In Cape Town the damage was much more severe. A woman towered over the low-rise buildings, crushing them underfoot. She was enormous – more than a hundred feet tall. Like a scene from a Japanese monster movie she lumbered past the Table Mountain, decimating the skyline with each thundering step. A man entwined in blue energy launched volleys at her – bolts of power that charred her skin on impact. They did little but cause a distraction. She swatted at him, eventually catching him with her palm as if he were an irritating house fly. He sailed into the ocean, disappearing beneath the tide.
Helsinki was under a completely different type of attack. Hundreds of people swarmed the streets attacking each other, fists flying, swinging makeshift weapons. Then some close-ups revealed that this was not just a typical riot. Half of the attackers were identical: perfect replicas of each other, right down to the last anatomical detail. A slim Asian man, likely in his mid-20s by the looks of him, was dressed in yellow and black leather. There were dozens of him, each one attacking civilians as they fled for their lives. Whomever he was there to fight was nowhere to be seen, at least on the footage that London was replaying. I wouldn’t be surprised if his opponent had already been overtaken by the horde.
“This is madness,” I said under my breath, not even aware I’d been speaking out loud.
“This is Arena Mode,” London replied with a song in her voice. The AI always had a penchant for delivering news in the same unwaveringly jubilant tone – a quirk my programmers had yet to adjust.
“Maybe this isn’t about terrorism,” Gavin suggested. “Maybe someone wants a newer, crazier Arena Mode to take place, and they’re using the entire world as their battleground.”
“Oh my god,” Peyton whispered, clapping her hands over her mouth. “How can...I mean, what is this all worth? Who would be the winner in a sick game like this?”
I gazed at the screens. My friends stood at my side, transfixed by the images flickering by in a kaleidoscope of destruction. People ran for their lives as buildings collapsed around them. Fires blazed, consuming cars and homes and people’s memories, reducing them to ash. Clearing my name was my priority, and that much wasn’t going to change, but this insanity could go on forever. The lives being lost could tally in the millions if someone didn’t put an end to it.
My wrist com beeped, slicing through the silence of the room. It displayed a text message.
Incoming from [Blocked Number]
“It’s him,” Gavin said
“Or her,” Peyton added.
I drew a deep breath as the red light continued to blink, beckoning for me to retrieve it.
“Holy shit, will you pick it up!” Karin shouted. “The suspense is killing us, here, boss!”
I shot her a sidelong glance and commanded my com to open the text window.
“I trust you’re enjoying the show as much as I am, my friend.”
“Why don’t you just face me one-on-one?” I asked. As I spoke my words blinked to life in glowing blue text, hovering inches from my wrist com. “Let’s settle this right now.”
“Ah, Matthew Moxon. That day will come sooner than later, I believe. I have faith that you will arrive on my doorstep in due time.”
“So you can kill me?”
“Kill you? No, my friend, you misunderstand. If I had wanted you dead, I would have killed you in The Fringe. The tower you live in could have collapsed long ago if that were my intention.”
“If you’re just looking for a chat then let’s do it right now. Stop the killing and let’s get down to business.”
“Patience. The first few steps in my plan are complete, but decisions still need to be made by those in power – paradigms need to shift. This will not happen overnight.”
Gavin leaned in, cupping a hand over his mouth next to my ear. “Can this be traced?” he whispered, careful not to let his voice translate into a text message.
I shook my head. Whoever is on the other end of this conversation knows this is the only untraceable form of communication and they don’t want to be found out...at least not yet.
“So you wanna to give me a hint?” I asked. “A little clue to speed up our meeting?”
“Ah, my friend...you are renowned for your intelligence. I am sure that you will arrive here in my own private oasis soon enough. And thank you for the use of your jet...it has proven a valuable asset in my newest venture. I look forward to our meeting. Until then, stay safe.”
The messages deleted themselves from my wrist-com as quickly as they’d appeared. They were possibly encoded with a virus but I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. With evidence of the text messages or not, it wouldn’t be nearly enough to clear my name. I needed to capture the person – or people – involved in this worldwide attack, and deliver them to Homeland on a silver platter. Then they can use whatever techniques are at their disposal to extract confessions, clearing my name in the process.
I’d spent the next several hours in the basement laboratory of the fortress. It was built inside of a natural cave, complete with exposed stalactites that dripped dramatically from the ceiling. Cameron Frost was as big a comic book fan as I was, which is probably why it looked like a replica of the iconic Bat Cave. Sure, he was an egomaniacal super villain who tried to kill me on a live simulcast, but I couldn’t hate on the guy’s decorating skills.
Dim lighting was often helpful in relieving my headaches. The sunlight on the main level was sending bolts of agony through my eyes and into my brain, and my medication was offering little relief. I was taking stock of the few items I had Karin retrieve from my megatower before we left Manhattan, including a refrigerator-sized casket. I was in the process of powering on the device when I heard footsteps clanking down the metallic staircase.
“What’s in the box?” Peyton called out, even before she reached the bottom stair.
“Nothing.”
