Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “Mark!”

  “Mark, over here!”

  “Hey, Mark!”

  Goddamnit.

  All three of them shielded their eyes, and pressed forward. CMI security was there, pushing the reporters out to either side, slowly forming a path to the ambulance.

  “Mark, why resort to using a hidden weapon? Isn’t that a cheap trick?”

  “What?” Mark said, stopping and whirling around, though he had no idea who in the mob had asked the question. He was able to speak more coherently now, at least. “Chase Cassidy stabbed me in the back with a ‘hidden weapon’ last week! Do you want to see the fucking scar?”

  He started pawing at his undersuit, which was designed not to rip. Ethan tried to stop him, and he gave up in frustration.

  “Have you heard Mr. Crayton’s statement yet?” another reporter asked.

  “What statement?”

  All at once, the closest dozen reporters to him brought up a clip on their flexscreens, and they all began playing at once in some kind of nightmarish symphony.

  “Shin Tagami was a private man,” Crayton said, addressing the camera from inside his box, it looked like. “But in the wake of his passing, I would be remiss not to mention that we’ve learned he was an instrumental leader in the Tibetan resistance against Chinese incursion in the Border War of ’21. It was an honor to see him eventually call America home, and compete in this tournament. He was a skilled fighter, but a gentle soul, and he will be missed.”

  Of course this would come out now.

  “What do you have to say about killing a war hero?” a red-haired reporter yelled at him.

  “I don’t—”

  “Come on,” Carlo said, pulling him toward the ambulance. “You should not be talking right now, bro.”

  “He’s right,” Ethan said, forcing a smile. “Live TV’s not your thing, remember?”

  Suddenly, the reporters grew quiet. The camera flashes didn’t stop, but the questions did. Mark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  Drago Rusakov waded through the crowd. No one else even came up to his shoulders. He wore a suit tailored to fit a silverback gorilla, and his black hair was pulled in a tight ponytail, while his beard was as wild and unruly as ever. He spoke with the gruffness of a diesel engine.

  “Good fight.”

  He started clapping. He was the only one. Mark knew better than to thank him for the compliment.

  “Good fight,” he said again. “Kill old man with little knife. Much bravery.”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed.

  “And before that, kill Mr. Hollywood. Mr. Smiling Man. Very impressed.”

  Mark was in no mood for this. The press were furiously snapping photos of the confrontation, Ethan kept trying to pull him toward the ambulance.

  “Come on, Mark, leave him.”

  “Now he fights cheerleader,” Rusakov continued. “Blonde pom-poms. Big challenge I am sure.”

  “Big talk, big man,” Carlo said. “But Mark would destroy you in the arena.”

  “Quiet, little crippled boy,” Rusakov growled.

  “What the hell do you want?” Mark asked, gritting his teeth. Rusakov switched to Russian. Mark suspected he was the only other one there who also spoke it.

  “Ya budu naslazhdat’sya ubivat’ vashu shlyukhu.”

  Mark’s eye twitched.

  “I will enjoy killing your whore.”

  Aria.

  Mark shrugged off Carlo and Ethan and lunged at the towering man. He was aiming for his jaw, but ended up punching Rusakov just under the eye.

  The man they called “The Undying” countered quickly and brutally. His head snapped back from the blow, but after Mark’s follow through, he grabbed him by the back of the neck and simply hurled him.

  Mark flew through the air in a flat spin, and slammed into the open door of the ambulance. He heard something pop in his arm, and when he hit the wet pavement, fresh pain blossomed from the point of impact.

  He turned back toward the press, who were snapping a hundred photos a second and back to shouting. He saw Carlo try to land a leaping uppercut on Rusakov, but the man hit him with a palm the size of a dinner plate, which plowed him and his braced legs into a bunch of reporters who toppled and broke his fall. Ethan rushed to Mark and was saying something he couldn’t understand. Rusakov started walking toward them, but he was swarmed by CMI security. He flung off two, three guards before six more packed in around him. He started to toss them aside too, so they broke out their tasers. They were electric blue and brighter than the camera flashes.

