Arena Mode (30 page)

“You want to know if it’s frustrating to be on the verge of fame and fortune, only to have an egomaniacal billionaire tear it from my hands? Yes, frustrating is one word for it. Another is ‘infuriating’.

“Make no mistake: I relish the opportunity to take ten billion dollars from Cameron Frost’s pocketbook. But this is about much more than acquiring wealth: it is about claiming what is rightfully mine. At the end, I hope Mister Frost is there to hand me the check personally, and that he has the nerve to look me in the eye when he does it.”

It’s amazing what you can get used to in a short amount of time.
I’m not sure that I was accustomed to seeing people die, though I’d seen enough of that in one day to last me a lifetime. Despite what pandering politicians spout on Sunday morning talk shows, video games do
not
desensitize the younger generation to violence. If pretending to shoot someone with a digital gun on a computer screen gradually turns regular people into stone-cold killers, I’d be the most ruthless competitor in The Arena. As anyone watching that day could attest to, that was clearly not the case. Although, as I casually searched Sergei Taktarov’s body for items we could use, I realized that certain strange and immoral tasks no longer seemed quite so strange or immoral.

Brynja pulled a metallic object from inside the Russian’s belt. “Check this out,” she said, tossing me a small circular holo-com.

I twisted the handheld device clockwise and it powered on, revealing a glowing green battery light that was nearly full. I opened a 3D browser window and used the voice command to create a simulcast link. “Arena Mode, map,” I instructed, and four blips sparked to life over a detailed layout of Manhattan.

Fudō-myōō was near the airport, moving too quickly to be on foot. He had either acquired a vehicle or, more likely, was in flight. Winston Ramsley’s dot remained relatively still – he was camping just north of Chelsea.

“The Gentleman is blocking the North Bridge,” I said, pointing towards the bright red pulse. There was only one remaining way to tap out of the competition: to surrender at an exit point. With only four competitors remaining, Ramsley knew that he could force a confrontation by staking out a position near the skyway.

“Maybe he’ll take fourth place and call it a day?” Brynja suggested with a tiny shrug. “Five million bucks is nothing to sneeze at.”

“No, Ramsley would have left by now if that was his plan. He’s a fighter. He’s competed in Full Contact Swordfighting before, and he has something to prove. If I had to guess, I’d say he wants first place.”

I used the holo-com and toggled to the live feed, which was displaying replay after replay of the Taktarov versus Lewis confrontation from every conceivable angle. Brynja and I had
just
pulled off a pretty spectacular elimination in my humble opinion; no, there weren’t any explosions or cars being tossed through the air, but it was pretty damned impressive nonetheless. If I wasn’t so focused on getting out of The Arena alive, I would have been a little insulted at our lack of media coverage.

“Let’s see what they’ve dug up over at Excelsior.” I contacted Gavin, who howled in celebration the moment his face projected from the screen.

“You did it!” he shouted into the microphone, so loud that I had to dial down the volume. “When I saw you square off with Russia’s Son I was
this close
to storming your apartment and ganking your comic collection, but you pulled through, man.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I said with a chuckle. “Don’t loot my apartment just yet, buddy. I could still make it out of here.”

“So I guess your armor is pretty much toast,” Gavin said.

The only remaining pieces of the suit were my boots and the plates that protected my thighs – all still intact but as battle-scarred as I was. Since Russia’s Son ripped off my breastplate, my arms and torso were completely exposed. I was skeptical of my white tank top’s ability to stop a lightning bolt or slashes from a katana.

“Matty,” Peyton said, leaning into the camera’s field of view. “After you defeated Sergei Taktarov, a news report came out of Eastern Europe ... things are getting bad.”

She explained that the largest recorded mass suicide had just taken place across multiple locations, moments after the Russian fell. The death toll was still rising, and the count had already been confirmed at more than nine thousand.

According to the report, when Frost revealed Sergei Taktarov to the world, it did more than just hype the biggest simulcast event in history – it shook people’s faith.

Many religions have their own version of ‘The Second Coming’, where according to scripture, a supernatural being will return to Earth, ushering in a new era of universal peace; eradicating war, oppression, famine and disease. As Taktarov’s propaganda machine gained momentum and word of his power started to spread, some believed that he was the one they’d been waiting for.

As far as I know, no one had predicted that their messiah would arrive on the day of Frost’s big announcement, and I seriously doubt that anyone expected him to arrive in the form of an antagonistic twenty-year-old Russian who could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes. Sergei Taktarov’s emergence seemed to be an unlikely reason for worship, but in a world that desperately needed saving, there were far worse things than praying for a saviour.

His believers were widespread, with suicides being reported across St. Petersburg, Minsk, Kiev, and Warsaw. According to an iTube video, there was a collective agreement vowing to ‘join the Almighty in Heaven’ should the unthinkable occur during Arena Mode. When Taktarov lost his life, his growing number of followers decided to take theirs. The disturbing contingency plan had been in place for weeks, being discussed and coordinated on a number of forums.

As Peyton continued to explain the situation, a breaking news bulletin blinked into view, floating above the top of the holo-screen. Protests were breaking out in Moscow, where thousands had assembled outside of the Kremlin.