She approached the upright steel casket and ran her hand along the surface, as if searching for a seam – some indication of where a hinge might be located. “It’s a big huge box...filled with nothing?”
“Yup,” I replied quickly.
She leaned against it, arching her eyebrow. “As you fled your home in America, maybe never to return, the only prized possession you chose to bring along was this big box of nothing?”
“I picked you up, didn’t I?” I reached out and wrapped my arms around her waist, drawing her in.
“Oh, so I’m your possession, now?” she giggled. “I don’t think so, mister. Until there’s a ring on my finger and my last name is ‘Moxon’ you shall have no such claim, fine sir.”
“You’re the best.” I squeezed her closer.
“And you’re getting better at changing subjects,” she replied, playfully tapping me on the tip of the nose.
I released her and stepped towards the computer station, pulling a chair beneath me. “I’m not lying, Peyton. It really is empty.”
She sighed with a tone of resignation. “Fine, I get the hint. I’ll stop asking.” She pulled up a chair across from me and leaned in. “So how are you feeling?”
“How am I feeling about the world being under attack by superhuman psychopaths? Or my feelings about Interpol, who just ranked me number one on their ‘most wanted’ list?” I motioned to the largest monitor on the station, where my senior high school yearbook photo was featured on the notorious website adjacent to serial killers, political dissidents and an arsonist. I’d just been linked to three additional terrorist attacks thanks to the mystery caller, and to make matters worse, the photo the FBI had chosen was horrible.
“No,” she said, her voice etched with concern. “About what you have to do?”
“Brynja has always had my back, ever since the first moment we met. Back in Arena Mode it was just me, her and Kenneth...” I drew in a long breath. Kenneth Livitski. It was a name I hadn’t said out loud since we’d spoken earlier this year in Thunder Bay. It was moments after he’d come out of a coma, when he blamed me for betraying him – for
lying about being a superhuman during the Arena Mode tournament, and allowing him to be stabbed. He was right to blame me. To hate me. Although I don’t think it was possible for him to hate me anymore than I hated myself.
I blinked hard and shook my head, raking my fingernails along my scalp.
“Anyway, Brynja was always there for me and has never let me down. She died trying to stop me from getting eliminated.”
“Right,” Peyton said. “And then she came back...somehow.”
“Uh huh...” I nodded, not sure where she was going with her line of thinking, though her tone had rapidly shifted from ‘concerned’ to ‘accusatory’.
“So,” she continued, “how do you know she came back as the same person?”
I narrowed my eyes and folded my arms, leaning back in my chair. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what is going on with her, and I don’t have anything against Brynja, but—”
“You don’t, huh?” I cut in.
Peyton scowled, a tiny line creasing her forehead. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” I snapped, throwing my hands apart.
“That look,” she said, waving a finger in my direction. “That ‘you’re totally full of crap’ look that you give me whenever I mention the forbidden B-word.”
“Come on, Peyton, just admit it: you’ve never liked her.”
“What, just because when you first met her you wished she was a sexier, more tattooed version of me?”
One of Brynja’s powers – or curses, as she referred to them – is that she’s a ‘perception’: her physical appearance can be altered by someone who observes her. When I’d first encountered Brynja in Arena Mode last summer, she’d manifested as a slender, porcelain-skinned girl with flowing blue locks and a manticore tattoo inked onto her left arm. It wasn’t until Brynja herself pointed out her striking similarities to Peyton that the pieces fell into place: swap the blue hair for pink, dial down the punk-rock wardrobe by about ninety-nine percent, erase the ink and lose the gauged earrings – they could almost be twins. Since then, Brynja has been a living reminder of what Peyton thinks is my subconscious desire for her to be more daring and dangerous. Never believing that I wouldn’t change a single detail about her.
“Oh my god, are we really going to have this fight again?” I fired back, with much more venom in my voice than I’d intended. My words were echoing through the vast Bat Cave, trailing off into the darkened back corridors.
“I don’t ever remember having this fight to begin with,” she screamed, “because you won’t ever talk about it. It’s a miracle if I can get you to talk about anything that’s not comic book or video game related for, like, ten minutes.”
I tilted my head back in my chair and stared up at the pointed rocks that loomed overhead. I momentarily prayed (to the god I didn’t believe in) that one would snap off and come crashing down, impaling my forehead. “What do you want me to say?” I groaned.
“That it’s a possibility!”
I stood and wandered a few steps away, bringing a hand to my forehead. “Yes, okay? You’re right: I don’t know how the hell Brynja reappeared, and I don’t know what her motives are now. For all I know she’s not even the same person.”
Peyton approached and put her hands on my shoulders, massaging them gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” she hesitated, as if she were searching for the right words. “And, you know, there’s always Steve McGarrity, too. He’s not as mysterious as Brynja, but he’s definitely a wild card, right? Always looking for the next big thrill? Maybe he’s organizing this competition?”
It didn’t seem likely. McGarrity is an adrenaline junkie who’s borderline suicidal, but he doesn’t have the means or the expertise to pull something off on this level. Neither did Brynja, for that matter, but it didn’t mean they weren’t working for someone.
