The Gender Game (14 page)

More banging and commotion ensued while they rigged up all the final lights, and then everyone retreated through the back door. I wondered if anyone had noticed me at all yet, or whether they'd just chosen to ignore me.

Either worked for me. The main thing was that the room had become empty again. This was my window of opportunity—a window I had to grab with both hands now that the fight was drawing so close.

I left my seat and made a beeline for the nearest cage entrance. The flask on this side was helpfully labeled with the name of Viggo's opponent. I sped around the cage to Viggo's side. Glancing over my shoulder, I hurriedly opened the flask. It was already filled to the brim. I retrieved the foil ball and unfurled it, dropping the transparent gel capsule into the water. It blended in so well that I had to make an effort to search for it. It floated on the surface, too, which meant he'd likely swallow it in his first or second gulp.

Footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Replacing the lid, I jerked back from the table and resumed my seat.

I exhaled slowly, wiping my palms against my pants.
Okay. It's done.
The worst is over.
Now, hopefully, all I had to do was wait.

Twenty minutes before the fight seemed to be the magic time of arrival—the arena began filling quickly and within a matter of fifteen minutes, every single seat had been taken, leaving many forced to stand. With five minutes to go, the main doors were closed.

The excitement in the room was palpable, and I was surprised to see many women accompanying their husbands. Dressed to the nines, in front of me sat three of them in a row, sandwiched by their husbands.

In between flicking their perfectly coiffed hair, they were gushing about the fight that everybody else seemed to be so breathless about: Croft versus Vanguard.

In spite of my nerves, I couldn't deny that I was excited, too. Attending this event was unique—an adventure. Something I’d never imagined myself doing in my whole life. I suspected this would be the high point of my stay here in Patrus, so I probably ought to make the most of it.

The lights dimmed, leaving a single spotlight to blast down in the far right corner of the room. Boos erupted as a tall, sculpted man stepped out, bare from the waist upward. He was bald, and every visible inch of his bulging physique was etched with green-ink tattoos. His face reminded me of a shark's—angular, with a broad, flat nose and a cruel, crooked mouth.

Wearing yellow shorts trimmed with gold, 'Seamus "Sharp" Vanguard' made his way to his entrance and climbed into the cage. He skipped around the enclosure—bowing in four directions while gnashing his teeth and beating his chest—before retreating into his corner.

Then the spotlight sped to the far left corner of the arena. Cheers erupted before Viggo even came into view. When he did emerge beneath the glaring beam, the crowd went wild.

"There he is!" gasped one of the women in front of me through the deafening applause.

He wasn't introduced with a nickname like Seamus. Just Viggo Croft.

Viggo looked quite different in his role as a fighter. His hair was tied back, revealing the full breadth of his jawline. His physique was muscled, but in a more understated—and, in my opinion, very attractive—way compared to his opponent. Although their weight must be even, Viggo was taller, leaner, and I suspected more agile. His knuckles were tightly bound in bandages, and his shorts were plain black.

I found my butt sliding to the edge of my seat as he prowled down his aisle and swept into the cage. He didn't offer the audience any introductory performance like Seamus had; he simply planted himself immediately in his corner.

A man sporting a blue shirt and white gloves moved to the center of the cage and beckoned both fighters forward. After he informed them that they were to obey his commands without exception, a bell rang. The commencement of the fight was announced by the booming voice of a man whom I was sure must have popped a Deepvox pill or two.
Nobody's voice is that deep.

The two men circled for a few seconds before Viggo drew in. He aimed a front kick at Seamus's chest, causing him to stagger toward the edge of the cage. Seamus, trying to regain a central position, threw a flurry of punches, but Viggo blocked them deftly before counteracting with a powerful right hook that knocked Seamus to the floor.

The crowd erupted.

"He's got the takedown!" one of the women in front of me squealed.

