The only remaining pieces of the suit were my boots and the plates that protected my thighs – all still intact but as battle-scarred as I was. Since Russia’s Son ripped off my breastplate, my arms and torso were completely exposed. I was skeptical of my white tank top’s ability to stop a lightning bolt or slashes from a katana.
“Matty,” Peyton said, leaning into the camera’s field of view. “After you defeated Sergei Taktarov, a news report came out of Eastern Europe ... things are getting bad.”
She explained that the largest recorded mass suicide had just taken place across multiple locations, moments after the Russian fell. The death toll was still rising, and the count had already been confirmed at more than nine thousand.
According to the report, when Frost revealed Sergei Taktarov to the world, it did more than just hype the biggest simulcast event in history – it shook people’s faith.
Many religions have their own version of ‘The Second Coming’, where according to scripture, a supernatural being will return to Earth, ushering in a new era of universal peace; eradicating war, oppression, famine and disease. As Taktarov’s propaganda machine gained momentum and word of his power started to spread, some believed that he was the one they’d been waiting for.
As far as I know, no one had predicted that their messiah would arrive on the day of Frost’s big announcement, and I seriously doubt that anyone expected him to arrive in the form of an antagonistic twenty-year-old Russian who could fly and shoot lasers from his eyes. Sergei Taktarov’s emergence seemed to be an unlikely reason for worship, but in a world that desperately needed saving, there were far worse things than praying for a saviour.
His believers were widespread, with suicides being reported across St. Petersburg, Minsk, Kiev, and Warsaw. According to an iTube video, there was a collective agreement vowing to ‘join the Almighty in Heaven’ should the unthinkable occur during Arena Mode. When Taktarov lost his life, his growing number of followers decided to take theirs. The disturbing contingency plan had been in place for weeks, being discussed and coordinated on a number of forums.
As Peyton continued to explain the situation, a breaking news bulletin blinked into view, floating above the top of the holo-screen. Protests were breaking out in Moscow, where thousands had assembled outside of the Kremlin.
In the wake of the shocking fallout from the event, I was surprised Arena Mode wasn’t cancelled.
Gavin pointed out that thirty-second ads were being sold for upwards of thirty million dollars, a price that doubled since the Lewis versus Taktarov battle. The tournament was becoming the largest cash machine in entertainment history, and there was no chance of anyone pulling the plug now.
“Get out of there,” Peyton pleaded. “You’ve made the final four and you’ll have the money you need. Just run for it.”
“It’s not that simple,” I explained. “We’re boxed in. If we go for the bridge we’ll be ...”
And then I stopped, mid-sentence. A searing pain stabbed me through the temples like a pair of oversized syringes. I wasn’t sure about the events of the following minutes, but I must have lost balance before blacking out. The next thing I remember was sitting on the pavement, slumped against some discarded wooden crates.
The headaches were getting far more intense and striking with greater frequency.
When I was reacquainted with my senses, Brynja retrieved the holo-com and passed it down to me so I could continue the conversation with my friends back at Excelsior.
“How long since your last pill?” Gavin asked quietly, as if he thought that speaking too loud would aggravate my condition.
I feverishly rubbed my forehead and squeezed my eyes shut. “Too long.” The setting sun was a harsh, glowing reminder of how late in the day it was getting and of how little time I had left. I required a dose every four hours to combat the side effects of my tumor, and I hadn’t popped a pill since sunrise.
“I know you’re in pain, but you can’t just sit there,” Peyton said cautiously, barely louder than a whisper. “You’re hanging on by a thread as it is. In an hour or two...”
“I know,” I snapped back, biting off my words. “I don’t need you to explain it to me.”
“Don’t glitch out on us,” she replied, calm and reassuring. “Relax. You need to concentrate.”
“It’s hard to calm down and concentrate when everyone keeps telling me to calm down and concentrate.” I groaned as I regained my footing. Brynja reached out and held my arm for support, and I pulled away, refusing her assistance. She backed off, allowing me some much-needed space.
