by J Bennett
Gold scratches his head. “Oh wow, man, sorry about that. Didn’t realize how close to the line you were. I mean, I thought you were def going to win. Weird, right?”
Pretty Boy stares down at his feet and then at the red line, like he can’t quite believe what happened. When the holo-screen shows Gold’s face as the winner, Pretty Boy spins around and dives at Gold with a raging howl. The smaller man grabs Pretty Boy, slams him to the floor, and delivers a wicked punch. Clearly whatever desolate kid warehouse Gold grew up in gave him plenty of non-traditional hand-to-hand combat training.
Then Tiger Claw is on them, pulling Gold off his hapless opponent. Pretty Boy moans, clutching his mouth. Blood drips between his fingers.
“Oh, right, I wasn’t supposed to hit the face,” Gold says, shaking out his hand. “All these rules.” He steps out of the ring.
As he passes by, I can’t help myself. “Good job,” I tell him sincerely. That underdog-class clown combo was truly a performance. The audience is going to heart him, and so are the producers.
“That guy spent eight years learning to punch. I’ve spent my whole life learning how to take one,” Gold says, and heads over to his bag in the corner.
“Quite a show, quite a show,” The Professor preens, tugging his bow tie. “Every experiment contains endless surprises, which is why a true scientist should never assume an outcome.”
The next match is a joke. As soon as the gunshot sounds, Mermaid rushes, and Feathers, the girl who came in late, lets out a squeak of alarm, dashing away from her grasp. Mermaid chases her around the ring, then gets her hands on her opponent and slams the girl into the ground so hard that we can hear the air whoosh out of Feather’s lungs. Mermaid grabs the girl’s leg, and just as she begins bending it back at an unnatural angle, Feathers frantically taps out, pounding the mat with both hands.
“Yes!” Mermaid stands triumphant and thumps her chest. If Amazon warriors ever wore skin-tight blue dresses, this is what they would look like.
Then she glares at me. The cams drink it up.
“Looks like we might have some friction building,” The Professor comments to the cam drone in his corner.
“You can take her,” Sequoia whispers to me, even though we both know this is a lie.
Next up, Horns stomps into the ring and cracks his knuckles. The heavily tattooed competitor sporting a green mohawk follows him in, and the look on his face says he knows he’s shark chum. Horns didn’t finish the obstacle course, but it’s obvi why he’s back. As soon as the gunshot rings through the room, he lets out a roar that just about rattles my teeth. In response, Mohawk does the smart thing and taps out. He then curses the show loudly and colorfully and storms out the front door.
Honestly, though, knowing when to fight and when to flee is a good skill to have. Tickles the Elf often emphasizes this point and credits it with his longer-than-average henchman career. I hope the producers can appreciate Mohawk’s laudable common sense.
“Well, not every experiment is a success,” The Professor says glumly into the camera. “When one element is much stronger than another, the whole process can fizzle.” He perks up. “Of course, no experiment is truly a failure. We always learn from every trial.”
That leaves one more match. Even before my image appears on the holo-screen, I step into the ring. The figure in the cowl joins me. Ze seems to be about my height and not overtly bulky, though it’s hard to tell beneath the black shroud.
I try to ignore my need to pee, but the urge seems to fill my thoughts. I close my hands into fists. Look focused, confident, I remind myself. The cams will be all over me now. I try to get my feet moving, but they feel stuck to the ground.
It’s just Anthony, I think. Except the sparring robo at Palinksy’s doesn’t launch himself at me as soon as the gunshot sounds. The bulk of Cowl rams into me, and I stumble back, almost falling. I remember about the circle. Damn! Where is the line? I glance down, but don’t see it.
Fists whirl at me. One glances off my shoulder. Another hits my stomach, and I hear myself cry out. My body takes over, blocking, pushing. I grab a wrist, and yank zir forward. Ze stumbles. Now I’m the one putting fists into zir. One, two. I feel them land. And then ze is gone, dancing back. I take a breath and feel a spike of pain in my side.
We go at each other again. Cowl clearly has training. Zir fists and legs are fast, and ze keeps slipping out of my grip. In comparison, I feel clumsy and slow, all my training diluted by the fear and adrenaline pumping through me.