  “Goddamnit!” came a familiar, bloodcurdling voice. Wyatt Axton burst through the press line, taser in hand. That had to mean Crayton was nearby. “Sit your ass down, Drago!”

  With four other lit tasers already being pressed into his skin, Rusakov still managed to take a swing at Axton, who dodged and countered with a straight cross to his jaw. He jammed his long taser up into Rusakov’s tattooed neck, and Mark lost sight of them as the press folded around them. He was hauled into the ambulance and the doors shut just before he blacked out.

  Mark woke to a terrifying vision.

  He was back in Crayton’s compound, standing on the hill with the lone tree that overlooked the man-made lake in the center. Where he and Aria had shared many a memory the past few months.

  But it was all wrong. The sky was rolling with red clouds and crackling lightning. The tree, the massive willow, was fully aflame, so bright it seared Mark’s eyes.

  All around the base, there were animals. Vicious, violent, tearing into one another with primal fury. Mark recognized a few. A massive brown bear was biting the haunches of a howling tiger. A rampaging bull was goring the legs of a towering elephant. Mark saw a chestnut stallion with its mane on fire. He heard the ghostly howl of a hound and the shriek of an eagle.

  But it wasn’t just familiar animals. There were more. So many more. Boars, leopards, panthers, polar bears, biting, slashing, tearing. Hawks and falcons ripped the feathers from each other’s wings in mid-air. Hyenas and vultures were already descending on the corpses that littered the hill.

  Is this what a coma is like? Or just brain damage? Mark thought as he slowly backed way down the hill from the horrifying scene. His movement was odd, and he looked down. His legs were narrow and covered with black fur, ending in clawed paws. He was suddenly aware that he tasted the rust of blood in his own mouth. In his jaws, rather.

  He could smell not just smoke and fire, but fear and rage. He could hear not just howls and moans, but the scream a soul makes when it leaves a body. He backed up more quickly now, panicked, hoping none of them would see him. His paws made squelching sounds in the hillside grass, which was drowning in blood.

  He retreated all the way down to the water, the animals now mere silhouettes, dancing in the fire of the tree.

  Disturbed water splashed behind him. He didn’t even have time to turn his head before the teeth sank into his flesh.

  He was pulled down into the black water. Trying to scream, all he could emit were muffled yelps. Something was dragging him down, deeper and deeper. Red poured out of his flank and the pain was excruciating. Finally, he wrenched his head to the right, and found himself staring into the cold, dead eyes of a great white shark. Deeper and deeper they went, the pain never-ending, the drowning eternal.

  “YOU SAID YOU WANTED me to let you know when he was waking up, so here he is. He’s mumbling nonsense, but he’s coming out of it.”

  Mark blinked. His vision was blurry, and he could see only shapes. He recognized the voice, but it seemed so far away.

  “I just gave him the injection to speed things along. He’ll be coherent in a minute.”

  Mark moved his mouth, but his tongue felt like styrofoam.

  “Water,” he finally said, and an unseen figure granted his wish. It was freezing, but glorious.

  He felt something coursing through his veins, and it started to light up his nerves like a Christmas tree. A few more bl
inks and his vision went from blurred to crystal clear. He was in a locker room, not the med wing, though Dr. Hasan was standing over him all the same. And down by his feet he saw Cameron Crayton in a dark blue suit and white striped shirt. Leaning against the door was an always-armored Wyatt Axton, regarding him with his usual scowl.

  Mark sat up, and was immediately dizzy. Hasan steadied him, and Crayton leapt up to do the same.

  “Careful now, Mark,” he said, smiling. “You’ve had quite an exciting day.”

  Day. Thank god. That meant he hadn’t lapsed into a coma for days or weeks. Though his head certainly felt like that could have been a real possibility. He felt behind his skull and found a knot the size of a tangerine.

  “Shin got you pretty good, didn’t he?” Crayton said, feigning a wince. “But your scans are clear. Concussion, but no brain damage. Right, Doctor?”

