Arena Mode

by Blake Northcott

  Brynja Guðmundsdóttir - 0 eliminations

  (eliminated) Jérôme Fontaine - 1 elimination, 1 kill

  “Nice going, killer!” Gavin clapped his hands in celebration. “Three eliminations so far? I thought the rooftop explosion killed those two chicks, not you? And who was the third?”

  “It was Vitesse, but I had some help.” The cameras must not have caught the manticore stabbing Fontaine, and assumed it was my doing. I suppose whoever was keeping score gave me credit for eliminating Serafina and Arirose as well, since I was the one who tricked them into opening the rigged casket.

  I noticed a discrepancy with the difference between eliminations and kills – I wasn’t aware anyone had made it out of The Arena alive. “By the way, why does Fudō have one kill, but two eliminations?”

  “It was just on the news,” Peyton said. “The Living Eye still had a pulse after he got stabbed, so he was airlifted to a hospital. He’s in serious condition and he’s in a coma, but he made it.”

  “Kenneth’s all right?” Brynja shouted, pushing her way into the cam’s field of view. “Did you hear any other news? Can you give us a more recent update?”

  “Sorry,” I told Brynja, rubbing her shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do for him right now. As soon as we get out of here, we’ll visit, but now we have to focus.”

  Peyton’s eyes trailed along my hand. She pressed her lips together and stiffened her posture. “I don’t mean to interrupt you two,” she said sternly, “but is there anything else we can do for you? Matt’s right – you need to focus. On the tournament.”

  I looked to Peyton and became incredibly aware of where my hand still was. I jerked away from Brynja’s shoulder as if it were a hot burner.

  Brynja was right: for a genius I was a huge dumb-ass.

  “What’s going on behind you?” Gavin asked, peering quizzically into his cam.

  I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the power had been cut from the area. Every visible screen in the surrounding area (and there were dozens of them) had fallen dark. When they flickered back to life, we were about to receive a game-changer.

  Advertisements were pervasive in The City – and not just within Times Square. Digital billboards polluted every square inch of free space within the affluent borough; bright, glittering monuments begging for pedestrians’ attention twenty-four hours a day. Normally the holo-screens depicted bubbling sodas and trendy jeans and anorexic models dousing themselves in six-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume, but in a blink they all changed. Every screen, everywhere, suddenly displayed a live feed of Cameron Frost. He was sitting in his office, as if he were prepared to give a Presidential Address.

  “I admire the courage displayed by everyone competing today,” he began. “You’ve fought bravely. If only I was born with the abilities that you were blessed with ...” he trailed off, momentarily breaking eye contact with the camera. “I wish I could be there with you, out on the battlefield.”

  “What’s going on?” Gavin asked. He could hear Frost’s voice clearly through my com.

  “He’s everywhere,” I said with surprise. “On every screen in The City.”

  Gavin’s eyes flicked to the Trinitron, and then back towards me. “The simulcast is just showing replays of all the previous eliminations. The feed you’re watching must be internal only.”

  Frost leaned in on his elbows and glared at the camera lens, taking on a slightly more assertive tone. “It has come to my attention, however, that some competitors have found a way to disable their epidermal implants, making it very difficult to track them. As you all know, camping is strictly forbidden. And some of you have even gone out of your way to avoid conflicts, which disappoints me. Moreover, it’s a disappointment to the billions of people watching around the world.”

  “To that end,” Frost added, “I am going to be initiating phase two of Arena Mode in order to spark a competitive fire beneath the remaining six combatants.” He forced his mouth into a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t think of this as a penalty – think of it as an opportunity. A chance to pursue the way of the warrior. Always remember: dying with your sword still sheathed is the ultimate regret.”

  Cameron Frost’s motivational speech came to an abrupt end, and with a sudden blip, every screen reverted back to their original advertisement.

  “Phase two?” Peyton asked, her voice strained. “What do you think he means by sparking a fire under you?”

