Arena Mode (34 page)

“Well
find him
,” Frost ordered. “Give me his location the second a camera spots him, and I’ll deal with him last. I’m just a block away from Winston Ramsley now.”

Epstein twisted the face of his wrist-com and shut down the transmission, just as the side of my gun struck the back of his head.

I caught the final moments of their ‘fight’, if you could call it that. From what I saw, it looked more like an execution.

By the time I’d caught up with them, The Gentleman had been battered and bloodied, almost smashed into unconsciousness by Fudō’s metallic fists. They were Midtown, near the location of the now-infamous Sledge versus Taktarov battle, and the backdrop was post-apocalyptic; cars were overturned, some engulfed in flames. A nearby fire hydrant had been ripped from the sidewalk and was continually erupting with a geyser of water. And many of the surrounding buildings had been so badly damaged they were reduced to mountains of rubble.

“Pick up your weapon,” Fudō instructed through his voice modulator, pointing towards the ground with his katana. “Do it now, and die with honor.” He had already activated his CDUs; the palms of his suit pulsed with red energy, and Ramsley was clutching the side of his head, wincing in pain.

The Brit dragged his saber from the pavement and leveled it, unable to generate any electricity. Undeterred, he lunged forward, and Fudō parried. A few clangs and clashes ensued, but Ramsley had nothing left. His sword might as well have been made of concrete, because he lacked the strength to lift it above his waist.

Fudō pressed forward and slashed, opening a wide gash across Ramsley’s throat. Mercifully, it was over.

“That
was impressive, Mister Frost,” I shouted from half a block away. “Very impressive indeed.” I approached with my modified pistol in one hand and my newly acquired broadsword in the other.

He turned to face me. The remaining holo-screens that lined each side of the street reflected off his silver armor, bathing him in a colorful spectrum of flickering lights. He pressed the sword to his back, attaching it magnetically as if it were a scabbard. Using both hands, he reached up and twisted a latch at the base of his neck, causing a hydraulic hiss. Releasing the latches cut the power to his head, and the piercing red eyes winked off. With a jerking motion, he removed his helmet and tossed it aside.

“Attorney-client privilege doesn’t mean what it used to, I guess.” I leveled my K9, ratcheting back the hammer with my thumb.

“No matter,” Frost said casually. “I was about to reveal myself anyway. Right after I had eliminated you.” He ran a metallic hand across his forehead, brushing the sweat-drenched hair from his face.

“Well, I can’t cross the bridge or tap out anymore – you saw to that. So here I am. Take your best shot.”

Frost extended his palm towards me, illuminating his miniaturized CDU.

I stared into the light, unblinking.

He furrowed his brow, glancing down at his gauntlet. “It’s not ...”

“Draining me?” I interrupted. “Nope, not so much. Red lighting was a nice choice of color, though. Very dramatic.”

“You’re more powerful than I thought,” he conceded. “But your fate will be the same. You might have killed a god, but once I eliminate you ...”

I didn’t wait for him to finish. I squeezed the trigger as I ran, blasting a handful of Frost’s own office supplies from the barrel. The pens and paperclips bounced harmlessly off of his armored gauntlet as he shielded his face. The blast didn’t even cause a scratch – and I knew it wouldn’t – but it bought me a second. A moment to holster my gun, tighten my grip with both hands and hack at him with my broadsword.

The gamble didn’t pay off. He unsheathed his katana and blocked my strike with a single elegant motion, swatting me away with his free hand.

My swordfighting lessons were clear in my mind, and I employed all the basics that I’d learned; dodge, parry, counter-strike – it was useless. Even years out of practice, and encumbered by a massive metal exoskeleton, Frost was still a wizard with a blade. His movements were precise, and his attack was relentless. A well placed slash threw me off balance, and my attempt to block the next incoming strike broke my sword in half. Still clutching the hilt with both hands, I watched the top half of the blade snap off, spiraling down the street.

The next few moments were a blur. I ducked and evaded a series of slashes, tumbling to the pavement. Frost hacked downward like a lumberjack swinging an axe, and I was barely able to roll and avoid the blow. His blade struck the curb with a heavy clang, sparking wildly. The Fudō armor was fast, but thankfully not fast enough. Had he swung with the speed of a normal swordfighter, I’d have been chopped in half with a single well-placed stroke.

I shuffled backwards, frantically searching the ground for a makeshift weapon, or some ammunition to load into my gun. Frost continued to pursue. I swayed and narrowly avoided a strike, but was not so fortunate on my second attempt. He slashed horizontally, opening a wide gash from the edge of my cheekbone to just beneath my ear. I stumbled and tripped, awkwardly twisting my knee as I fell.

Frost took a moment to admire his handiwork. He flicked his wrist and whipped his katana downward, spattering the pavement with my blood.

I was unarmed, bleeding and sitting flat on my ass. If I was about to leave this world, it wasn’t exactly the heroic exit I was hoping for. I considered my final moment. If Gavin and Peyton were going to watch me die, the least I could offer them was the knowledge that I wasn’t afraid. I locked onto Frost’s eyes and invited the inevitable.

