And then what? I replied.
You’re the brains of this team. Think of something.
The events that followed took just moments. A heartbeat passed, maybe two, but the world was moving in slow motion. It was like a sequence from one of the Hong Kong action films that Gavin would force me to sit through every Friday night.
I lobbed the handgun over the hood of the car, trying to keep the barrel upright, allowing the pebbles to stay in place.
My partner reached up to catch it.
Ramsley turned his attention towards Brynja, leveling his saber.
I stepped from behind the car and lunged.
Unlike the meticulously choreographed fight scenes that moviegoers were accustomed to, my attack was far from spectacular. I would have liked to pull off some sort of kung-fu-inspired spinning kick, but all I could manage was an awkward tackle. I drove my shoulder into Ramsley’s ribcage and reached around his thighs, dragging him to the pavement. It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.
I landed a few well-placed punches that cracked his cheekbone before reaching for his sword, but he refused to release it. We rolled and wrestled, fighting for the saber’s hilt like rabid dogs competing for a bone. Tugging and twisting, I was unable to wrest it from his hands. For a senior citizen, he sure didn’t fight like one. I outweighed the Brit by a solid twenty pounds, but he had the grip of a vice.
Run! I shouted in my head. Go for the bridge, Brynja – this is your chance.
During the struggle, we both regained our footing, and I threw an elbow into Ramsley’s jaw with the hope of loosening his hold. The blade suddenly hummed with electricity and exploded, firing a powerful burst of energy down the street.
We continued to struggle for another minute, smashing each other with punches and elbows.
And then I saw her: Brynja, face down, blinking in and out of existence like a broken fluorescent light bulb. She had been struck by the electrical charge, and it didn’t phase through her like solid objects normally would.
She was dying.
Before I could scream, the manticore was already in motion. He pounced on Ramsley, latching onto his forearm, crushing bone and tearing muscle tissue.
I scrambled towards Brynja, stumbling for a few awkward steps. I dropped to my knees and flipped her over, gently cradling her head and neck. There was no entry or exit wound. The electrical bolt hadn’t affected her like it did physical objects, but it must have disrupted her system in some way. Her mouth opened and closed impotently, eyes rolling into the back of her head. I couldn’t identify the wound, but it was clear that I was losing her.
Please help, I thought. Anyone. Whoever is listening, someone please save her. All I could do was plead – shout out in my mind while I hoped for a response. I didn’t believe in any unseen, all-powerful force before today, but in the chance that one did exist, I was begging for it to intervene.
Footsteps clacked rapidly down the street. I glanced over my shoulder to see Ramsley sprinting in the opposite direction, with our manticore hot on his trail.
Brynja’s eyes fluttered open and she breathed out a single word. “Ouch.”
“Why did you run towards me instead of making your way to the bridge?” I asked, gently stroking her hair.
“Because,” she said softly, “you fight like a girl. I was worried you’d get your ass kicked if I didn’t stick around and help.”
I had no idea what to do. There were no broken bones or bleeding wounds – at least nothing external. Even if there was an injury that I could identify, I would probably have been unable to treat it, but at least I’d know why. Watching the life drain from Brynja’s body was a completely different type of helplessness than the kind I usually felt.
“I wish I had one of these,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the rings that dangled from the chain around my neck. “If I had a lucky charm maybe the lightning would have missed me.”
“You never know,” I whispered back. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Tell her.” She said, in a louder, more authoritative voice.
“Tell who?”
She coughed, and her eyelids fell. I could hear her fading voice straining to be heard in my mind. You know who. Tell her how you’re feeling and stop being a douchebag.
It’s not that simple, I thought.
It totally is. And this is my dying wish so you kinda have to. Do it or I’ll come back and haunt you.
I smiled weakly and kissed her forehead. “Can’t have that.”
She flickered again, and rolled to her side.
And she disappeared.