The clock is ticking down. It feels like we’ve been in the circle forever. Cowl delivers a swift uppercut to my chest, and I break away, gasping for breath. Good thing I don’t have fake boobs — that hit surely would’ve popped something.
I gulp in air. When Cowl comes at me again, I try to get around zir, box zir into the corner, but ze’s too fast. Everything I try to do is blocked or countered. I glance at the clock. Twenty seconds left. Ze’s landed more punches. Even if I outlast the clock, ze will be called the winner.
No doubt I look as slow as a sloth in comparison to that whirling cowl.
The cowl.
The thought hits my brain, and I immediately move in. I allow zir to grab me. As zir knee comes up toward my abdomen, I reach under zir arms and grab two handfuls of the cowl. I block zir knee with my knee and head butt zir shoulder. Ze steps back, then stumbles as I yank the cowl toward me.
Ten seconds left on the clock.
I lean back on my heels. Ze tugs against me, just as I wanted. I reach forward, grab more of the cowl and let out a guttural scream as I swing zir as hard as I can. I am the fulcrum; the cowl is the lever. The non is thrown off balance. At the apex of the swing, I release the cowl, and ze goes toppling down, rolling over the line. Cowl jumps to zir feet, but the match is over.
As soon as I see my picture glowing on the screen, I fall to my knees. All the suppressed pain from the punches, elbows, and knees I took rises up at once. It hurts to breathe, but I gobble up air. My opponent rises slowly and walks back into the ring. I tense.
“Shining job,” a soft voice says. A hand juts out, and though I’d prefer to just lie on the mat for a few more hours or a few more days, I take it. A strong arm jolts me to my feet.
“You were hardy,” I say.
“You too,” the soft voice replies. I hear a sniffle from beneath the hood.
“It’s not over yet,” I tell zir.
The head nods, but we both know it will be hard to climb out of the hole of a loss, especially with only three spots available.
The Professor claps his hands. “Proof that any element may become unstable under the right circumstances,” he says at a cam drone.
He jabbers on, but I focus on limping to the med table set up in the back of the room. Sequoia is quickly at my side offering me an arm, but I gently push him away. “No help,” I say softly. “Not in front of the cams.”
“Welcome,” says the med bot at the table. “What is the nature of your injury?” The robo looks like a snowman, with a happy illuminated smile.
“Just pain dampeners and anti-inflammatories,” I reply. “Nothing that affects mental clarity.”
I know the cam drones are watching, and so is Mermaid. Each breath pushes searing pain throughout my body. I might have a cracked rib, but I can’t wrap it and give my next opponent a clear target of attack. Instead, I pop the painkillers and other pills the med bot issues and hope they work fast. I can’t survive another match like that.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. In the next round, I face Feathers. She already looks beaten as she shuffles into the ring. When I get my hands on her, she offers only a few tepid slaps. I give her a sharp elbow to the stomach, and she goes slack, barely resisting as I drag and then shove her out of the ring. The match takes 32 seconds. I try to look bold and calm as I stand inside the circle, but it’s hard not to notice Feathers crumpled in a heap, dry heaving just on the other side of the line.
I didn’t hurt her too much, I tell
myself. Nothing permanent.
Sequoia is up next. I’d pondered if they would pit him against Horns, but he’s paired with Pretty Boy instead. Poor guy isn’t living up to his nickname at the moment: Thanks to Gold’s sucker punch, his jaw is swollen and already discolored.
Speak of the devil, Gold sidles up next to me to watch the fight. He’s looking a little rough around the edges himself. He could have taken some meds to get the swelling down on his face, but it seems like he’s made the decision to wear his wounds with pride.
“They’re saving the big fights until the last round,” he whispers.
Sequoia proves him right. Pretty Boy gets in two good shots before Sequoia grabs him and tosses him out of the ring like he was a hover board. This time, Sequoia bellows, and it’s a good one. Loud and feral.
At my side, Gold whistles softly. “Nice touch. You tell him to do that?”
“Maybe. Who do you think you’ll get? Cowl?”
