however much longer that was going to be.

  The early morning sunlight poured into Excelsior as I retracted the shutters, sliding them to the side with both hands. I raised the security bars and pushed open the glass doors, stepping into the street. The crowd was overwhelming. I fastened on my helmet and flipped down the visor, blocking the harsh glare of the flashbulbs as photographers swarmed around me.

  The limo driver was much stronger than he looked. He used his elbow to plow the paparazzi aside, ushering me to the limo before shoving me into the backseat, throwing the door closed behind me. Clearly he’d done this before.

  I stared out the back window as we pulled away, thinking about how many times I’d walked through the front door of the Retro Comic Book Store. About how many times Gavin had greeted me at the entrance with his beaming grin, and how often Peyton had embraced me before I even got a foot past the threshold. Every experience I’d taken for granted began to feel more finite.

  Police had blocked off a number of streets, and of course no one was permitted into the city on game day for their own safety. It made the morning commute a breeze. Normally an endless flood of vehicles would be pouring into The City at this hour; most from The Fringe, and some from the Dark Zone – nearly all of them construction workers.

  Manhattan was perpetually under construction, and labor had never been cheaper. With unemployment at an all-time high, people applied by the thousands to help construct megatowers – whether they had any previous experience or not. There were few other options to earn a legitimate wage, as meager as it was; the wealthy were never fond of signing large checks, and with labor laws being the loosest they’ve been since the 1800s, there was no need to.

  The old towers were renovated, and the new were improved. Buildings were built on top of buildings, soaring higher into the sky with each passing day.

  With the exception of a few ambulances, my limo was the lone vehicle crossing the Holland Bridge (one of the two remaining bridges that connects The Fringe to Manhattan; constructed shortly after the tsunami of 2031 destroyed the Holland Tunnel.)

  The checkpoint midway across the bridge consisted of a small army; police cars, motorcycles, and a tank were encircled by more than twenty heavily-armed officers. The limo driver was asked to present a coded ID badge and handful of documents, as well as submit to a retinal scan before we were permitted to cross. As we slowly proceeded through the checkpoint, a number of officers ran hand-held scanners over the vehicle, likely searching for any explosives. Frost’s lawyer wasn’t kidding when he said they were taking every precaution.

  We cruised down the abandoned streets and arrived at Frost Tower in no time, and I was rushed into an elevator and up to the fiftieth floor. I was directed to a dressing room, surrounded by assistants. A number of specialists were assigned to every one of my pre-game details, most of which were cosmetic. An endless supply of people worked in rapid succession; a dental hygienist performed a laser tooth whitening, a hair stylist gave me a trim, and an aesthetician plucked my eyebrows before applying an all-important layer of foundation. Guess they didn’t want the cameras to pick up any unsightly glares before someone stabbed or shot me. Imagine the scandal.

  After my unpleasant appearance had been rectified, I was prepared for the final examination. Two members of the athletic commission were tasked with searching me. I was thoroughly checked for weapons and other banned substances, having my boots, gloves and helmet scanned. When I removed my breastplate they noticed the rings hanging from the chain around my neck.

  They allowed the jewelry.

  What they didn’t allow was the prescription bottle fastened into my belt. For obvious reasons I couldn’t reveal what the pills were, and I had torn off the label to conceal the nature of the medication, but ultimately it didn’t matter – no drugs, legal or otherwise, were permitted inside The Arena. I required four doses a day to keep my tumor in check, and would now have
to go the entire duration of the tournament without any additional medication.

  Suddenly my timeline was even shorter. The longer the game went on, the better my chances were of a blackout – or worse.

  A producer burst through the door wearing a headset, clutching a digital clipboard. With her blond ponytail, bright yellow dress and matching shoes, she didn’t look a day over twenty. “It’s time!” she shouted, pumping her fist in the air. She was bursting at the seams with more rampant enthusiasm than I thought humanly possible at that hour of the morning. “I’m Bethany, and I’ll be accompanying you to your drop point, mister ...” she glanced down and scanned her clipboard. “Moxon!” she shouted, tapping the surface with her polished nail. “Very, very pleased to meet you. And nice eyebrows, if you don’t mind my saying. They do wonders around here, don’t they?”

