by Paul Tassi
“Christ, you look like shit,” she said. “Bad time to fall off the wagon, you know.”
“Just for a night,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can you blame me? Where did you go yesterday?”
“Everywhere I could find without Crayton’s security shooing me away, but I don’t think I raised any flags.”
Mark’s brain couldn’t even form another sentence. He needed coffee. Or he needed whatever Brooke had injected him with before his fight with Drescher, but that was probably too much to ask.
“Anyway, I managed to poke into a few dataports,” she continued. “Didn’t find any dead Chinese assassins. Oh, but I scrounged up some of Wyatt Axton’s travel logs. He was recalled to DC for a Glasshammer summit when Justice Wright was killed. So that’s not nothing.”
“Gideon see it that way?” Mark asked, eyebrow raised.
“‘Something something circumstantial evidence something something.’ You know him. But it’s worth prying into.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere near that guy,” Mark said. “But that’s really good. I feel like you did more in a night than I did all summer.”
“Maybe they sent the wrong infiltrator,” Brooke said with a smile. “Time to take Carlo back. Walk us out?”
“Of course,” Mark said. He wished more than anything they could stay.
But no one could stay. The morning departures were tear-filled, and Mark could barely watch Ethan say good-bye to his wife and children, possibly for the last time. The same for Moses and Nolan. And he was almost a little sad when Miriam Easton didn’t cry at all, seeming to believe she’d see Matthew in just a few more days once he was done with “summer camp,” as she called it.
Carlo looked more sad to say good-bye to Shyla than Mark. The Muse was now wearing a tank top and shorts instead of a toga, and she and Carlo lingered, fingers laced, before he left to talk to Mark.
“I owe you so much, man. Forget Drescher. This is the best thing you’ve ever done for me. Gonna see her again when I’m out here for your fight.”
“Awesome,” Mark said. Carlo shifted one of his braces.
“And I’m gonna see you too after that,” he said. “Remember, the little bro is counting on you. So is my money.”
That was about as sentimental as Carlo would get, but Mark saw the faint twinkle of tears in the corners of his eyes. He gave him and Brooke a pair of hugs as they piled into the limo.
“This isn’t over,” Brooke whispered into his ear. “You know that. Just win, and we’ll keep going. We’ll get him. The net is closing, I can feel it.”
Mark nodded.
“And about the other night,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Mark waved her off.
“You were right,” he said, his voice low. “And thank you. For volunteering. For everything you’ve done for me. If I make it through this, I’ll try to live a less fucked up life, the way your brother should have been able to. It’s a gift. One I didn’t deserve.”
“You did,” Brooke said, touching his arm. “You still do. Don’t forget that. And I will always have your back.”
And then they were gone, and everything plunged one level deeper into madness.
THE LOTTERY WAS TENSE. No one talked. Not even those who had gotten friendly over the past few months. Mark couldn’t even look at Moses or Ethan. Aria was on the opposite side of the room. He had a significant chance of being told within the next half hour that he was supposed to murder one of them at the whim of a billionaire and tens of millions of his fans. The drawing was broadcast everywhere, and Mark heard CMI employees whisper about the records the stream was breaking.
“Sixty million,” one said. “The servers are starting to buckle.”
It had worked then, this summer of “getting to know” the combatants with the Heroes and Legends reality show primer. Mark had only seen secondhand reports, but supposedly everyone in the country had been tracking his every move for months. Well, almost his every move, thanks to Brooke. Mark didn’t even want to know what the program had shown of his evening last night. At least there was no camera in his room or Aria’s.
Mark looked over and was surprised to see Chase Cassidy and Soren Vanderhaven holding hands like nothing scandalous had happened. Either Chase didn’t know what Soren had been up to the previous night, or he didn’t care. It seemed likely they were just good actors, playing a part. Mark suspected that was likely the case. Their plastic smiles all but confirmed it for him, and Soren had given him more venomous looks than he could count at this point. There was no way she was the petite southern belle she pretended to be. Crayton’s voice jolted him out of his fixed stare. He had a fresh haircut and a light blue suit with an open collar underneath. Mark swore he looked younger every time he saw him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered on this historic day to seed the bracket for the most significant athletic tournament in human history.”
