Without hesitation, I pointed the K9 at his leg and fired, blasting a wad of corroded metal shards into his thigh. He screamed and fell, rolling in agony.
“Frost!” I called out, my voice resonating up the thirty-foot walls. My eyes flicked in every direction – the office was empty. There was medical equipment set up against the far wall, and some random tools and metal parts were positioned in a makeshift workstation off to the corner, but Frost was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” I asked, turning my attention to the blood-soaked man writhing at my feet.
“Where’s who?” he said, in between sobs.
“Really, dude? Are you sure you want to play this game?” I stomped on his thigh and callously twisted my heel, grinding the shards deeper into his muscle. He bellowed out a high-pitched shriek that I didn’t know was humanly possible.
I took a longer look around without lifting my boot. I noticed that Frost’s workstation had a camera mounted on it, along with a few small monitors. I grabbed a fistful of Epstein’s grey pinstripe jacket and dragged him across the floor, pulling him around the far side of the desk.
The monitors were set up to review multiple feeds of the tournament and were tracking the remaining competitors. Winston Ramsley was still in play; he’d bandaged his bad arm and was walking with a noticeable limp, but had somehow survived being mauled by a manticore. Melvin was nowhere in sight.
Fudō was flying low to the ground, circling the streets with his katana in hand.
Epstein was nervously flicking his eyes between the monitors and the space behind me. He was trying to hide something.
I slapped the button beneath Frost’s desk, triggering the wooden stand to emerge from his floor. The katana was gone.
I holstered the K9 and lugged Epstein to his feet with both hands, folding him backwards over the desk. The back of his head cracked off the wooden surface with a loud thud.
“What the hell is going on here?” I shouted. “Frost gave his sword to Fudō? Why?”
“He didn’t give it to Fudō,” he groaned, wincing in pain. “He is Fudō.”
I dropped the bleeding lawyer and raced out the side door, down the torch-lit medieval corridor, and up the ramp to his rooftop hover-pad.
My mouth hung open when I saw it: Frost’s wheelchair, sitting abandoned on the platform.
And Frost was nowhere to be found.
Storming back down the hallway, I stopped just short of the office’s threshold, where a replica of two medieval knights stood guard on either side of the door. I wrenched the broadsword from the hands of one of the displays and carefully inspected it. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was a sharpened steel blade and not just a convincing prop.
Inside the office, Epstein had dragged himself within arm’s reach of the elevator. A messy streak of blood left a trail behind him, pouring from what must have been a punctured artery in his leg.
Letting my sword clank to the floor, I kneeled and curled my fingers around a chunk of Epstein’s greying hair, jerking his head back. “Listen up, Jerry,” I said coldly. “I know you’re a lawyer, so I’m not even gonna try and negotiate with you. I know I’ll get my ass kicked in that department. Instead, I’m going to offer you an ultimatum.”
“Please, just don’t kill ...”
“Shh. You’re going to want to listen to this part very carefully. See this?” I pulled the K9 from my hip, jamming the barrel hard into his temple. “This is one of those guns they use in the Dark Zone. You know, that filthy place across the Hudson where you and your buddies dump your trash and hire your minimum-wage labor? I don’t have any bullets for it, but lucky for me, it has this secondary barrel.” I pulled the gun away from his face and tapped my fingernail into the metal cylinder just inches from his widened eye. “I can stick whatever I want in here. I haven’t had much time to play with it, but I’d love to experiment. Maybe grab a few pens from Frost’s desk and fire them into your ...”
“All right!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and strained. “Ask me anything and I’ll tell you. Just please ... don’t.”
It wasn’t long before I knew everything.
Frost had been investing in robotics companies for years with the hopes of regaining his ability to walk. Stem cell research was making incredible progress, but it was still more than a decade away from curing paraplegics. He was able to design and construct a multi-million dollar exoskeleton that allowed him a full range of motion. At close to seven feet tall and nearly eight hundred pounds, it was far too bulky to be practical for everyday use, but with some minor modifications, it would function perfectly as an armored battle suit.