In the wake of the shocking fallout from the event, I was surprised Arena Mode wasn’t cancelled.

Gavin pointed out that thirty-second ads were being sold for upwards of thirty million dollars, a price that doubled since the Lewis versus Taktarov battle. The tournament was becoming the largest cash machine in entertainment history, and there was no chance of anyone pulling the plug now.

“Get out of there,” Peyton pleaded. “You’ve made the final four and you’ll have the money you need. Just run for it.”

“It’s not that simple,” I explained. “We’re boxed in. If we go for the bridge we’ll be ...”

And then I stopped, mid-sentence. A searing pain stabbed me through the temples like a pair of oversized syringes. I wasn’t sure about the events of the following minutes, but I must have lost balance before blacking out. The next thing I remember was sitting on the pavement, slumped against some discarded wooden crates.

The headaches were getting far more intense and striking with greater frequency.

When I was reacquainted with my senses, Brynja retrieved the holo-com and passed it down to me so I could continue the conversation with my friends back at Excelsior.

“How long since your last pill?” Gavin asked quietly, as if he thought that speaking too loud would aggravate my condition.

I feverishly rubbed my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut. “Too long.” The setting sun was a harsh, glowing reminder of how late in the day it was getting and of how little time I had left. I required a dose every four hours to combat the side effects of my tumor, and I hadn’t popped a pill since sunrise.

“I know you’re in pain, but you can’t just sit there,” Peyton said cautiously, barely louder than a whisper. “You’re hanging on by a thread as it is. In an hour or two...”

“I
know
,” I snapped back, biting off my words. “I don’t need you to explain it to me.”

“Don’t glitch out on us,” she replied, calm and reassuring. “
Relax
. You need to concentrate.”

“It’s hard to calm down and concentrate when everyone keeps
telling me
to calm down and concentrate.” I groaned as I regained my footing. Brynja reached out and held my arm for support, and I pulled away, refusing her assistance. She backed off, allowing me some much-needed space.

“Everything is going to work out,” Peyton added. “I
know
it will.”

“Just stop it!” I screamed into the com, straining my voice. “Peyton, just stop saying you
know
everything is going to be fine, and you
know
I’ll be all right. You
don’t
know. You’re just putting more pressure on me when you keep saying the same shit over and over.”

“I was just trying to ...”

“To make
yourself
feel better. It’s not helping
me
, okay? Just leave me alone!” I threw the com into the brick wall across the alley, cracking the metal casing.

“Are you done?” Brynja asked, as if she was addressing a petulant child in mid-tantrum.

I didn’t reply; I was stubborn. I huffed and paced, grumbling to myself. I finally retrieved the com from the pavement which, luckily, was still in one piece – and functional.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you and that girl,” Brynja added flatly, “and I don’t care. But she’s right – I know you don’t want to hear it, but you
do
need to relax and concentrate. You can throw a fit when we’re out of The Arena.”

Part of me wanted to call Peyton back and apologize. It wasn’t the time or place. We could have that conversation if I survived – I needed my head in the game.

I fidgeted with the com as I paced the length of the alley, weighing options and considering the odds. We
could
search the area for caskets, but there was no way to tell which of them had already been opened. Several were clustered around midtown, which was nearby, but that plan seemed like a longshot at best; the area was left in pieces after Russia’s Son had brawled with Dwayne Lewis for a good portion of the afternoon. What remained looked like the aftermath of a nuclear strike. Besides, we didn’t have the time or resources to sift through tons of rubble in search of caskets, especially ones that may or may not contain a useful item.

Lost inside my thoughts, I was caught off guard by the small blue manticore padding down the alley, purring like a house cat awaiting his dinner. Melvin approached and rubbed his head against my boot. His dragon wings expanded, and with a few flaps, he was face-to-face with me, pressing his nose into my cheek.

I wondered if he could help us bypass the Gentleman. He was a strong ally, but Melvin had a tendency to come and go as he pleased, and Brynja was having little success communicating with him. All she could discern was that he was sleepy, and had an itch behind his left ear that was preventing him from napping. Not overly helpful.

Coupled with Brynja’s lack of offensive capabilities and my brain being fried, the three of us weren’t exactly a force to be reckoned with. Hopefully The Gentleman didn’t know that. If we approached with a manticore in tow, Ramsley might back down when he saw he was outgunned three-to-one.

I relayed my plan to Brynja without speaking, worried that my words would be broadcast across the live feed, captured by any number of cameras hovering overhead.

She nodded in agreement, and we left to confront our final obstacle.

Brynja and I marched up 7th Street with Melvin flying closely overhead.
After a short walk, we approached a security camera at street level, attached to a security gate outside of a pizzeria. A faint red light blinked inside the casing. It was recording, as were virtually all of the security cams in The City; anything I said would be replayed on the simulcast, and hopefully, The Gentleman was watching.

I put on my game face and stared intensely at the lens. “Winston Ramsley,” I shouted with as much conviction as I could muster, “We’re on our way to the North Bridge, and we know you’re there. This is your last chance to cross it and tap out. As you can see we have the numbers on our side ... and unlike the last time the British were in trouble during a conflict, you won’t have America to jump in and save you.”