Arena Mode (7 page)

Abruzzio shrugged. He slapped his hand on the pile of money and threw it into the spotlight.

“Two thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars,” I announced, even before the stack of fluttering bills reached the floor.

Abruzzo glanced at his bodyguard. “Sal, get down there and count it.”

“I don’t have to, Mister Abruzzo.” Sal lowered his gun and stared quizzically at the pile of scattered cash. “I counted it in the car just ten minutes ago. He’s right on.”

“So he’s legit,” Abruzzio said, stepping towards Gavin until their noses were nearly touching. “Which means you brought someone here to count and verify
my
money? Is
that
what you’re telling me?”

Gavin held his ground and replied with a wide grin. “I haven’t stayed alive this long by throwing my balls on the craps table.”

“Ah,
that’s
the Gunner I remember!” Abruzzio threw his arms around Gavin once again and let out a boisterous laugh.

“Gotta love this guy,” his bodyguard cheerfully exclaimed.

“
Sal
,” Abruzzio shouted, “shut your fat face before I shut it for you, alright?” He glanced at me while he patted Gavin on the shoulder. “But I
do
love this guy.”

With a finger snap and a gesture, Abruzzo’s men filled the briefcase with crisp one-hundred dollar bills. At thirty percent interest it wasn’t exactly the competitive rate I’d hoped for, but in all honesty I trusted a career criminal with my financial matters more than most of the banks.

Gavin had done an amazing favor for me, and I hoped more than anything that I’d be alive to pay off the debt. He insisted it was an ‘investment’, and that I’d be able to reimburse Abruzzio with ease after the tournament. I wasn’t so sure. The pressure to escape Arena Mode with some prize money was mounting, and now I wasn’t just fighting for myself.

Ten days later, my custom armor was complete, and it fit like a second skin.
The blue titanium body suit was light and allowed for a full range of motion. The reinforced Kevlar plates covered my shoulders, chest, gauntlets and thighs; according to the designer, they would stand up to a direct hit from a sniper rifle.

High-powered magnetic strips were inserted into the thigh plates, allowing me to ‘holster’ a blade or firearm to my leg should I locate one. The helmet was impact resistant up to a ninety mile-per-hour collision, and even the glass visor could withstand a gunshot at close range. The mouthpiece was able to filter two hundred different toxins, and provided up to twenty minutes of oxygen should I get trapped without air.

There was no way to ensure my armor would stand up to the punishment that a dozen superhumans were capable of dishing out, but I wouldn’t have to wait long to test it out.

That night I met with Gavin and Peyton at Excelsior. Suited up, I stared at myself in a full length mirror, and for the first time in forever I cracked a smile. A
real
smile ... despite my circumstances I was actually happy. It was my childhood fantasy coming true, like I’d leaped from the page of a comic book and was prepared for an epic adventure. I couldn’t fly or shoot plasma bolts from my palms, so I wasn’t
exactly
Iron Man ... but I felt damn close.

“Check you out, Mox. You look like you’re ready to win this thing.” Gavin stood behind me and ran his hand over the left shoulder plate, admiring the craftsmanship.

I placed my fists on my hips and struck a heroic pose. “You know what they say: clothes make the man. Think I’ll intimidate any of the competition with my new suit?”

“Hey,” Peyton shouted from the front of the store. “Get over here, the Chronicle is about to announce some new competitors.”

Gavin and I raced to the living room and joined her on the couch, and she turned up the volume on the Trinitron.

“Good evening,” a young reporter greeted the audience, addressing the camera with her most official-sounding voice. “We interrupt your regular programming to bring you this breaking news. I’m here in Phoenix, Arizona at the scene of a shocking crime, which has left one man dead and five injured.”

“One guy dead and five injured?” Gavin rolled his eyes. “Just another day in paradise. How is this even news?”

Peyton shushed her brother and slapped him across the leg. “If you shut your face for a second maybe they’ll tell us.”

“An hour ago,” the reporter continued, “a local construction worker by the name of Dwayne Lewis was assaulted here at the Thirsty Cactus Bar.” She turned and motioned behind her, and the camera zoomed to capture the destruction: a rustic tavern that had been smashed to pieces. It looked as if it was torn apart by a violent tornado, reducing the entire structure to a pile of kindling. A photo appeared on-screen of an impossibly muscular man: a familiar bearded giant with dark skin and a large tribal tattoo that coiled down his right arm. His trademark dreadlocks were tied behind his head, with wild tendrils flowing in every direction. “Lewis, a former NFL hopeful, is best known for being one of the few superhumans in the world to live openly. Several years ago he began to grow, expanding in mass and height – he recently made it into the Guinness Book of World Records as being the tallest person in recorded history at nine feet, two inches tall.”

Everyone
knew Dwayne Lewis. He was legendary for his strength; there are clips on the internet of him lifting everything from boulders to bulldozers, scooping them off the ground with terrifying ease. Lewis was drafted to the National Football League out of college, but was unable to play due to his superhuman status.