Viggo pounced on the man before he could rise, pinning him down and raining punches. Seamus held up his elbow, attempting to block them, but Viggo was too overpowering. He came in with blows not only to the side of Seamus's face and ears, but also against his kidneys. Seamus, daring to come out of pure defense mode, shot up a punch toward Viggo's face, but that only opened himself up. Viggo hammered down a punch so hard I found myself wincing, and the next thing I knew, Seamus had gone still and the referee was calling a stop to the fight.

My eardrums ached from the cheers.

Viggo rose to his feet. Although he had won, there wasn't the slightest trace of victory in his expression. He barely even made eye contact with the crowd. He looked uncomfortable, forced into the situation. I knew that feeling.

Everybody stood and clapped. Whistles ricocheted around the arena.

I watched with bated breath as he was handed his flask by a man in a black shirt. He swallowed a few mouthfuls before handing it back. That should have been enough for the capsule to glide down. I guessed Lee would know soon enough.

Viggo didn't hang around to soak up the adoration. As soon as the referee announced him as the official winner, he swept out of the cage as swiftly as he had arrived, strode down his aisle, and exited the basement.

As everybody settled back down to wait for the next fight, I tuned into the conversation the women in front of me were having.

"When is that guy going to move on to bigger things?" a blonde was saying. "He doesn't belong in this dump. Such a waste of talent!"

"He's been approached by the big league a bunch of times already, Vanessa," a man, presumably her husband, replied. "He turns down their offers again and again. He doesn't want a bigger spotlight."

"He's twice the man most big-league fighters are," a brunette chimed in. "Cruz. Rosen. Croft would knock them out. He'd be top of his division!" She shook her head sadly. "He'll fade away if he doesn't move up in this game."

"Maybe that's what he wants," a second man retorted. "Whatever he's doing this for, it's clearly not legacy."

The conversation died down as the next fight was announced. The lights dimmed, and once again the spotlight shone on the far right corner of the arena. This was to be a "middleweight" fight. Terrence "Trump" Wilson versus Bernard "The Beast" Hill.

As the two opponents made their way to the ring one after the other, I was shocked to see a huge chunk of the audience get up and leave the arena. They really had just come to see Viggo, only they weren't adhering to the etiquette Lee had advised me to follow.

I understood why so many left. Professional fighting was still a complete novelty for me, but even I found the second fight slow and plodding. Neither had the skill or agility of Viggo to make it an interesting match. It went on for five rounds, and by the time the winner was announced, three quarters of the arena had left.

I felt bad for the fighters as they bowed, and clapped harder in a feeble attempt to make up for the lack of noise.

But those women were right. Viggo didn't belong here.

I checked my watch. Lee was due to collect me in ten minutes. I made my way to the exit before the next pair of fighters could enter the room and climbed up the stairs, out into the open air. I headed to the main road and crossed to wait by the bay to make it easy for Lee to spot me when he arrived.

After a couple of minutes, a familiar figure exited the bustling eatery. Draped in a long trench coat, hood pulled up over his head to shadow his eyes, Viggo was carrying a bottle of water and a bulging paper bag. I realized he was heading right for me. Or, rather, the motorcycle bay, and I moved discreetly backward, trying not to stare as he approached a beetle-black motorcycle.

He seemed too intent on leaving the arena to even notice me standing nearby.

A part of me was tempted to congratulate him for the fight just for the hell of it, but I bit my tongue. Of course, that would be a stupidly unnecessary thing to do.

He stowed his items beneath the seat, swung himself onto it and roared away down the road, in the direction of the mountains.

When Lee arrived at eleven on the dot and asked if I'd placed the capsule, there was a lump in my throat as I replied, "I did."

A
fter I gave
Lee details of how I'd planted the tracker, he asked, "So how was the fight?"

I couldn't deny that I had enjoyed it. "It was good."

But I didn't feel good about what we were doing, in spite of Lee's assurance that we were doing nothing wrong—that we were simply retrieving a stolen object. But Viggo hadn't stolen it, he was just a foot soldier. Someone just trying to survive, like me.