  I wondered the same thing, hoping it wouldn’t literally have anything to do with being set on fire.

  The screens surrounding us flickered again, and they produced a map of The Arena. Not unlike the holographic image that appeared from our epidermal implants, this map revealed the location of everyone who remained in the competition. A bright, blinking icon with our names marked above them indicated our exact locations. And worse, three blips were in motion, converging on ours.

  “Are you seeing this?” Brynja shouted, slamming the back of her fist into the overturned ambulance.

  I nodded. “Kinda hard to miss. I think everyone is seeing it.”

  Hover-cams swarmed above, security monitors capped every streetlight, and satellites looked down on us from orbit – we couldn’t have been more exposed. Brynja and I did our best to avoid the other competitors up until that point, but Frost wanted to reveal our location, and we were powerless to stop him.

  I spun towards Brynja. “Stay out of the battle. If you fade out and leave now you can make it to the North Bridge. Just wait for two more eliminations and then tap out.”

  “What the hell?” she shouted, shoving my shoulder. “That’s insane – I’m not leaving you here alone. We agreed to stay together.”

  Things were happening too fast. I couldn’t put Brynja in danger – if she stayed here, I couldn’t protect her. “All right, maybe you can be lookout, and give me a signal when someone is coming.”

  “So now you’re just throwing me a bone?” she shouted, throwing her hands apart. “You know what, Mox – thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need your bone. I’ve had more bones than you can count.” She froze for a moment, eyes widening. “Oh my god, I really just said that.”

  “There’s no more hiding, Brynja. Our best chance of survival is shot. If we split up, at least one of us can make it.”

  “I’m not going to just let you die, dumb-ass. You’re stuck with me.” She jammed the point of her finger into my breastplate. “You’re the super-genius, so come up with something. A plan that’s at least ten percent less suicidal than your last one.”

  Peyton shouted from the com seconds before the power bar depleted. “Someone’s on their...” is all I was able to catch before the screen faded to black.

  I launched the device into the ground with a frustrated scream, smashing it to pieces on the pavement.

  A moment later, the air disrupted above us. It was a low-pitched rumble, like a jet passing over the city. I shielded my eyes from the blinding sun and peered above the skyline; Russia’s Son was approaching at a dizzying speed.

  Brynja clasped my hand and yanked it, sprinting towards the nearest alley. As we ran, I felt a blistering heat rise from the street behind us. it was Taktarov’s laser vision, searing the pavement at our feet like an oversized magnifying glass about to burn fleeing ants.

  We stumbled into the darkened space between two buildings. “Come on,” I said between labored breaths, motioning to the opposite end of the alley. “If we make it out, a subway tunnel is just a half-block east. We might be able to lose him underground.”

  We ran towards the sunlit opening that spilled from the street ahead, only to stop dead in our tracks when a silhouette appeared, blocking the exit. A man, more than ten feet tall, lumbered towards us with his shoulders hunched, and a stoic expression carved into his face.

  “Sorry man,” Sledge mumbled. “Ain’t nothing personal. I’ll make this as quick as possible.”

  I scooped a handful of r
usted nails from the alley’s floor and dumped them into the K9’s second barrel. Without hesitation, I took aim and fired, embedding the projectiles deep into Lewis’ chest.

  He plucked them from his skin and tossed them aside without missing a step. It was discouraging to say the least. I’d removed splinters with more difficulty.

  I took another step back and glanced over my shoulder at Brynja. “Get out of here,” I shouted. “Fade out and run!”

  “Kill me instead,” she called out, stepping in front of me.

  Dwayne Lewis stopped and shook his head, visibly confused. “I’m not killing a girl.”

  “A girl?” she replied, creasing her soft features into an agitated frown. “Fuck you! I could be the strongest person in this tournament for all you know. I’m here to fight, just like you.”

  “I’m not here to fight,” he said without hesitation. “I’m here to make the final four and get out of this hellhole. Two more gotta go before I get paid, and your boyfriend is in my way.”