Cameron Crayton, madman, traitor, and always the king of understatement.
“These sixteen men and women represent the finest fighters in this great nation of ours. And in a little over a week’s time, eight of them will be immortal, living forever in our hearts and minds as the bravest of the brave.”
In other words, half of them were going to be wormfood, probably sent home to their loved ones in pieces.
“There will be one match a day from tomorrow until the following Wednesday. Eight in all. The bracket you see above,” he motioned to a large, thin screen that hung above them all which displayed an empty bracket with sixteen slots like they were about to start a March Madness pool, “will be filled in presently. Our randomized algorithm will pair the fighters without any regard for weight, skill, gender, popularity. It will simply be that, random.”
Mark wondered why they needed an unbiased algorithm that worked just as well as picking names out of a hat. Not enough drama there, he supposed.
“I’ve brought in outside experts to examine our systems to determine that the selection system is perfect. I don’t want any Vegas bookies on my back,” Crayton chuckled.
The room was silent except for a few courtesy laughs from CMI staffers. The audience at home was probably laughing their heads off, though, Mark thought. Crayton had that effect on idiots.
“The draws here will be in order. The first two called will fight tomorrow. The next two, Wednesday. And so on. This is what it’s all been for. All the matches, the training, the heartache, the drama. All for the glory of the Crucible.”
All for the glory of Cameron Crayton, Mark thought.
“And,” he said, pressing a few keys on his flexscreen. “The first fighters will be …”
The only drumroll was the thundering of every heart in the room.
“Mark Wei.”
Of course. Of course he was going first. God fucking damn it.
His heart stopped. His stomach twisted. His mind raced. Crayton’s pause was the longest two seconds of his entire life.
“And Chase Cassidy!”
26
THE REST OF THE event was a blur. Mark remembered shaking Cassidy’s hand, the man trying to look as strong and confident as he did in his films, but with a tiny hint of terror behind his eyes.
Mark heard the other names called, cheers, gasps, and so on. Moses was fighting Mendez. Ethan was fighting Jordan. Aria was fighting Easton. That last one made him a bit ill. The bracket quickly filled up, but he’d have to process it all later. He had to fight in less than twenty-four hours, and immediately after the lottery concluded, he was led away by CMI staff to meet with Arthur, who had finally finished crafting his armor and weapon.
“Sorry for the delay,” Arthur said, “But there were some materials complications with all the suits. Your practice gear, however, should allow you to slide into the new suit with ease, and swordplay should be easier, if anything, given the blade I’ve designed.”
Mark just nodded, still trying to process the pairing with Cassidy. He didn’t particularly like the man, but he’d been watching his
movies half his life. The first part of the Max Rage trilogy had been his third date with Riko at the makeshift theater on base. The man was an icon.
But most importantly, he was not a killer.
The Crucible roster was full of soldiers and criminals who had killed before. But the athletes and this actor? This was when they were at an innate disadvantage. Cassidy excelled at training, Mark had seen that much, but it was another thing entirely when you were being asked to plunge that very real blade into very real flesh. Could Cassidy do it? Could his time at the Crucible graduate from publicity stunt to a murderous rampage through the bracket? Mark doubted it, but he’d underestimated Cassidy before, and he knew he shouldn’t again. Who knew what kind of man was really lurking behind that pretty face? The fact that it was the kind who’d sign up for something like this worried Mark.
“Just slip this on first,” Arthur said, offering him a fiber undersuit. “It will help make it all more comfortable.”
