Arena Mode (28 page)

I scooped a handful of rusted 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 friends 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.”

He grabbed the camera and pulled it close, until his face filled the entire screen. “Before I can lead the revolution, I will finish this game. Two of your strongest Americans lie dead because of my power. Next, I will destroy the final two. They are running now, to hide like cowards. I will find them.”

As the battle raged between Sledge and Russia’s Son, we were gradually driven south.
Brynja and I passed Greenwich Village and entered Lower Manhattan, putting as much distance between ourselves and the chaos as possible. As we fled, the battle unfolded on holo-screens all around us, splashed across the sides of buildings.

We saw Sledge’s body. We saw Taktarov’s terrifying victory speech. And when he mentioned ‘the American cowards’ who were running away, we knew exactly who he was referring to. We ran faster.

I sprinted for longer than I thought possible – chest aching, feet swollen, the lactic acid building in my muscles until they felt like lead. When my body would no longer respond, I ducked behind a dumpster and dropped to my knees, gasping for air.

Brynja had little sympathy. She had the endurance of a marathon runner, and kept pace without breaking a sweat. “You need to move your ass,” she instructed, lightly tapping my leg with the toe of her boot.

I struggled to fill my lungs with enough oxygen to respond. “I can’t.”

“No, you mean you
won’t
. We met for a reason, and I’m not going to stand here and let you die.”

“A reason?”

“
Yes
,” she said emphatically, “a
reason
. I’ve spent three years trying to connect with someone who could help with my transformations. Since we met, I’ve had control. I can fade in and out when you’re focused on me, but it’s more than just that: when I’m in my physical state, I can actually feel again.
Really
feel.” She reached down and wrapped her tiny hands around my upper arm, lugging me to my feet with a swift jerk. “When someone gives me their focus, I can pick up objects, touch people, and do all the stuff that we take for granted. But it was always so temporary. It’s like my body knew it would soon be gone, so it wouldn’t let me get too comfortable. When I’m with you, I feel a warmth inside. If
you
die,
that
dies. I need you with me to control this – whatever ‘this’ is.”