“The non? Not sure.” Something’s edgy in his voice. I glance at him, noting his pinched brow.
“What is it?”
He glances up, checking that the cams are mostly hovering over Pretty Boy as he drags himself up. Another cam focuses on The Professor, who continues to offer commentary on the match.
“They’re going to need at least one decent match-up this round,” Gold says quietly.
I look at the remaining competitors. We’ve got an uneven number since Mohawk stomped out the door. “Maybe you’ll get a pass,” I joke.
“Not likely. The head producer is clever. He’s got a surprise waiting. I can feel it.”
We both fall silent as the holo-screen announces the next match. Three images appear.
Horns faces Chin Spike and Cowl together. As Horns stomps into the ring, Gold slips away from my side. Sequoia replaces him, hardly a red curl out of place.
“Nice bellow,” I tell him.
He grins at me, but then remembers his character and quickly replaces his smile with a curt, cold-faced nod. The gunshot rings out, and the battle in the circle begins.
For the first minute, it looks like the team might pull a David versus Goliath. They attack together, forcing Horns off balance. Cowl throws heavy hits that make the giant grunt in pain. But then one of Horns’ big fists hits Chin Spike hard, and he’s left dazed on the floor. At The Professor’s nod, Tiger Claw drags him out of ring before the giant can do more damage.
Horns has a look in his eyes. He’s either the finest actor I’ve ever seen, or he’s rocking a serious rage issue. He barks curses, and those fists come down on Cowl like clubs. Ze manages to survive in the ring for another full minute, taunting Horns with short jabs, but ze is just too small. Zir blows can’t topple the big man, and eventually Horns grabs Cowl’s arm and slams zir down hard enough to make me wince.
When Cowl sees the enraged giant getting ready for a bone-crunching stomp, ze does the smart thing and rolls across the red line. Horns doesn’t bellow at his victory; he roars, a sound primal and terrifying. The skull tattoos on his chest glisten with sweat and seem to laugh as he pulls in a heavy breath.
When I look at Sequoia, I see his fear. It’s obvi that the two big men will be paired in the last fight. Sequoia has more training and better fighting skills, but can he overcome all that raw power and unhinged anger?
Cowl takes wobbly steps out of the ring. Without thinking, I press forward, put one of zir arms over my shoulder and take zir weight. It doesn’t matter if ze looks weak now. With two losses, ze won’t be making the cut.
“It was an impossible match,” I tell zir as I steer zir toward the med table.
“I should have found a way,” the soft voice replies.
I don’t know how to reply to that without seeming breezy, so I just get the non to the med table, give zir a pat on the back, and turn away. Chin Spike is already at the table groaning and holding his ribs. Tiger Claw half drags, half carries him to a waiting car outside. He’s going right to the critical care clinic. A cam drone follows them into the sunlight, eager to capture the full humiliation.
“Obviously, one element had a much higher atomic weight than the others,” The Professor is saying in his post-match review. His voice has lost a bit of enthusiasm, and I wonder if Gerald, the man behind the Persona, is struggling with the violence of his own tryouts.
My stomach turns. This is sick; people are pummeling each other for fame, or, in my case, for dollars. And somewhere in one of these hidden rooms, a group of soulless producers is turning our blood and bruises into entertainment.
PIC. Pain is currency.
The final match of the second round is announced. Gold steps into the ring, followed by Mermaid. All I want to do is turn away, but the cam drones still film. I have to watch. Have to look strong.
“You know, it used to be considered uncouth to hit a woman,” Gold jokes. “But seeing as how you hit harder than me, I’m sure my ancestors will forgive me.”
“What makes you think you’ll land a blow?” Mermaid responds sweetly. She takes slow, dancing steps around the ring, and Gold shadows her.
As soon as the sharp crack of the gunshot starts the match, Gold launches himself at Mermaid. The fast assault surprises her — she probably expected him to hang back, fight cagey like in his first match. Gold almost gets her out of the ring. He’s punching fast and wild, forcing her back as she struggles to recover. His movements are imprecise, as wild as a street fight, but he has the upper hand, at least for a moment.