“Everything is going to work out,” Peyton added. “I know it will.”
“Just stop it!” I screamed into the com, straining my voice. “Peyton, just stop saying you know everything is going to be fine, and you know I’ll be all right. You don’t know. You’re just putting more pressure on me when you keep saying the same shit over and over.”
“I was just trying to ...”
“To make yourself feel better. It’s not helping me, okay? Just leave me alone!” I threw the com into the brick wall across the alley, cracking the metal casing.
“Are you done?” Brynja asked, as if she was addressing a petulant child in mid-tantrum.
I didn’t reply; I was stubborn. I huffed and paced, grumbling to myself. I finally retrieved the com from the pavement which, luckily, was still in one piece – and functional.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you and that girl,” Brynja added flatly, “and I don’t care. But she’s right – I know you don’t want to hear it, but you do need to relax and concentrate. You can throw a fit when we’re out of The Arena.”
Part of me wanted to call Peyton back and apologize. It wasn’t the time or place. We could have that conversation if I survived – I needed my head in the game.
I fidgeted with the com as I paced the length of the alley, weighing options and considering the odds. We could search the area for caskets, but there was no way to tell which of them had already been opened. Several were clustered around midtown, which was nearby, but that plan seemed like a longshot at best; the area was left in pieces after Russia’s Son had brawled with Dwayne Lewis for a good portion of the afternoon. What remained looked like the aftermath of a nuclear strike. Besides, we didn’t have the time or resources to sift through tons of rubble in search of caskets, especially ones that may or may not contain a useful item.
Lost inside my thoughts, I was caught off guard by the small blue manticore padding down the alley, purring like a house cat awaiting his dinner. Melvin approached and rubbed his head against my boot. His dragon wings expanded, and with a few flaps, he was face-to-face with me, pressing his nose into my cheek.
I wondered if he could help us bypass the Gentleman. He was a strong ally, but Melvin had a tendency to come and go as he pleased, and Brynja was having little success communicating with him. All she could discern was that he was sleepy, and had an itch behind his left ear that was preventing him from napping. Not overly helpful.
Coupled with Brynja’s lack of offensive capabilities and my brain being fried, the three of us weren’t exactly a force to be reckoned with. Hopefully The Gentleman didn’t know that. If we approached with a manticore in tow, Ramsley might back down when he saw he was outgunned three-to-one.
I relayed my plan to Brynja without speaking, worried that my words would be broadcast across the live feed, captured by any number of cameras hovering overhead.
She nodded in agreement, and we left to confront our final obstacle.
Brynja and I marched up 7th Street with Melvin flying closely overhead. After a short walk, we approached a security camera at street level, attached to a security gate outside of a pizzeria. A faint red light blinked inside the casing. It was recording, as were virtually all of the security cams in The City; anything I said would be replayed on the simulcast, and hopefully, The Gentleman was watching.
I put on my game face
and stared intensely at the lens. “Winston Ramsley,” I shouted with as much conviction as I could muster, “We’re on our way to the North Bridge, and we know you’re there. This is your last chance to cross it and tap out. As you can see we have the numbers on our side ... and unlike the last time the British were in trouble during a conflict, you won’t have America to jump in and save you.”
Seriously? Brynja shouted inside my head. You’re going with a World War II reference? Has anyone ever mentioned that you should prepare your threats in advance? Get a script, maybe?
I had a bad habit of getting myself into these situations. I wanted to say something with punch – something that would strike fear into the man blocking our exit. “So ... we’re coming, Ramsley,” I said, even more forcefully. “Before you know it we’ll be there, ready to fight. And you might have the lightning ... but we’ll be bringing the thunder.”
Brynja slapped a palm into her forehead. Oh. My. God. Please stop. Just wrap it up before you make it worse.