  “Yeah,” I replied with a nod. “They did a bang-up job.”

  Without another word, she turned, motioning for me to follow. We made our way to the high-speed elevator, where we shot to the rooftop. A small craft awaited us on the sun-drenched hover-pad, engines humming in preparation for takeoff. The wind was powerful, making it difficult to hear.

  “So I’m going to be dropped somewhere in The Arena,” I shouted, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Has my location been decided yet?”

  She wagged her finger and shouted back. “No, Mister Frost made a last-minute decision about the starting points for the competitors. And it’s going to be exciting!”

  The way Bethany said ‘exciting’ troubled me. The glint in her eye led me to believe that our definitions of the word differed greatly.

  We were sailing far above the city before she broke the news about my impending skydive. I’d never taken a lesson, and aside from pulling a ripcord I had no idea what was involved. When the craft hovered to a stop, the pilot offered a quick tutorial, explaining that a pair of toggles would deploy once the canopy had been opened. I could use the handles to guide myself from side to side, avoiding the buildings and other obstructions on the way down. At least my landing wasn’t totally left to chance, but it did little to calm my nerves considering the high winds, and my complete lack of experience.

  Since we were close to the west end of The Arena, I asked if the Hudson might be a suitable drop zone. Landing on water sounded more appealing than concrete.

  “No no no,” the producer shouted, wedging herself into our conversation with an exaggerated two-handed wave. “Landing in the river is not an option, Mister Moxon. You’ll be disqualified immediately if you leave Manhattan. And security measures have been put in place that will ... well, let’s just say that it’s not in anyone’s best interest to take a dip until the tournament it over.” She explained that anyone could tap out, officially exiting the competition at a medical station or at one of the bridges, but simply leaving The Arena unannounced would result in a forfeit – meaning no prize money.

  I gazed out the wraparound window at the hovercrafts scattering the skies. It was about to happen. My basic, run-of-the-mill anxiety swelled to a chest-tightening panic. I attempted to wipe the perspiration from my forehead, but instead dragged the back of my metal gauntlet along my face, causing me to wince and curse. Bethany frowned and gave me a quick reminder about foul language during the competition. Thankfully the pre-show hadn’t begun, so my outburst wasn’t captured on film, but in the moment I wasn’t overly concerned with etiquette. There was a very real chance that I could bounce head-first off the side of a building during my skydive, and if that was about to happen, chances are I was going to drop a couple F-bombs whether the cameras were rolling or not.

  The producer received a notification from the pilot and extended her finger towards me. One minute left. I nodded and moved into position. I pulled on my helmet, flipped down the visor and continued to make adjustments: yanking my parachute straps tighter and fidgeting with my gloves. Of course I was just passing time until the doors opened – a way to keep my trembling hands occupied until the clock ran down. But I kept telling myself that it was preparation. As if any amount of preparation would ready me for what I was going to encounter when I landed.

  Then my mind wandered to the other competitors, and what they must have been contemplating at that exact moment. Nervous anticipation, quiet reflection, or maybe even prayer. If I thought it was worth the effort I would have asked a higher power for something – anything – that would help me survive what I was about to endure. I figured it was a waste of mental energy. Even if an omniscient deity was sitting on a cloud watching Arena Mode, I doubt he would have intervened. He wasn’t going to divinely bestow any of the competitors with the strength and ability to win the tournament just because they asked – no more than he decided the outcome of the Superbowl based on the quarterback’s faith, or granted a music award to the rapper who wore the most impressive gold cross on their necklace.

  If He was listening, I wasn’t in the mood for a deep spiritual conversation anyway. And even if I was, the first question I had would revolve around the tennis ball-sized tumor he put into my head.

  Besides, I had three rings dangling around my neck that were supposed to bring me luck ... it was all the superstitious nonsense I required.