And then, fluid as water, Mermaid slips away from his assault. She dives across the ring to give herself more space. Gold tries to keep up the pressure, twisting quickly and going after her again, but it’s too late. Mermaid is ready now. She blocks his blows and delivers vicious counterpunches and kicks. Within ten seconds, the match has entirely changed. Now Gold is on the defensive, stepping back, trying to throw up his arms to block her blows. Mermaid keeps getting through his defenses. Damn, she’s fast, striking like a pit viper.
Gold impressively survives as the seconds tick down. Once, twice, three times, it looks like the match is over. Mermaid gets him precariously close to the edge of the ring, and Gold somehow pushes her back or forces her in a different direction. Twice she puts him on the ground and almost locks him into a hold, but he finds a way to squirm out of it and rushes to the other side of the ring like a wounded rabbit.
In the end, he manages to run out the clock. Three minutes of brutal hell. There is absolutely no doubt about the winner.
As soon as the time expires, Gold slumps to his knees while Mermaid triumphantly stands over him, hardly a hair out of place. After just the slightest pause, her picture shines bright on the holo-screen.
Head held high, she turns on her heel and walks out of the ring. Tiger Claw moves in to help Gold, but I beat him to it. I offer a hand. Gold looks up at me, his eyes glazed with pain. Mermaid pummeled him to a pulp of bruises that darken his copper skin.
“I survived,” he says to me and to the cam drones hovering over my shoulder.
“You did,” I confirm.
He laughs, a loud and giddy sound that ends with a painful groan. He grabs my hand, and I pull him up. He wobbles, and I catch him. I’m immediately concerned by how he sags against me, giving me almost all his weight.
“You should have tapped out,” I tell him. “You were no match for her.”
He wheezes out another laugh. “I’m not dead, am I?”
“Almost.”
“Not dead. Not tapping out.” He staggers, and I brace to keep him upright. The movement sends daggers of pain through my ribs. What a crazy bastard. I get him to the med table, where he gratefully slides into a chair. As The Professor jabbers on about resiliency, I order some mild pain meds from the robo and hand them to Gold.
“You should go to the clinic,” I tell him, “get some scans just in case anything’s broken or she mangled your appendix or something.”
After making sure the cams are far away, Gold pops the pills into his
mouth. “I’m staying to the end,” he says.
We both know he won’t be worth anything in another match, but Gold has already shown that he’s willing to die for this role. He’s an utter lobotomy, but a part of me grudgingly respects his grit. He might have lost this match, but something tells me viewers at home will only love him more for his refusal to go down.
We get a half hour to rest before the final round. I swallow a few more painkillers and let them work. My left knee is already swollen and discolored, but it holds my weight. Nothing to do about the ribs. Every breath stings.
Sequoia offers me a fancy food bar that actually contains bits of real fruit. I sit next to him, my back against the wall, and try not to look at the weapons rack.
“You have to go hard against him,” I say to my friend. We both know who I mean. Horns is stalking around the room like a raging bull. “If you give him one inch, he’ll…”
“Destroy me,” Sequoia says.
“And you’ve got to play your part. Play the berserker.”
Sequoia sighs. “I need to win this one, don’t I?”
I put a hand on his arm. “They won’t sign two berserkers.”
“You’ve got to win, too, Wholesome,” a voice says above me. Gold makes slow, halting progress as he settles on the floor to sit on my other side. “They’re only going to take one woman.”
I scoff. “Token girls were only a thing in the early days. After all, the greatest hero in this town for the past 20 years has been a woman.”
“The Professor only has three henchmen slots,” Gold says. “So, he’s going to take a berserker, a comic relief, and a honey pot.” Gold looks across to Mermaid. “You’ve got to beat her and make it look good.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I say sarcastically.
“You can do it. I’ve seen the way you move. You’ve got decent training.” Gold looks at me intently. “She’ll want to put on a show for the producers. She’ll string you around in the beginning, but she won’t let it last too long before she goes for the win. Use her methods against her: Go out hard, then flounder. Let her get in some hits. Make like you’re just about to give up. She’ll think she has you and might let her guard down. That’s when you go back hard at her. Everything you’ve got. It might work. Probably not, but that’s your only shot.”