  “That’s correct,” Hasan said, “But I would advise against—”

  Crayton cut him off with a look. Mark guessed the second half of that sentence was something Crayton didn’t want to hear. Nothing would derail his tournament. Nothing.

  “Now, Mark,” Crayton said, “I just want you to understand there aren’t any hard feelings, but this is for your own good, and the good of the Crucible.”

  “What is?” Mark said, the feeling starting to come back to his mouth.

  “You had an … altercation with Mr. Rusakov after your fight. Do you remember that?”

  “No,” Mark lied.

  “I think you do,” Crayton said with a glint in his eye. “And I think you know we can’t have competitors going after each other outside of the arena.”

  “But he—”

  “Said something very nasty about a young lady friend of yours, yes, I know. But you hit him first. And you cracked his orbital socket before he fractured your arm.”

  Mark looked down at his arm for the first time, which was in a very thin fiber cast. It felt completely fine, the hallmark of drexophine.

  “And it’s also the second time you’re rumored to have attacked a combatant who was about to face young Miss Rosetti,” Crayton continued.

  Mark couldn’t hide the contempt on his face.

  “I didn’t—”

  “I am not accusing you of that. What happened with Miss Rosetti and Mr. Easton was a private affair, and will remain that way. Your encounter with Mr. Rusakov, however, was very public.”

  Mark knew where this was going.

  “As such, you’ll have to remain here until your next fight with Miss Vanderhaven in the semi-finals. Know that Mr. Rusakov is under a similar restriction, as he’s hardly blameless in all this.”

  Mark looked around. This wasn’t the locker room Aria had been kept in, but it was similarly stocked with a bed, workout equipment, and Mark spotted a replica practice blade that was a stand-in for his bastard sword. He searched the room, but there were no screens. Panicked, he reached for his phone, which was gone. And he hadn’t been wearing his S-lens when Rusakov attacked him.

  Crayton knew what he was thinking.

  “I’m sorry, but communication with the outside is restricted as well. We will keep you apprised of the match results, but you won’t be able to watch them.”

  Ethan vs. Blackwood. Aria vs. Rusakov. Bullshit he couldn’t watch them. Mark began scanning the room and was already working on five different ways he could possibly break out. Brooke had to be flipping out. God only knew where his phone was. She’d figure it out though. She’d come for him.

  But what then? Mark knew he could break out. This was a locker room, not a Chinese blacksite. But he’d be tossed right back in and draw even more attention from Crayton’s security. If Brooke or, God forbid, Carlo tried to get him out, they could be exposed as well. Better to play the good little prisoner, as much as it pained him.

  “Not even a flexscreen?” Mark said through gritted teeth. “Just for the matches?”

  “Something tells me you have the capacity to wreak a lot of havoc with a flexscreen, Mark,” Crayton said with a sly smile. “As I said, you will be notified of the results. Play nice, and you may even land yourself a visitor or two.”

  “This is bullshit!” Mark barked. He stood up and paced. Axton pushed off the wall and was immediately tense. Mark wondered if he could snap Crayton’s neck before Axton unloaded his pistol into his face. Probably 50/50, he decided.

  “This is me protecting my investment,” Crayton said, shrugging. “And my investment is you. If my combatants are going to brawl, it needs to be on the sand, not in parking garages with a fraction of the audience.”

  Crayton put his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

  “What would I do without you, Mark?” Crayton said. “We’ve come so far together, haven’t we? You’re a star. And you need to stay safe and sane if you’re going to have a chance of winning this thing.”

  Crayton leaned in close to him.

  “Don’t you understand?” Crayton whispered. “I’m rooting for you. And I promise I don’t say that to everyone.”

  The strangest thing was, Mark actually believed him.