I dragged my fingernails through my hair and exhaled loudly, turning away. Then I paused, taking a moment to reconsider. I turned back to the camera.
I was tired of shouting. Tired of posturing. I was going to send a different kind of message. “It’s been a long goddamned day, and I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life.” I patted my chest with both hands. “But this is nothing – it’s all gonna heal. A few stitches, some aspirin, and before long I’ll be good to go. But the shit I’ve seen today; the bodies, the blood, the ...” I trailed off momentarily, searching for the right words. They never came. Instead I just tapped the side of my head, refocusing on the lens in front of me. “This ... it isn’t going away. Not anytime soon. You can’t go back to a regular, everyday existence and leave all of this madness behind.”
“Out there,” I gestured, towards nowhere in particular, “in the ‘real world’, I’ll be a mess for a while, trying to unburden myself from the weight of what I’ve seen. But in here, trying to survive Arena Mode, these memories aren’t a burden: they’re a gift. Matthew Moxon from the Fringe wouldn’t have the stomach to hurt you. To hurt anyone, really. But after today, I won’t have any problem with this.” I snatched the K9 from my hip and jerked it into the camera’s view. “I’m going to stick this barrel in your mouth and paint a wall with your brain matter. I might lose sleep over it tonight, but right now, in the state I’m in ... I won’t even blink.” I jammed the barrel into the lens before adding, “We’ll see you soon.” I pulled the trigger, shattering the camera with a satisfying pop and a plume of grey smoke.
Brynja’s lips parted slightly, but she remained silent. I had a feeling that I’d even convinced her with my performance – hopefully I’d rattled The Gentleman just as much.
As we made our way towards the North Bridge, we didn’t speak, exchange thoughts or even trade glances. I imagined she was trying to figure out if I’d snapped – if the pressure of Arena Mode or the tumor had finally overwhelmed me, leaving me incapable of making rational decisions.
For a few minutes, I was trying to figure out the same thing.
As we approached our destination, I opened the holo-com and called up the map in search of our opponents and found that the rules had changed yet again: our locations were no longer being traced with a red dot.
“That’s weird,” I mumbled, frowning at the floating projection.
Just as I heard Brynja ask “What’s weird?” a blinding flash of light exploded out of nowhere.
The tines of electricity narrowly missed us, passing between Brynja and I, before consuming a mailbox across the street. The blast burned a manhole-sized opening in the side, charring it black.
We spun to face Winston Ramsley. He was poised and confident and taller than I’d remembered him. Clutching a fencing saber in one hand and a cloak in the other, he stepped forward and offered a stately bow, as if to welcome us.
“Why didn’t you just kill us?” Brynja asked, clearly without thinking the question through. Better not to give him ideas if he was in the mood to negotiate a truce.
“Shoot a man in the back?” he said with a sneer, as if the mere suggestion were an insult to his fine moral standing. “I’m not a savage.”
I drew the K9 from my hip and leveled it at his head. “I guess they don’t call you ‘The Gentleman’ for nothing.”
“I’m a swordfighter,” he said curtly. “It’s not just a sport I participate in, Mister Moxon. It’s who I am. If I killed an unarmed opponent, it would make me no different than a common killer, would it not?”
“What about the rooftop?” I distinctly remember being knee-deep in melting tar when he opened fire. He didn’t have any misgivings about using my head as target practice on that occasion.
“I fired a warning shot. You had ample opportunity to defend yourself afterwards.”
Brynja glanced curiously at the robe tucked under Ramsley’s arm. “Interesting fashion choice.”
“It’s a light refracting cloak,” he replied. “Good for a measure of invisibility if the user stands perfectly still. I found it the moment I landed. A gold casket was practically sitting at my feet, and there it was, folded neatly inside. Seems like I ran into a bit of luck.”
“That does sound lucky,” I responded with a heavy dose of skepticism. His random discovery sounded too good to be true, but he didn’t appear to be lying – at least not judging by his tone of voice and facial expression.