The final rays of daylight were receding into the distance. When night fell, The City came alive. Holo-screens brightened, dancing and sparkling, generating more light than the sun on New York’s brightest summer afternoon. The government should have saved some taxpayer money by turning off the streetlights – in most areas they weren’t even necessary.
I was ambling towards the North Bridge, and there was nothing left to stop me. It was a clear path, and I’d cruise to an easy third place finish. Ten million dollars was more than I needed, and more money that I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. And all I had to do was stroll up to the Lincoln Skyway, flag down someone with medical clearance, and tap out. Wave the proverbial white flag and I was a winner.
I didn’t feel particularly victorious. Playing dress-up and pretending to be a superhero had landed one friend in a coma, and a second one ... I didn’t know. I was still numb. I couldn’t allow myself the option of falling apart. I’d probably do that back in The Fringe, once I was safe, but out here a breakdown could still get me killed.
Aside from being an emotional wreck, I certainly didn’t look the part of a winner. Armor stripped away, my tank top stained with blood, limping from a damaged knee – I resembled the Dark Zone-dwelling vagrants that Manhattan security guards regularly detained simply for committing the crime of being in close proximity with the upper-class.
The rotating red and blue lights were visible from several blocks out. The police cruisers and ambulances barricading the bridge were coming into focus. I was just minutes away.
Shuffling west down 39th Street, I was entering a construction zone, where the omnipresent screens began to relent. A fresh migraine set in, and I was sure – I was positive – that someone was calling my name. It had been a while, and I was probably due for a blackout or a mind-bending hallucination. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
Rapidly blinking and shaking my head did nothing to clear the voice. It persisted. I looked up and saw a nearby bus shelter, where Cameron Frost appeared on a holo-screen, replacing the advertisement that was running on a loop. He was calling out, addressing me personally.
“Congratulations, Moxon. You did it. Some spectacular eliminations, and you’re about to become famous. Not to mention ten million dollars richer.”
I collapsed onto a metal bench and stared blankly at the screen. “Thanks.”
Frost was a busy man; if he took the time to address me in a private feed, it was likely for a good reason. He could have congratulated me after the tournament.
“Let me ask you something before you make your way to the bridge: aren’t you just a little disappointed that you didn’t try for first? Sure, ten million dollars might sound like a lot of money to someone in your position, but could you imagine having ten billion?”
I would have shrugged if I had the energy. As it was, I barely had enough left in me to form coherent sentences. “What can I do with ten billion dollars that I can’t do with ten million?”
“You wouldn’t just be wealthy,” Frost said brightly, “When you join the billionaire’s club, you’re elite. Trust me, it’s like living in a completely different world. It’s the kind of money that gives you influence. The kind of power that a select few ever get a taste of.”
I paused for a moment, carefully considering my response. “Power is just another word for
‘control’. I don’t want to control anyone’s life except for my own.”
His brightness quickly faded, lips pressing into a thin line. “So you’re content, then.”
“Content?” I asked, exhaling loudly.
“To just take the cash and run. No epic finale, no heroic end to your journey inside The Arena. Just a broken man, hobbling towards a paycheck.”
“Sure,” I said simply. “Why the hell not.” My words were now spilling out with a sense of purpose, each more forceful than the last.
“What will your friends think of your performance?” he asked, lowering his voice. He leaned closer to the camera as if to add weight to his argument. “And what about the people watching around the world? You have these extraordinary abilities – why not use them?”
I laughed under my breath. I couldn’t believe we were actually having this conversation, just minutes before I was about to reach the finish line. “Are you trying to get me to stay in The Arena by calling me chicken? This isn’t the sixth grade, Cameron. I don’t care if it’s bad for ratings, I’ve seen horrible things, I’ve possibly lost two friends, I’m done.”
He furrowed his brow, shaking his head slowly. “Well that’s disappointing.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I disappointed someone today.”
“Everyone has a motivator, Moxon. I asked you to find something to fight for, and judging by your actions in The Arena today, you did exactly that. Money and fame don’t bring the best out of you ... but friendship, family – that’s the key, isn’t it?”