  36

  MARK COULDN’T SEE THE fight, but he could hear it. No amount of soundproof paneling could keep the roar of the crowd out of the locker room. A quarter-million screaming fans were impossible to silence, and when they started cheering a few hours later, Mark knew the match was about to start. He heard dull, thumping bass and rhythmic clapping, which told him that the Muses were performing. He heard a long silence, followed by furious cheers, which told him someone had just sung the national anthem. More silence said that Crayton was giving Ethan and Rakesh Blackwood time to say their final words to their loved ones, the crowd, and the audience at home. Mark heard the muffled chant of a countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  It was impossible just to sit around and do nothing, so Mark grabbed a practice sword and attacked the training dummy with blind rage. Strike after strike hit the kevlar target, the dull blade leaving it undamaged. He mirrored moves Moses had taught him during training. He copied some Chase Cassidy had used against him. He tried to replicate ones that he had been forced to make up on the fly. He swung, and swung, and swung. Cheers from the crowd could mean anything. Cheers meant blood. But whose? It was infuriating not to know.

  Mark had watched Blackwood’s fight against Kells Bradford on replay, since he’d been unconscious when it originally happened. Blackwood hadn’t even been touched, and he had killed her with a single, pointed thrust penetrating a wall of armor. When she died, she didn’t fall, but stood hunched in the metal suit until Blackwood kicked her over in an obscene victory celebration.

  The Crucible audience had grown to hate him. He was rich and good looking and the media couldn’t shut up about him. But to the common man? The guys watching fights at the dive bar with twenty of their buddies drinking cheap beer? To them he was the worst kind of rich prick. Mark knew that he wasn’t exactly the most popular man in the tournament, but even he had amassed more fans than Blackwood. And almost no one was more beloved than Ethan, the war hero with the cute blond children and dying, beauty queen wife. You had to be some kind of sadist to root against that. Though you had to be some kind of sadist to watch the Crucible in the first place. Still, Mark hoped that the crowd being on Ethan’s side might give him some kind of edge. Cheers and chants had power. They could mask fear and boost adrenaline. They could make you feel like a god.

  Shit, he was starting to sound like Soren Vanderhaven.

  As he listened to the roars and lulls of the crowd, he kept attacking the dummy furiously, hammering with blow after blow for two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes, until the blade started to bend. He tossed it aside and lashed out with punches and kicks. He watched his knuckles split open as the drexophine masked the pain. He knew he should stop but he kept hitting. He kept hitting until …

  It was loud. It was so loud that it had to mean he fight was over. It was so loud the words were finally unmistakable. The crowd told him exactly what
he wanted to hear.

  “E-than! E-than! E-than! E-than!”

  Mark dropped his fists and broke into a smile. The kid had done it again. He banged on a nearby locker with his palm, and shouted the chant along with the crowd.

  When someone knocked on the door an hour or so later, Mark didn’t know who to expect. Guards? Crayton? Ethan himself? Instead, Mark found himself staring at Carlo, flanked by two Glasshammer mercs. He wore a crumpled sport coat and pants. He was holding a few grease-soaked paper bags.

  “Mind if we bring our dinner date in here?” Carlo said. Shyla popped into view from outside the doorframe. She gave a little wave.

  “Hiiiii Mark!”

  Mark smiled.

  “By all means.”

  Carlo relayed, in graphic detail, pretty much every blow of Ethan’s fight. The long and short of it was that Ethan had used his shield expertly, allowing him to keep Blackwood’s shorter rapier at bay while countering with his own slashes. Ethan had been stabbed about a half dozen times, Carlo said, but none were enough to take him off his feet. Worryingly, he was escorted off the sand in a stretcher, but Crayton was already broadcasting that he was perfectly fine, and it was just precautionary. Blackwood, who ended the fight with a crushed skull thanks to a timely shield slam from Ethan, was not as lucky.

  “You see Brooke?” Mark pressed. There were cameras everywhere in here, so he had to be careful about what he was asking. He kept an eye on Shyla as well. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, but he couldn’t be sure she wasn’t Crayton’s creature. Once upon a time it had been him that Crayton was trying to attach her to, after all.

  “Yeah, I ran into her,” Carlo said, munching on a barbecue burger. “She said to tell you she knows where you are, and she hopes you’re comfortable.”

  Mark wasn’t precisely sure how to read that, but it sounded like she was telling him to stay put.

  “What about Aria?”