Mark snapped out of his daze and stripped, zipping himself into the base layer. After that, Arthur began pulling armor out of boxes. The black plates that looked nonsensical by themselves, but as Mark watched in the mirror opposite him, they began to take shape the more of them Arthur added. He was rattling off all sorts of stats about their chemical composition, but Mark couldn’t process most of it.
“Will it stop a blade?” Mark asked plainly. “That’s the main concern.”
“That depends on the blade, and the angle,” Arthur said, speaking in his usual rapidfire. “There’s a difference between being poked with a shortsword and crushed with a greataxe. Protect your joints and the cracks, that’s what your instructors tell you. You don’t have a shield, but I would avoid using your arm for direct blocking, as appealing as that option may be in a pinch. A sharp blade could get through even the dense plating there. And my blades are sharp.”
Mark swung his arms in and out, and walked around in a circle. The weight was the same as the practice gear, but this refined suit was much more comfortable. The plates didn’t jostle for position on his body; they glided in and out of one another effortlessly. It was masterful engineering.
“You gave up some protection to be mobile,” Arthur continued. “But you’ve still got plenty. Hell, these plates could actually deflect bullets from most angles.”
Arthur was finishing up with the final few pieces. Armored to the neck, Mark looked like a cross between a combat droid and a superhero. It was much more modern than he was envisioning, given Crayton’s obsession with the past. The matte black made him look rather terrifying. Arthur handed him a helmet that looked like it had been pulled off the body of an intergalactic bounty hunter. Mark had to admit, it was pretty cool. He tried it on and found the entire interior of the helm was translucent, giving him a full field of vision. That was without question military-grade tech, as Arthur had hinted at earlier.
“Well, it’s not a wolf’s head,” Mark said, taking the helmet back off. “Where is the wolf anyway? I thought that was mandatory.”
Arthur smiled.
“Don’t you see it?”
Mark peered at himself in the mirror. Suddenly, like an optical illusion, the visage appeared to him. The overlapping plates on his chest, shoulders and abdomen were arranged in a way that gave the vague impression of a wolf’s face, eyes, ears, snout. It was almost seamlessly integrated, both menacing and beautiful at the same time.
“That’s fucking fantastic,” Mark said, unable to hide his excitement about the ensemble. “Great job.”
Arthur beamed.
“But now, the pièce de résistance!”
He opened a long, flat box that had been sitting near them the whole time.
Arthur lifted the sword out like it was a holy relic, and it certainly looked like one. It was long, maybe a centimeter or two longer than the practice bastard sword he’d been using. The hilt was black to match his armor, but the blade was such an intensely mirrored silver it was practically white in the brightness of the lab. The crossguard and pommel were stylized to match his plating. The effect made it look like a futuristic movie prop rather than anything medieval, but Arthur assured him it could do some very real damage.
Mark took it into his hands, and found that it was exceptionally light. At least half a pound under the practice sword.
“I know, I know,” Arthur said, seeing his reaction. “I was supposed to match the weight of what you’ve been training with, but when I found those extra ounces I could shave off, I couldn’t resist.”
“I mean, that’s great,” Mark said, turning the sword over in his hands. “If you didn’t sacrifice durability. This thing’s not going to snap on me, is it?”
“Never!” Arthur said. “No way. Or you get your money back.”
“It’s free, and I’ll be dead,” Mark said.
“Yeah, uh, bad joke,” Arthur said, scratching the back of his neck.
Mark practiced a few quick stances, and Arthur hopped back to be as far from the edge as possible. He could be fast with this, Mark realized. Very, very fast. He was kind of in love, even from the first few swings.
“That blade might be my favorite of all of them,” Arthur said. “I can’t wait to see it in action. Err …”
Mark ignored the perceived offense.
“What can you tell me about what Cassidy’s using?”
“Ah, yes, I’m meeting with him right after you.”
Mark eyed another pile of crates nearby. Another long flat one sat on the floor.
“But I’m not allowed to discuss that,” Arthur said, his eyes darting to the side.
“Not even a hint?” Mark said, snapping the sword into a magnetic holster on the back of his armor.