He paused a moment, lowering his saber. “They’re calling you ‘the God Slayers’, did you know that?”
Brynja and I shot each other a curious glance.
“Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only ones who have access to a holo-com.” Ramsley reached into his pocket and produced a circular handheld communicator, identical to the device we’d recently acquired. “I’ve been keeping a watchful eye on the outside world, periodically checking in on simulcasts.”
I cocked my handgun, trying to give the illusion that it was loaded with more than the discarded screws and gravel I’d scooped out of an alley. “If you have access to the tournament standings, then you know the score: if you move aside, we tap out at the bridge. You’ll be guaranteed a first or second place finish.”
Brynja stood confidently at my side, absently stroking her manticore’s flowing mane. “Either way,” she added, “we’re giving you a free pass, grandpa. Take off and no one has to die here.”
We were selling the bluff. It was time to see if he’d fold, or raise the stakes.
The Gentleman paused for a moment. He began twisting at the edge of his thick greying moustache with one hand, and leaning on his saber with the other, as if it were a cane propping him up. I hoped he was carefully considering our offer, realizing that, being outnumbered, the deck was stacked against him. A three-on-one brawl didn’t favor him, regardless of his ability to channel electricity.
“I appreciate the gesture,” he replied, unflinching, “but I’m afraid I can’t accept your generous offer. I saw your speech earlier, and you made a compelling argument. That being said, I had a goal coming here today: to defeat the greatest warriors in the world. At my age, this is about more than money – it’s about the continuation of my name, and what I leave behind.”
The confidence drained from Brynja’s face as a grim realization set in. “So if you defeat us ...”
“I’m written into the history books as the man who was able to slay the God Slayers.” He raised his saber and rolled his head from side to side, cracking it in either direction. He was loosening up in preparation for a duel.
He was calling our bluff. Either that, or he simply didn’t care about the odds that were stacked against him. “I get the feeling that I can’t talk you out of this.”
“Afraid not,” the polite Englishman replied with a small shake of his head. “But before we begin, may I ask you a question? Not all of us are going to leave here, and I’d like to satisfy my curiosity.”
I rais
ed an eyebrow, leaving my gun aimed squarely at his chest. “I don’t see why not. No reason why we can’t be civilized before we start killing each other.”
“Your power,” he asked. “I saw you blow up that car on the news. That was quite a show. But from what I understand, you haven’t used your abilities even once during this competition. Do you mind if I ask why?”
We’re surrounded by cameras, I thought. Whatever I say is going to come off as a lie, and I can’t afford to give any indication that I’m powerless.
“On second thought, screw being civilized. This is New York.” I fired the K9, blasting a fistful of screws into Ramsley’s chest plate. The volley bounced harmlessly off his armor, but the distraction allowed me a moment to dive towards the curb and roll behind a parked car. I didn’t know how much cover it would provide, but without any remaining armor I needed to put something between myself and several thousand volts of electricity.
Melvin took flight and sailed towards The Gentleman. The manticore roared and flapped his wings, but was thwarted by a few waves of the Brit’s sword – a weapon that was now wrapped with tendrils of crackling blue energy. He fell to the pavement and scurried back to Brynja, cowering behind her legs like a terrified kitten.
I peered through the window of the car and saw Ramsley, who had apparently decided to ignore Brynja and her pet, standing in a low offensive stance, saber extended – what fencers referred to as being ‘on guard’.
“Mister Moxon,” he shouted. “Don’t be coy. Come and put your superpowers on display. Surely the world wants to know what the God Slayer has to offer.”
We were about to engage in a fight to the death, and this guy was still being polite. He obviously hadn’t spent much time on this side of the pond. I scraped a handful of pebbles from the street, releasing them into the mouth of the secondary barrel with a series of tiny clinks.
Toss me the gun, Brynja shouted frantically in my head, I’ll distract him.
Arena Mode Page 20