  I could hear Brynja’s voice ringing in my head, louder and more clearly than my own thoughts. Get out of here you idiot. I can’t distract him for long. At least if she ghosted, she’d be safe – I didn’t have the same luxury. I raced back to the opposite end of the alley, just as Russia’s Son touched down in the intersection.

  Sandwiched between the two most powerful competitors, I had a single play left. I sprinted back towards Brynja during her stare-down with Lewis. “Sledge,” I shouted. “That’s Sergei Taktarov coming towards us. He murdered Glendinning.”

  “That’s the guy who killed Dozer?” Lewis shot me a skeptical glance. “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me to save your own ass?”

  He must not have been near a screen when the first elimination took place, and was unaware that one of his former teammates – a close personal friend – had been mercilessly dropped to his death by the Russian.

  “I can show you.” I held Brynja’s hand and waved Lewis in, inviting him to kneel down.

  Are you out of your mind?! Brynja screamed inside my head, so loudly that I thought my tumor had exploded.

  If you have a better plan, by all means, let me know, I replied.

  Lewis nodded slowly and leaned down, glancing in my direction. “If this is a trick,” he said, quiet and toneless, “I’m tearing your arms off.”

  Not sure how to respond, I just offered a small nod.

  Brynja pressed her hand into the giant’s muscular chest, and I infused her mind with every sight and sound I could recall from earlier that morning. Every punch, every kick, every punishing blow. The moment that Sergei Taktarov dragged Paul Glendinning into the sky, soaring into orbit. And the fall that ended with an explosion; his friend, flailing in terror, before colliding with the South Bridge.

  I passed every emotion through Brynja, using her as a living conduit, searing the memory deep into Lewis’ mind. My shock and horror was now his to experience.

  His eyes glazed over, welling with emotion. “Looks like you two caught a break,” he said softly.

  Sledge stood without another word and stomped past us, growing with each step. His height increased by half, and his massive frame widened until his shoulders brushed the walls of the buildings on either side. Narrowly making it out of the alley, he turned towards Russia’s Son and punched his fist into the palm of his hand. “Just the man I’m looking for,” he thundered in a deep baritone. And for the first time, I saw emotion stirring inside him. Not just fire or a steely determination. It was hate. And unfortunately for the Russian, it was about to be unleashed.

  After its conclusion, videos from the Tournament of 2041 were shared, replayed, scrutinized, and discussed by virtually every person on the planet. If you had internet access, it was a given that you saw at least part of the event – it was unavoidable. For years you couldn’t visit a website without being exposed to images or animated sequences from moments that transpired inside The Arena. But whether you were one of the four billion people who saw the simulcast live or were just a casual observer who watched the replays after the fact, there’s no doubt that you witnessed this showdown: Dwayne ‘Sledge’ Lewis versus Sergei Taktarov, better known as ‘Russia’s Son’.

  Their battle in midtown Manhattan inspired two video games, a series of digital comics, and a Hollywood summer blockbuster.

  The legacy that their fight left behind was undeniable, and the videos definitely told part of the story. But being there in person – hearing the sounds, feeling the impact, and witnessing the sheer devastation as it occurred – was almost beyond description.

  Lewis stood in the deserted street, balling his cinderblock-sized hands into tightly clenched fists. As he began to march forward, the ground shook beneath his weight, fracturing the pavement with every step.

  Taktarov remained still, hovering several feet above the ground. He waited patiently for his opponent to approach as his eyes crackled with energy.

  Lewis was the first to attack. He scooped up a police cruiser with one hand and lobbed it several blocks, spiralling it like a football. Taktarov sliced it in half with his heat vision: two pencil-thin beams of light that bisected the car like searing hot knives through a stick of butter. The halves of the vehicle dropped harmlessly to the street, charred and smoking as they smashed into the pavement with a heavy clank.