I pushed myself off the bench with a small groan. “I don’t need a psychologist right now, I need a doctor. I have a bad knee, cracked ribs, and I’ve had at least two concussions today. So sit back, and enjoy being one of ‘the elite’ ... I’m going to an emergency room.”
“Don’t take another step,” Frost commanded. His booming voice reverberated through the construction zone like a thunderclap. “Don’t talk, don’t even move. I’m going to show you something.” He reached out of view and tapped a keyboard, and a video feed filled the screen. “Excelsior Retro Comics in The Fringe. Recognize it?”
I could see directly through the front window: Peyton and Gavin sitting on a couch, watching the Trinitron. The security bars had been locked into place, but the grates were still open – they were clearly visible.
“When was this taken?” I asked. As my sentence ended I realized that I already knew the answer, and I knew his reason for showing me. But I needed to hear it directly from Frost.
“It’s live, of course,” he said earnestly. “It’s being filmed from a black van parked across the street.”
“You son of a bitch.” My pulse quickened, and my first instinct was to stomp a hole in the screen, smashing the monitor into a million pieces. For my friends’ sakes, I tried to let the rational part of my brain do the talking.
“If I tap out, you’re going to execute them? This is bullshit – even you can’t pull something like this off.” He knew as well as I did that Excelsior was in the nicer part of The Fringe; there were a dozen cameras on every corner.
Frost’s face returned to the screen. His expression had shifted; he was grinning, wide and mischievous. “Get away with it? That’s not part of the plan, Moxon. Do you know the Petrovic brothers?”
Of course I did. Gavin had set them up to rob a liquor store not long ago, and I stopped them, cheating my way into Arena Mode. Gavin had always used fake identities and rented vehicles when traveling through The Dark Zone, so the Petrovic’s would have no way of locating him. That is, unless they had some considerable help from a very connected benefactor.
“Three of the brothers landed in prison because of you. I had my lawyer, Mister Epstein, bail them out last week. We had a brief conversation ... nice group of guys once you get to know them.” He leaned close to the camera once more, lowering his voice as if he were sharing a secret. “They are not big fans of yours, by the way. Or of your friend, Mister Lockridge. So I gave them an address, some state-of-the-art firepower, and an untraceable van. Now all they need is the green light. I don’t imagine they have anything against the young lady, but I doubt they would want witnesses. I’m sure you understand.”
I clenched my fists so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. “You wouldn’t,” I said hoarsely, my heart pounding so hard that I felt like my ribcage would break.
“I can, and I would. One call, one phrase. I say the magic words and they open fire. Your best friend and the pretty girl with the pink hair get blown to tiny little bits.” He paused for just a moment, cocking his head slightly. “I know you’re a fan of acid-filled bullets. Maybe I’ll tell them to swap in some Green Scorpions and avoid the kill-shots for now. How would you like to see Peyton’s arms melt off in high-definition?” His grin widened.
I turned without another word and headed east, stomping back into the heart of The Arena.
Frost continued to shout as I walked away. “Look at the bright side, Moxon: I’m giving you the chance at honor. And if you finish in first place, I’ll be at the post-game press conference, handing you a check with more zeroes on it than you can count. You’ll thank me for this.”
As I put more distance between myself and the screen, it occurred to me that I’ve never met anyone who spouted so much pure, unadulterated bullshit, and had it go completely unquestioned by the masses. Even I’d bought into it on occasion. All his bluster about honor and valor and achieving personal greatness, it felt like a throwback to a forgotten era. Frost wasn’t a samurai or someone looking for enlightenment. He was a businessman. And keeping me in the tournament would mean a small fortune in additional advertising revenue – well worth the trade-off for the lives of two kids from The Fringe.
Letting me leave would mean not only a financial loss, but losing face. I had no doubts that in Frost’s twisted mind, having competitors simply walk away would make Arena Mode look weak.