I wished that the banquet was sooner, not only so I could see my brother sooner, but so that I would not have to carry around my guilt for so long.

I realized that the only way I could get through this would be to stop thinking about what I was doing. Adopt tunnel vision. Do everything required to ensure things ran smoothly so that I could get out of here, see my brother and then, assuming I couldn't wrangle a way to stick with him permanently, reintegrate myself into some form of existence back in Matrus… and try to move on with my life. I'd probably look to move somewhere far away from everybody—like Viggo had done—to reduce the odds of getting into trouble again.

Numbing myself shouldn't be too much of a challenge. My years spent in detention facilities had made me good at that. Blinders on, head down, same routine day in and day out. Just get through the day. I had to see this mission involving Viggo Croft like everything else: threading needles, sifting flour, or shoveling crap.

This was all simply another detention, where I had no choice but to do as I was told.

Once I adopted this mindset and stopped considering consequences, I felt lighter and I was better able to engage in Lee's conversation.

"Viggo knocked out the other guy in the first round," I told him.

"Yup." Lee smirked. "No surprise there."

I wished that professional fighting was a thing in Matrus. If it had been, I might not have ended up in so much trouble with the law. I'd have had other ways to let off steam.

"If I was a man," I muttered, "that's what I would be doing.” This was probably the first time I'd ever truly considered what it would be like to be a man.

"Fighting? It's not all it's cracked up to be," Lee said. "It's a hard, hard life."

Yeah, well, life is hard whatever you do.

Reaching the foothills, we let the quieter atmosphere halt our conversation: the gentle mountain winds, the fragrance of the soil at the end of a warm day.

Samuel was asleep when we returned to the house. We headed immediately to Lee's bedroom and drew up chairs at his desk. He switched on the monitor and pulled up a detailed map of Patrus. Roaming it, I spotted four flashing red dots. They were all stationed near the city center.

"You're tracking other people, too?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "There are a few whose help I've needed, and I've had to keep an eye on them. There's Viggo," Lee said excitedly. He pointed to a red dot that I hadn't even noticed yet. It was up in the mountains, some distance away from Lee's home. While we were situated on the southwest side of the palace, he was northwest.

It seemed that he had already reached his home by now, as his dot appeared stationary.

"So," Lee said, leaning back in his chair, looking relieved. I reached up to peel off my mustache. "Step one is completed," he said. "You successfully tagged him and we can now monitor his movements in real time."

"Next, I suppose we need to figure out his schedule," I muttered, pulling off my wig and removing the rest of my scratchy facial hair.

"I agree. We need to know what, if anything, he plans to do on the night of the banquet. This should be easier than what you did tonight. Viggo has little time to vary his schedule. When he is not working as a warden, he's typically either fighting or preparing for a fight. He trains at a gym in the city, and behind the reception desk is a schedule of all the booked sessions, as well as each of its members' upcoming fights. You'll likely need to hang around for a bit and wait until the receptionist goes for lunch, but the arrangement would be similar to tonight. I'll drop you there and give you about half an hour—I'm sure within this time you'll find an opportunity. There's usually only one receptionist behind the desk and since we'll be arriving just before lunch, he'll have to take at least a short break to fetch his meal… We'll do it tomorrow—leave here at eleven-thirty in the morning, okay?"

Okay… Another risk for me.
But I understood why; Lee was more valuable than me in Matrus’ eyes.

I sat with Lee a little longer, staring at the map and watching the red dot that was Viggo.

Then I left his room and headed to my own. Entering my bathroom, I removed the suit, took a quick shower, and changed into my nightclothes before climbing into bed.

As I drifted off to sleep, I returned to the Brunswick Arena. The electrifying atmosphere flooded my mind: the bright lights, the roaring of the crowd… The mass celebration of physical prowess.