  Undeterred, Lewis continued his onslaught. He yanked cars, trucks and motorcycles off the road – anything he could get his hands on – launching them one after the other. Taktarov alternated between swatting them away and cutting them down with his lasers. When the monstrous American ran out of vehicles, he began tearing lamp posts from the ground. He threw them like javelins, forcing the Russian to spin and evade the incoming projectiles.

  Realizing this form of attack was having no effect, Lewis shifted strategies. He broke into a full sprint, kicking up a wake of broken asphalt behind him. When he leaped off the ground, Taktarov soared forward to intercept, and their bodies collided in mid-air more than fifty feet above the ground. The impact caused a thunderclap that echoed throughout The City. The windows of nearby buildings exploded from the pressure, causing it to rain shards of glass.

  They spent the following hour trading punches; explosive, punishing blows that sent each other sailing impossible distances. With each successfully landed strike, whoever was on the receiving end would collide with a car, streetlight or building, pulverizing whatever their body crashed into.

  The destruction was calculated in the billions, surpassing even the cost to repair the damage that the tsunami of 2031 had caused when it tore through Manhattan. Bulletproof windows were shattered. Titanium columns bent. At one point, Lewis grabbed two handfuls of Taktarov’s cape and swung him in a full circle, launching him through the seventh story of the Empire State Building – a structure that had recently been reinforced with iridium plating (and, at the time, was believed to be able to withstand a collision from a Boeing 747).

  Pinning the Russian beneath his enormous frame, Lewis unleashed a volley of punches that embedded his smaller opponent deep into the sidewalk. His fists were like pistons, methodically smashing Taktarov’s body further into the ground with each blow. For the first time in their encounter, some physical damage was evident. Russia’s Son was bleeding profusely from the nose, and had visible swelling around his eyes. With Taktarov lying prone, Sledge continued his assault by jumping into the air, stomping down on the Russian’s chest with both feet. The ground rumbled and gave way, sinking them deep into a fissure.

  I hoped that neither man would survive. That somehow they would make contact with an electrical wire beneath the street, or cause a gas explosion that abruptly ended both their lives. I knew it was a longshot, but in the moment it seemed like my only hope of survival. I imagined a one-on-one encounter with either man, rolling the possibilities over in my mind in every conceivable way. Each scenario ended the same: with me being pummeled into a barely-recognizable mess, and my frien
ds identifying what was left of my mangled corpse the following day at the morgue.

  Taktarov’s body was lying in a hole so wide and deep it looked as if a meteor had caused it. When Lewis crawled from the pit, the battle appeared to be over. He lumbered to his feet, brushed some dust from his arms and took a few short steps.

  He had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  The Russian floated silently from the opening with his jaw tightly clenched, eyes aflame. He hovered for a moment and wiped a gloved hand across his bloodied nose, streaking a crimson line across his cheek. Within a moment, his injuries disappeared. Taktarov’s bruises faded, his bleeding stopped, and he seemed more infused with raw power than when their confrontation began.

  The Russian screamed, wild and guttural, and the translation module instantly appeared on the holo-screen I was watching. “Prepare yourself!”

  Sledge turned in time for the lasers to pierce his heart, exiting through a pair of holes in his back. He froze. When the beam dissipated, Lewis pressed his hands into his chest, likely in an attempt to stop the bleeding. The damage had been done. Even his accelerated healing factor wouldn’t be able to repair a mortal wound like this one.

  As Lewis’ knees buckled beneath him, Taktarov soared forward, catching him with a powerful uppercut. The punch sent the American’s body spinning through the air like an out of control aircraft, eventually crash-landing into the street with an explosion of asphalt.

  The Russian marched towards the nearest hovering camera, glaring directly into the lens. “This,” he declared, raising a fist, “is but a small example of my power.” He stepped aside to present the viewing audience with a better look at the disaster; the collapsed buildings and burning cars that littered the street behind him. “What you are seeing now will soon be everywhere. A new Red Army will emerge. Not only here, but in every country that America has infected. The workers will rise. And I will lead them.”