“Brynja got me through a very tough time in my life. She was my only friend when you and I were...” I turned and Peyton took my face in her hands.
Her reassuring eyes caught mine. “It’s okay, I get it.”
“Whoever it is,” I said softly, “I have to capture them or I’ll never get pardoned. And as long as these attacks keep happening, I’ll keep getting hunted. My luck will eventually run out.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?” she asked, bringing her lips to mine.
A series of rapid-fire clanks thundered through the cave. “Mister Moxon!” Karin screamed hysterically, sprinting down the staircase with London in tow. “You have to see this!”
I tilted my forehead against Peyton’s. “See what,” I grumbled.
She raced to my side, practically vibrating with energy. “Okay, so I was in the kitchen, trying to get London here to make me a sandwich...”
“For Christ’s sake,” I shouted. “This is a sophisticated piece of technology that represents billions in research and development – it’s not a goddamned Panini press.”
“I was hungry! If you’d given everyone refreshments when we got here I wouldn’t have needed her...but that’s not the point.”
I sighed out loud. “There’s a point to all this?”
“Yes!” Karin nudged London with the point of her elbow. “Tell the boss about the book tour.”
“Book tour?” I repeated.
“Indeed, Mister Moxon,” London said with a friendly smile. “Steven McGarrity’s book tour starts this evening. Nine hours and twelve minutes from now, according to his press release.”
She projected a live feed of Picadilly Circus – a popular district in the bustling West End of London, England. The neon-coated junction was alive with holo-boards and swirling lights, all of them dedicated to Steve McGarrity’s upcoming public appearance. His autobiography, ‘Iconic Beginnings: The Formative Years of a Future Legend’ was going to be the topic of conversation on the BBC’s most popular evening talk show, and he’d be signing copies afterwards in the outdoor square.
I wasn’t sure which one I found more appalling: that at the ripe old age of twenty-one, McGarrity felt the need to share his life story in prose, or that a publisher was desperate enough to give him an advance to write it. “You have got to be shitting me,” I groaned.
“Oh, no, Mister Moxon,” London assured me. “I am not shitting on you, sir. As artificial intelligence housed within a swarm robotics unit I haven’t the biological capability to defecate. And even if I had, I would not do so on you, or in your general vicinity. That would be a serious breach of etiquette.”
“That’s...nice.” I squinted at the projection, then back at London. “Can you show me more?”
“Absolutely, sir.” She scrolled through numerous holo-forums, stopping at his itinerary: McGarrity planned to make appearances all across Europe, and then North America throughout the following months. If he was behind my frame job and the attacks, he didn’t seem overly concerned about being caught.
I shook my head. “I know he’s a notorious risk-taker, but this seems excessive.”
“Even if he’s not responsible he might know something,” Peyton offered.
“It’s settled then!” Karin announced, throwing a fist in the air. “I’ll go prep the transport – wheels up in ten!”
“Damn it,” I shouted. “Stop doing that! You’re not the one who makes the plans around here.”
“Fiiiiine,” she said eyes widening, taking an exaggerated step backwards. “Then why don’t you make the call, ‘Mister Moxon’.”
“Okay well...” I nervously scratched the back of my head as London, Peyton and Karin stared at me, anticipating a response. “Yeah, let’s go in like, ten minutes.”
Karin straightened her posture and saluted as if I were a five-star general before she spun on her heels, racing up the staircase.
“What are you going to say to McGarrity?” Peyton asked.
“I have no idea,” I said, taking a few steps towards my computer station. I pressed my thumb into the corner of the desk, triggering a small dr
awer to slide open. I reached inside and pulled out a K-9 handgun. “But until I figure out who I can trust, I’m not going to take any chances.”
“And I’m not going to take any chances with my future husband,” Peyton said. “Your headaches are getting worse.”
I opened my mouth to protest and her hand darted out, covering my mouth.
“Shush. Not a word.” She tapped her wrist-com and it illuminated with a projection. A map of Switzerland. “I contacted a neurologist there. He’s one of the best in the world, and he’s completely discreet. We can be in and out of his office in an hour and we’ll have plenty of time to track down McGarrity before tonight.”
“But I feel—”
“You’re not fine,” she interrupted. “Don’t even say it. And you’re doing this. Now.”
“The road to the New World will not be paved, as it does not yet exist. We must forge it as one, blazing a trail that only the believers may follow. Do not fear this journey. It is your destiny. Embrace it.”
- Herald of The Order(Darknet Holoforum)
Chapter Four
“I’m going to be honest with you,” Doctor Zbinden said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “It doesn’t look great.”
I’m not sure why, but when a doctor delivers bad news it sounds exponentially worse in a German accent. It must be my conditioning from a lifetime of watching villains in action movies.
The doctor exhaled through his nostrils, sending a pair of grey plumes through his dimly-lit office.
“You see this?” He traced a line through the air, motioning at the holographic depiction of my brain; the glowing blue projection hovered mid-room, rotating slowly to display every angle. “This red portion is much smaller than it was before your visit to Cerveau-N, but...”
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