That night, it was me in the cage instead of Viggo, and opposite me, a stocky blonde female inked with green tattoos, whose face uncannily resembled a shark.

I
decided
to wear the full-body suit for this lunchtime's excursion to Viggo's gym. Since I would be roaming in the daytime, rather than lurking anonymously at the back of a shady arena, I figured that I would feel less nervous with it on.

Lee donated three outfits to me: jackets, shirts, and pants, and I spent the morning tailoring them so that they would fit me properly. I pulled the pants' ends up by a few inches before adjusting the jacket and shirts. My time working in the textiles factory had been useful after all.

As for my shoes, I decided to wear my own again, the same as last night. They were kind of scrappy, but they'd do.

I also took four Deepvox tablets two hours before we were due to leave.

By eleven-thirty, I was ready to leave. My voice had sunk deeper than the night before, not fight-announcer deep, but deep enough to pass as a real man.

I couldn't stomach a lot of brunch, and it seemed neither could Lee. He was just as nervous as me.

Lee headed upstairs briefly to check on Viggo's location, and returned to report that Viggo was near the palace, as expected. He also placed a small red rectangular object in my hand, and a miniature notepad and pen in my pocket. I stared at the red object, turning it over in my palm. On one side was a blank screen.

"It's an advanced pager. Smaller and less conspicuous than a phone, it will vibrate when I trigger it"—he drew out an identical red object from his right pocket—"and a message will pop up on that screen. You can also send a message to me if you need to. As for the notepad, use it to note down the dates… So, are you ready?"

I nodded.

"Then let's go."

T
he gym was fancier
than I'd expected it to be. It was a stylish steel structure spanning four floors, perched right on the bank of Crescent River.

Lee dropped me off one street away. "I'll be back in about forty-five minutes, but I'll send you a message when I arrive."

"Okay."

I strolled casually across the road, keeping my eyes firmly focused on the ground. Reaching the building, the glass doors opened automatically and I stepped into a cool reception room with slate-tiled walls and black marble floors. A minty hue hung in the air.

I dared to raise my eyes and gaze around the room. To my pleasant surprise, it was empty. Perhaps it was lunch break already. This meant I had to be fast; I had no idea when the receptionist would return.

Withdrawing the notepad, I planted it down on the table while leaning over and scanning the desk for the big ledger Lee had spoken of. It was one of the first things I spotted—just to the left of me. I reached down a hand and lifted it up before paging through it. Indeed, Viggo's schedule had been marked there, and it was a busy one. His heart might not be in the fighting, but nobody could fault him for his dedication to the sport.

I kept a keen ear out for sounds of the receptionist returning, but I had time to flip through the schedule a second time to be doubly sure that I had not missed any pertinent dates or times. He wasn't booked in for anything on the night of the banquet. That was the day we were most concerned about.

I replaced the ledger on the table, careful to reposition it exactly how it was, and ambled away from the desk.

Glancing up at a clock that hung above the main entrance, I still had loads of time. Only five minutes had passed. Not wanting to hang around in the reception area, where I would likely have to engage with the receptionist when he returned, I took off down the corridor to my left, deciding to explore the gym a bit. There were no signs indicating special permission was required, and the doors at the end of the corridor leading deeper into the gym were wide open, so I assumed that nobody would object.

The corridor's walls were made of glass, allowing me to peer into hall after hall of cages as I walked. Each hall contained two or three cages, and the walls were lined with lockers and benches.

I stopped at the fifth hall, where two fighters were going at each other in a cage. I watched as they grappled on the floor, each trying to wrestle the other into a choke hold. The loser eventually tapped the floor, and his opponent released him.

I continued exploring, passing more halls, until I reached the end of the building. I stopped and turned around, but wasn't willing to retrace my steps to the reception so soon. I didn't want to return there until I had to leave the building.

I entered an empty hall. I was better off sitting in here and waiting, rather than roaming around where I was more likely to run into trouble.