“Well … I’m not breaking the rules to remind you that he was in Shogun Rising.”
“Riiight,” Mark said, eyes narrowing.
“So you may have some … flashbacks to that film when you face him in the arena.”
He’d settled on the katana then. Mark had seen him use a multitude of weapons, but he stuck with that one the most. And it probably meant lighter armor as well.
“That’ll do,” Mark said, and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief he wasn’t going to be interrogated further. Mark began stripping the plates off and Arthur reassembled them on a nearby mannequin. As he reached for his leg plate, Arthur stopped.
“Oh, and before I forget,” he said. He grabbed a long, thin piece of plating near the calf and something clicked. A foot-long, flat knife slid out of the shin.
“For emergencies.”
A crazed Hollywood superstar was about to try and decapitate him with a katana as 250,000 people cheered live. Mark’s entire existence was a nonstop state of emergency.
Mark had a few hours later that night to practice with the new armor and sword to get used to them more. He was amazed how comfortable both felt, and despite the added weight and a complete lack of electronic-motorized assistance, he felt he could still move pretty damn well. His days of doing backflips during fights were probably over, but Arthur had delivered on the promised mobility. The training gear had been adequate for the summer, as now all the forms, stances, attacks, and parries he’d been practicing came even easier. It was like training with weighted gloves, then finally being able to slip on the real thing, and punch twice as fast. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.
He was tempted to practice all night, but knew that wasn’t smart. He needed sleep, though that was going to be hard to come by. He thought a drink might help, but decided the wiser course was probably to just walk around the grounds for a bit to settle his nerves.
Though the cameras were gone with the bracket being the last episode of Heroes and Legends, security was heavier than ever, and Mark passed an entire battalion of patrolling Glasshammer guards as he made his way toward the lake. He thought of Axton and the woman in the basement, and how the man would probably do the same thing to him if he was discovered. CIA or MSS, Crayton seemed like a nation in and of himself as of
late, and he would protect his interests accordingly.
Mark made his way to Shin Tagami’s meditation bluff, but stopped midway up the hill when he heard music drifting down to him and saw a shadow moving up near the top.
As he drew closer, he realized it was Aria. The music was classical, a score to a ballet he’d never seen. Wearing a flowing crop top and fitted yoga shorts, she was performing to an audience of crickets and fireflies, the drones having long fled. Mark crept into the shadow of the tree, not wanting to disturb her as she pirouetted and … well, that was the only vaguely ballet-related term he knew.
But it didn’t matter. The language she was using transcended actual words. It was mesmerizing as she moved against the low moon, her long limbs moving gracefully with the melody. It wasn’t all ballet, he thought. She simply went where the music took her, which resulted in all manner of hypnotizing movements. It was tantalizing without being overtly erotic. It was raw talent without being showy. She was simply made to do this.
Mark forgot all about the impending doom of the next day. He had to refrain from bursting into applause when she finished, and shut the music off from her phone on the ground.
She didn’t jump when she saw him. Just smiled.
“You should be sleeping,” she said.
“This was better,” Mark said. “I … needed that.”
“To spy on me dancing?” Aria teased.
“To see something beautiful.”
“Quite the line there, Mr. Wei,” she said with a weak smile,
“No line,” Mark said. Her expression changed and he could tell she believed him. The darkness crept in and the playfulness departed.
“That was my sister’s routine,” she said. “The audition she never performed. I memorized it just from watching it once. That’s how stunning it was. It’s seared in my mind and strangely, it’s the only dance that brings me any kind of peace anymore.”
“Brought me some as well,” Mark said. He noticed she didn’t seem shaken at all from her pairing with Easton on Sunday. She was one of the last fights, but lord knew he didn’t want to bring any of that up now. He looked behind her toward the wall. The snipers were invisible in the darkness. The statues weren’t lit tonight, making the whole estate nearly pitch-black outside of security flashlights and insomniacs in the mansions.