I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t call the police. And if Peyton or Gavin tried to run, they’d certainly be gunned down. But staying and competing, even if I survived, would be meaningless. There’s no way that Frost would let me, or my friends, live after the conversation that just occurred. Whether I had proof of his involvement in a conspiracy to commit murder or not was irrelevant. I knew too much – I was a loose end.
Until then, I didn’t realize how deranged Cameron Frost was, but during the conversation when we first met, he got one thing right: to survive Arena Mode, I needed something to push me through when I felt there was no reason to carry on. Before it was my friends: Peyton and Gavin and Kenneth and Brynja – but not anymore. As I stormed towards the east coast of Manhattan, my lifeline became vengeance.
I had a plan to use my gold card, access Frost Tower, and march back into his office on the top floor. I didn’t care about the money anymore, or even getting this tumor out of my head. I’d die in a prison cell if I had to, rotting away in solitary confinement while my brain turned to oatmeal.
But before that happened, I wanted to kick Cameron Frost out of his wheelchair, smash his face in, and choke every last breath from his body.
I don’t know why people call it ‘blinded by rage’ because my mind had never been so clear. There was only one thing I needed to do, and I was focused on it with laser-sharp determination. My plan was simple, and I had the one item I needed to carry it out.
Of all the items hidden throughout The Arena – guns, knives, swords, explosives – I never imagined a gold key card that I happened upon would prove to be the most dangerous weapon. It wasn’t just an all-access pass to every car, door and elevator in Manhattan, but it also afforded me the element of surprise; I wouldn’t need to storm into Cameron Frost’s office, guns blazing. I could sneak in quietly, and before he knew what was happening, I’d have my hands wrapped tightly around the bastard’s neck.
He was in his office, I was sure of it. I instantly recognized the surroundings when he appeared on video,
including his prized katana, prominently displayed in the background. He wanted to be nearby, close to the action. It explained why he was so insistent on hosting Arena Mode in Manhattan.
I found a nearby delivery truck and drove it across the city. I pulled up to Frost Tower, stepped out, and made my way towards the entrance. One swipe of my card disabled the alarm, and the oversized glass doors slid open with a welcoming chime.
The brightly-lit lobby was modern and immense and so well maintained it was practically sparkling. Floors, walls, reception desks – every surface was snowflake white, and so pristine you could eat off of them. Once you’ve crossed the football field-sized foyer, you could choose between dozens of escalators, criss-crossing in every direction, some stretching ten stories up. An endless supply of elevators lined the walls, each numbered with a roman numeral.
The tower’s lobby was typically buzzing with activity; at any one point a thousand executives, security guards and maintenance workers were rushing in every direction – it was like a miniature city within The City. But thanks to Arena Mode, like the rest of Manhattan, it was empty.
I strolled across the polished marble floors, my armored boots clanking with each heavy step. Squat, dome-shaped maintenance robots hummed and chirped, cheerfully waxing and polishing as I walked by.
Bypassing the main bank of elevators, I found the one I was looking for, at the very far end of the main level – the private, wheelchair accessible lift that was separated from all the others. When I approached, the motion sensors detected me, and the reflective brass doors slid open with a soft ping. I stepped aboard the cylindrical mirrored lift and discovered there were no buttons on the control panel. None were necessary. It was only designed to make one stop, and it was only accessible by one person. I slid my card into a horizontal slot located low on the panel, and the doors slid shut.
< Good evening, Mister Frost, > the elevator said cheerfully.
The hydraulic lift shot me to the top level in a flash. The doors silently pulled open, directly into his office. When I stepped out I, was confronted by Jerry Epstein, who’s small, shallow eyes became the size of saucers. I don’t know if Frost’s well-dressed lawyer recognized me from our hovercraft ride together several weeks ago; he barely acknowledged me for the entire flight, so it was possible he’d forgotten. If he didn’t know who I was before, he sure as hell wasn’t going to forget me after this visit.
Arena Mode Page 21