A picture of a pudgy man with a thick moustache and long, unwashed hair appeared on the screen, dressed in a green body suit. The image was almost comical, the way he was dramatically posed with a stern look on his face, wielding an oversized gold trident. “The attack took place when Morgan Pittman, a thirty-three year old insurance salesman from Pittsburgh, travelled to Phoenix – to this very bar – just a mile from Lewis’ home. Pittman mounted a surprise attack on Lewis, apparently with the hopes of attracting mainstream attention and gaining entry into the upcoming Arena Mode tournament.”

“Why the heck is that guy holding a giant fork?” Peyton asked.

“Shh,” Gavin playful smacked his sister’s knee.

The camera cut back to the reporter, who was wading through the wreckage, pushing aside overturned stools and tables. She stopped and motioned towards a large jagged opening in the hardwood floor that led to the basement. “This is where the initial attack took place. We’re now going to show you some exclusive footage of the attack, which was captured by several security cameras. Please be aware that what you’re about to see is very graphic, so sensitive viewers may want to leave the room.”

The simulcast cut to Lewis, slouched over a bar in the crowded tavern, clutching a massive beer stein that looked like a shot glass in his enormous hand.

Pittman suddenly appeared behind him, jamming the long gold trident into his lower back.

Lewis stood too quickly, hitting his head on the ceiling as he turned. When he bent forward, Pittman slashed downward, dragging the three-pronged weapon across the right side of his face.

Streams of blood poured from the lacerations, and Lewis clapped his hands over his damaged eye. He toppled over and flattened the bar, as well as several unsuspecting bar patrons.

Panic ensued. Customers screamed and elbowed each other as they frantically ran towards the exits, spilling out of every available door and window.

Pittman continued his assault, repeatedly stabbing his victim in the stomach and chest. Lewis retaliated with a swinging backhand that sent his attacker sailing across the room. Pittman fell awkwardly, bouncing and rolling along the floor as he collided with overturned furniture.

Then something incredible happened: Lewis grew. His muscles expanded, becoming thicker and more vascular. He became even taller, until he was completely doubled over, with the small of his back pressing against the ceiling. Unable to withstand the pressure, the roof gave way and Lewis stood up, bursting through the top of the tavern.

A different security camera caught the final moments of the altercation. Lewis wrapped his hand around his attacker’s waist, lifted his limp body, and threw him headfirst at the floor – as if he was spiking a football after a touchdown. In an explosion of wood and tiles, Morgan Pittman disappeared into the darkness of the basement, completely out of view. If he wasn’t dead as a result of the thunderous backhand earlier, he certainly was now.

The reporter appeared back on-screen. “Pittman, a self-proclaimed superhuman, often boasted about his ability to psychically control all forms of marine life on his blog, ‘The Poseidon of Pittsburgh’. No word yet on how he planned on using this alleged power in the middle of the Arizona desert.”

“No assault or murder charges will be filed against either party,” the reporter concluded. “In accordance with the laws of the state of Arizona, an attack against a superhuman is not considered illegal, and Mister Lewis will be released pending a medical examination.”

When Pittman traveled across the country to confront Lewis, he must have known about the state’s well-publicized Proposition 28-B: ‘Limited Liability for Assault on Superpowered Beings’. Since Arizona was one of fourteen states that did not recognize superhumans as
actual
humans, their rights were extremely limited: they couldn’t vote, own a firearm, and assaulting (or even killing) one of them was not technically breaking the law.

Open discrimination against superhumans was often reserved for online forums and political rallies, but it was nothing more than talk; meaningless bluster, fueled by bigotry and ignorance. There were no recorded cases of an attempt to physically assault a superhuman within the United States until Morgan Pittman’s failed attack. Partially because there were so few who lived openly, and partially because no one had been stupid enough to attempt it.

Peyton’s eyes were filled with terror, hands covering her mouth.

Until now we’d seen examples of superhumans displaying their abilities – running fast or lifting heavy objects – or in the case of Sergei Taktarov, taking flight. In actual combat, these powers were simply theoretical until now.

Watching someone die at the hands of a superhuman was a dizzying wake-up call, and it jarred me back to reality. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t an adventure, or a quest, or a fictional story where the protagonist would emerge victorious regardless of the insurmountable odds he faced.

The footage I had just witnessed alarmed me, but it was also a motivational tool. Until the tournament I was going to eat, sleep and breathe Arena Mode.

All that was left was to secure an invitation.

If you sneak up behind a man and stick a giant fork in his ass, you’d
better
keep on stabbing until he’s dead. You feel me? If you don’t finish the job, pulling that [expletive] will get
you
killed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not vindictive. What I did to that little guy ... I actually feel kinda bad. It was nothing personal at all, man. Nothing personal. I’d never even
heard
of that dude before today, or read his blog about fish or whatever. But he tried to make a name for himself by taking me out, and you guys are saying it’s because he wanted into Arena Mode? That [expletive] doesn’t surprise me, man. Not one bit.

“Cameron Frost is ready to drop ten
billion
for first place in this tournament. You hear me?
Billion
, with a capital ‘B’. Whoever wins this thing isn’t just going to be living large, they’ll be a
player
. A
[expletive] player on a global scale, up there with the top politicians, businessmen ... that kind of power drives people insane. I almost don’t blame the little guy. He was probably out of his [expletive] mind.

“What you saw tonight, that [expletive] was nothing. By the time Arena Mode rolls around, we’re going to be living in a whole different world.