He stalked forward, sword drawn back. It must have dawned on him that I was unable to fight back, because he relented in his attack, and turned towards Ramsley’s body. Frost retrieved the fencing saber from the fallen competitor’s hand and tossed it down the street. It bounced and clanked at my feet.

I stood, lifting the sword off the pavement. “What is this?”

“A level playing field,” he responded flatly. “We finish this one-on-one: two armed warriors, one champion.”

I laughed under my breath, dropping the sword at my side. "You have to be kidding me. You think Arena Mode has been
fair
? This entire tournament has been bullshit.”

His faced creased into an uneasy frown. I could tell that I’d caught him off-guard, and I definitely struck a nerve. “This
tournament
,” he shouted, pointing a finger in my direction, “is my greatest achievement. Twelve superhumans in one arena, fighting for supremacy. There has
never
been an event like this.”

“Maybe there never
should
have been. We don’t even know their potential yet, and you gathered them up so you could have them all executed.”

“Everyone had an equal chance to win,” he insisted. “It was a level ...”

“Yes,
I know
,” I shouted in frustration, motioning to the carnage surrounding us; the collapsed buildings, the burning wreckage. “You keep saying this is a ‘level playing field’, but you’re trying to convince
yourself
. You had the medics killed, changed the rules mid-game, installed CDUs into your suit – how is any of this shit ‘fair’? You’re no better than the thugs who run rigged casinos out in the Dark Zone.”

“I did what I
had
to do,” he screamed violently, angry blue veins protruding from his forehead. “How the hell am I supposed to compete against you? Defeat people gifted with incredible abilities while I lay rotting in a bed, unable to move? Explain how
that’s
fair.”

If Cameron Frost wasn’t a delusional sociopath, I would have almost felt sorry for him. For someone so driven by competition, being imprisoned in a wheelchair during his athletic prime must have been the ultimate punishment. It wasn’t hard to figure out what drove him to this insanity.

“What happened to you
isn’t
fair. But you can’t be crazy enough to think you could control this chaos. The outcome was never
going
to be fair, no matter what you did.”

“Stop it,” he seethed, steeling his resolve. “Stop talking. You can’t take away my glory. I’m about to make my way into the history books. Tonight
I
will beat Musashi’s record, and
I
will win the first ever Arena Mode. Pick up the sword and
fight
me.”

There was nowhere left to hide. My bag of tricks was empty, and aside from the unloaded gun holstered to my thigh, I was unarmed. It was time to go for broke.

“You’re not the only human in this competition, Frost ... and you’re not the only one with a disability.”

His eyes seemed vacant, but I saw the pieces slowly falling into place: his CDU’s having no effect on me, the fact that I hadn’t used any superpowers throughout the entire tournament – he
knew
I was telling the truth. As the realization set in, Frost gazed back at me, slowly shaking his head. “Don’t take this away from me,” he said, not much louder than a whisper. “This is mine. I
deserve
it ... I need it.”

“Go ahead,” I said flatly, turning my back in defiance. “Let’s see what the history books say about the great Cameron Frost: the man who won Arena Mode by putting a sword in the back of an unarmed man.”

“
Face me!
” He screamed wildly. I heard the grind of moving gears, and his metallic boots crashing into the ground as he approached.

I clutched the rings suspended around my neck. I squeezed the three angular pieces of silver so hard that the edges sliced into my palm, sending a single drop of blood to the pavement at my feet.

If there was ever a time to believe in luck, this was it.

When I tore them from the chain with one hand, I lifted my gun with the other – the rest of my plan was executed in one fluid motion.

Dropping them into the barrel.

Pivoting.

Pulling the trigger.

When the projectiles fired, they had only inches to travel. They tore through the soft tissue beneath Frost’s jaw, blasting deep into the base of his skull.

He clawed at the wound as he fell, attempting to dig out the rings that had torn a sizable opening in his throat. He gasped and sputtered, mouth moving, trying to make a sound. Whatever final words he was trying to say, it was too late.

The hours that followed Arena Mode were a haze:
a dizzying collage of events that I struggled to push my way through, fighting off the pain and exhaustion.

My first call was to the local police in The Fringe, who apprehended the Petrovic brothers within minutes. They were detained and charged with illegal weapon possession, as well as conspiracy to commit murder. With their criminal records, I doubted they’d see the light of day until sometime during the next millennium. Gavin and Peyton never even knew that their lives were in danger.

By the time I’d finished my call, police cars and ambulances had raced into the intersection, and the area flooded with activity. Reporters jammed microphones in my face. Medical teams tended to my wounds, dabbing me with gauze while they instructed me to hold still.

I did my best to let the EMTs do their jobs, and answered as many questions as possible. Eventually the noise and flashing lights triggered a killer migraine; I wobbled and swayed and then dropped to a knee. The last thing I remember was hearing a gruff, authoritative voice shouting, “Get me a gurney!” – and then darkness swallowed me whole.