I moved to one of the benches closest to the back wall and sat down. My eyes traveled all around the room, taking in every detail with interest. There was a line of punching bags hanging from a thick metal rack on the opposite end of the room.

Another ten minutes passed as I waited for Lee's message.

Retrieving the pager from my pocket, I punched in a message and sent it to him. Just two words:
I'm done
. It took him about a minute to reply,
"OK. Stay where you are. I had to head to another part of town. I'll be there ASAP."

I sat back on the bench, blowing out a breath. I was not great at waiting.

My eyes returned to the punching bags. Slowly, I stood up and made my way over to them. Balling my fists, I landed my first punch against one. It was heavy, barely budging. The outer fabric was also rough, as though specifically designed to cause calluses and harden skin.

Glancing around the room again to check that nobody had entered without my noticing, I landed a harder punch in the center of the bag, causing it to sway away from me before swinging back. I punched again, and then again. My knuckles weren't used to this abrasion, and they were already feeling sore, but it was in a therapeutic way. I continued punching, though when I sensed my skin was about to break, I switched to kicking. Luckily, the clothes I was wearing were not too tight. I removed the jacket, since it was making me hot and stuffy, and began attacking the bag with kicks. Back kicks, front kicks, side kicks. I practiced everything I remembered from Ms. Dale's training sessions.

It felt good, really good, to awaken muscles I'd forgotten about, feel the stretch, the burn in my thighs as I pushed myself harder. Although I did keep an ear out for the sound of the pager vibrating in my jacket pocket, I got carried away and stopped checking the entrance to the hall as often as I should have.

When I glanced up a few minutes later, it was to see a couple of fighters had entered and were heading my way. I stopped kicking, turning to face them, suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that I had discarded my jacket. I felt grateful I had worn the body suit.

The fighters, I soon realized, weren't heading for me, anyway. They merely glanced my way briefly before climbing inside a cage much like I'd seen at the Brunswick arena. Strapping fingerless gloves around their fists, they began to fight.

They didn't seem to mind my presence, so I refocused my attention on the punching bag and continued.

When the pager finally went off another ten minutes later, I was expecting it to be a message from Lee, telling me to hurry outside and meet him on the street. But instead, he'd sent a message informing me that, "There's been a delay. Will be at least another thirty minutes. Sorry. Keep yourself out of trouble."

I wondered what had happened and hoped nothing had gone wrong. I returned to my kicking, albeit with less focus than before.

I got distracted by the fight going on to my left and kept glancing their way. I found myself predicting who would win, even though they had barely started. I figured it would be the shorter one, the man with a mop of ginger hair, who was showing more initiative and daring than the other. As the sparring went on, I became more and more sure of my prediction. And then the ginger managed to trip the other up and pinned his arms behind his back, holding him until he grunted in defeat.

I tried to keep myself looking busy—I didn't want them to think that my attention was on them, and the last thing I wanted was them watching me. I was dressed very differently to them, but at least the clothes I was wearing today were casual - the shirt was loose, as were the pants.

After five more minutes of sparring, there was an audible yelp. I could have sworn that I heard the crack of bone. The ginger had injured his friend during a particularly frenzied takedown. The friend’s right ankle looked bent out of shape—probably broken.

The ginger apologized before helping his friend out of the cage and taking him down the hall, no doubt to get medical assistance.

Once again by myself, I was feeling a bit tired of nonstop kicking by now. I took a pause and approached the cage the guys had been fighting in. I moved closer to it, standing on my tiptoes and peering through the mesh. The ridges of this cage were not as nasty as the one I'd seen the night before in the Brunswick Arena, but they still weren't padded. Not something you'd want to fall on.

My breathing quickening a touch, I felt the urge to climb inside it, to see what it was really like on the inside. I climbed into the cage, my feet slipping slightly over beads of sweat.

I moved around its circumference, running my fingers over the mesh. I imagined what a thrill it must be to enter a cage like this on the night of a fight. To be surrounded by crowds chanting your name. What a rush would come with looking your opponent in the eye and having full freedom to make them submit to you.