  “We’re live!” Bethany shouted. Tiny red lights blinked to life all around me, and I was suddenly being filmed from every angle by the miniature cameras installed in the hovercraft walls. “Well go ahead, Mox,” she urged me with a beaming smile. “Say something before you jump into The Arena. The world is watching!”

  I looked over my shoulder at no camera in particular and raised my visor, patting my armored chest plate near my heart where the rings were located. “I’d ask everyone out there to wish me luck,” I said with a wink. “But I have everything I need right here.”

  As I plummeted towards the ground, I pictured Peyton curled up on the old battered couch in Excelsior, wrapped in her favorite red blanket, watching the simulcast with tears in her eyes; hands wringing, heart pounding. I hoped that I gave her just a moment of relief – even a tiny smile to ease her pain.

  When I saw the competitors drop into the distance, and Russia’s Son soaring through the clouds above, the gravity of the situation hit me like a head-on collision.

  There was no time for emotion.

  No time for pity.

  And certainly no time to focus on the feelings of others, and what they might be thinking as they watched me compete. The only weapon I had to fight with was my mind, and if I didn’t keep it clear and focused, I wouldn’t last an hour.

  I reached for my ripcord ... it was game time.

  That’s the problem with raising the bar in sports, you know? Once you’ve pushed it up, it’s almost impossible to lower it back down.

  “After mixed martial arts, there was the revival of jousting, followed by full contact swordfighting. Violence, danger, even death – it gradually became acceptable as part of mainstream entertainment.

  “I guess that Arena Mode is the next logical step. And once the viewers get a chance to soak their senses in the digital bloodbath, there’ll be no turning back.

  - Cassandra Cole (Combat Sports Monthly, April 2041 Issue)

  Hurtling towards the Earth at a hundred miles per hour provides an amazing amount of mental clarity. Of course you don’t have enough time to gather and process many thoughts, but the ones that you do have are remarkably sharp.

  A checklist blistered through my synapses:

  Pull ripcord. Check.

  Secure my grip around the toggles. Check.

  Bank to the left and avoid the enormous decorative spike protruding from the top of the building that I’m currently drifting towards. Check.

  As I descended between two of the older buildings in Chelsea, the task that I couldn’t check off my internal notepad was avoiding a fire escape. The sharp metal contraption that had survived the tsunami a decade earlier was still firmly in place, and this one looked particularly hazardous. Still three
stories above the ground, my parachute grazed the side of the building’s orange brick exterior, causing a momentary free-fall. As I dropped, my knee hit the top rung of a rusted metal ladder, and my canopy tangled into a broken grate. I continued to fall until I snapped to a halt, dangling just a few feet above the pavement by my shoulder straps.

  With a considerable amount of struggle, I released myself from the safety buckles, dropping the remaining distance to the ground. I cringed as I landed on my feet, and my left knee buckled. The blue armored boot that extended past my shin was enough to cushion the blow when I struck the ladder, but the depression in the metal indicated the speed at which I’d collided. The good news was that – without my protective gear – my patella would have been shattered; I’d be sitting in the alley, helpless, until my inevitable elimination. But it wasn’t the first time this joint had been battered. It was the same knee I’d dislocated playing high school football. The tournament had been underway for just a few minutes and I was already nursing a painful injury.

  Classic Moxon.

  I studied my surroundings. An assortment of red and brown buildings lined one side of the street, and mature trees dotted the other, bordered by a short chain-link fence. I was on 29th, not far from the Soccer Field at Chelsea Park – the location of one of the twenty-six weapons. According to the satellite images I’d studied with Gavin, it was by far the closest item, but the area was also one of the most exposed; the chest was sitting midfield, right in plain view. There was a chance that one of the other competitors had actually seen it while they parachuted in, and could be heading there right now. Unarmed and with a bad leg, there was no way I could risk going head-to-head with a superhuman in an open field.

  On the other hand, I had few other options. Kenneth wanted to partner up with me, and I still thought that was my best chance of reaching the final four, but at the moment, I was in no condition to stroll around aimlessly hoping for a chance encounter. Especially without a weapon.