The pager in the pocket of my jacket, which I had brought in the cage with me over one arm, buzzed again.

"Still delayed. Will keep you posted."

Resuming my focus on the room around me, I heard footsteps outside, moving along the corridor. I hurried out of the cage and made my way back to the punching bags as someone entered the room. The same man returned without his injured friend and headed to the same cage they had sparred in.

He began throwing air punches, flexing his limbs on his own.

He caught me staring at him this time and stopped punching to address me.

"Haven't seen you around here before," he remarked. "You had a good kick going on there…"

I felt my cheeks heat. Now was the moment of truth, the moment to put Deepvox's claims to the test… "Thanks." My voice boomed across the hall, a little louder than I had intended.

"Just joined?" he asked.

"No, actually," I replied. "But I'm considering it."

He tightened his gloves. "How's your punch?"

I shrugged.

"Want to spar?" he asked. "I've got a fight coming up next week and could really do with a partner."

I glanced down at my watch. There was still time, but seriously? Was I about to say yes? I supposed I could exchange some calculated punches with him, but there was no way I could get hit in the face, or start grappling or wrestling with him on the ground. My disguise wouldn't hold up under that sort of strain.

"I'm recovering from an injury myself," I told him. "Lower back. Can't move so fast and can't afford to be knocked down … I'll throw a few punches, as long as it’s not near the face."

I didn't sense danger in doing that with this guy. He didn't strike me as the talkative type; the only reason he'd struck up a conversation with me to begin with was because he'd lost his sparring partner… He might not even bother to ask me my name.

"Okay, cheers," he replied, holding the door to the cage open for me.

I double-checked the pager one last time to verify no message had arrived from Lee without my noticing, and since it was still blank, I left it with my jacket at the foot of the cage steps. Then, flexing my wrists, I stepped into the cage.

A spare pair of fingerless gloves like this guy's were hanging from a hook. He offered them to me, and I quickly bound them around my knuckles, which were already red and sore from my assaulting the punching bag earlier.

Then, knocking my gloves together, I faced him.

"Not gonna take off your shirt?" he asked.

I shook my head. I wasn't planning to roll up my sleeves, either.

"All right… let's box."

We met in the middle, and I realized that he was more or less the same height as me, our arms about the same length. He swung the first blow. I dodged and returned one. We danced around the cage, neither of us connecting much, until I seized a small opening and knocked him—perhaps a little too hard—in the gut. He staggered back, taking a few seconds to recover before we went at it again.

"How did you learn to fight?" he asked, eyeing my fists with more wariness than a minute ago.

"Self-taught."

I upped my pace, keeping him distracted so he'd stop asking me questions. He caught my shoulder with a right hook, though I was careful to keep my face protected. As our sparring progressed, a realization dawned on me. This fighter and I might just be two people in an empty hall, but the fact that we were man and woman made this moment feel suddenly epic, sweeping, groundbreaking. Nobody in the world might know it—not even my male accomplice—but we were making history. I doubted any man and woman had ever stood on such equal ground before since time began in Patrus and in Matrus. The male in front of me was looking me in the eye without prejudice, without bias or discernment—as I was looking at him. The thought filled me with such euphoria that I found myself quite breathless, in a daze; so much so that I almost missed blocking a punch.

If only more people could experience this,
was all I could think to myself.

I didn’t want this sparring match to end. I wanted Lee to leave me alone for at least another half-hour so that I could continue immersing myself in this feeling… but then the pager buzzed.

I dropped my fists, my heart dropping along with them like a heavy weight.

"I'm sorry," I managed, stooping to my jacket and retrieving the device.

"I'm outside”,
said the message.

I turned back to the fighter, whose name I still hadn't asked, and shook hands with him. "I've got to go," I said before hurrying out of the room, although a piece of me remained in that ring with him.