Frost had also invested in Cerebral Dampening Units. He had the devices miniaturized to use as portable weapons, having them installed into the palms of his armored gauntlets. During their confrontation, it explained why Frost was able to block Kenneth’s powers, causing his manifestation to disappear.
Aside from the Fudō exoskeleton, he had made several other arrangements to tilt the tournament’s odds in his favor. Vitesse was given a map indicating the locations of every medical station, with the instructions to take out the doctors and nurses. As it turns out, Frost didn’t need them: he had access to his office, with all the medical supplies he required. He could even repair his suit if it were damaged. The rest of the competitors would have to fend for themselves, suffering with their injuries for the duration of the tournament.
Winston Ramsley was also given some assistance. He was dropped right on top of a pile of supplies, including a cloak that would refract light, making him essentially invisible to the other competitors. He would no doubt last until late in the competition, where Frost could finish him one-on-one, uninterrupted.
A decorated swordfighter, Ramsley had been vocal in the press about his distrust of Cameron Frost, and even accused the billionaire of ducking him during a Full Contact Swordfighting competition several years ago. In addition to winning Arena Mode, Frost would kill his most hated rival in spectacular fashion, not to mention achieving his lifelong goal: breaking Miyamoto Mushashi’s record of sixty lifetime victories with a katana, becoming the most prolific swordfighter of all time.
As the lawyer continued to explain Frost’s plans, his wrist-com began to chime. Our eyes met. We both knew who it was.
I dragged him back to the desk, and emptied a handful of silver pens into the barrel of the K9. I jammed the weapon into his neck and nodded. “Audio only.”
“Mister Frost,” Epstein said, with a small rattle to his voice.
“What took you so long to answer? For a thousand dollars an hour you’d think I could at least get a hold of you by the second chime.”
“I’m sorry sir, I was ... occupied.”
“Where is the holo-screen?’ he asked suspiciously. “Why am I only on audio?”
Epstein hesitated, so I pushed the barrel harder into his throat. “Oh, it’s ... broken. I can only get sound for some reason ... must have damaged it during racquetball this morning.”
Frost let out an exaggerated groan before continuing. “We might have a problem. Moxon disappeared from the cameras. Last I saw him, he was heading towards The Tower.”
Epstein cleared his throat and loosened his tie. “Um, no, he’s nowhere near the building, sir. He might have tried to access the lobby but I’m looking at the main level security cams right now. No sign of him.”
“Well find him,” Frost ordered. “Give me his location the second a camera spots him, and I’ll deal with him last. I’m just a block away from Winston Ramsley now.”
Epstein twisted the face of his wrist-com and shut down the transmission, just as the side of my gun struck the back of his head.
I caught the final moments of their ‘fight’, if you could call it that. From what I saw, it looked more like an execution.
By the time I’d caught up with them, The Gentleman had been battered and bloodied, almost smashed into unconsciousness by Fu
dō’s metallic fists. They were Midtown, near the location of the now-infamous Sledge versus Taktarov battle, and the backdrop was post-apocalyptic; cars were overturned, some engulfed in flames. A nearby fire hydrant had been ripped from the sidewalk and was continually erupting with a geyser of water. And many of the surrounding buildings had been so badly damaged they were reduced to mountains of rubble.
“Pick up your weapon,” Fudō instructed through his voice modulator, pointing towards the ground with his katana. “Do it now, and die with honor.” He had already activated his CDUs; the palms of his suit pulsed with red energy, and Ramsley was clutching the side of his head, wincing in pain.
The Brit dragged his saber from the pavement and leveled it, unable to generate any electricity. Undeterred, he lunged forward, and Fudō parried. A few clangs and clashes ensued, but Ramsley had nothing left. His sword might as well have been made of concrete, because he lacked the strength to lift it above his waist.
Fudō pressed forward and slashed, opening a wide gash across Ramsley’s throat. Mercifully, it was over.
“That was impressive, Mister Frost,” I shouted from half a block away. “Very impressive indeed.” I approached with my modified pistol in one hand and my newly acquired broadsword in the other.
He turned to face me. The remaining holo-screens that lined each side of the street reflected off his silver armor, bathing him in a colorful spectrum of flickering lights. He pressed the sword to his back, attaching it magnetically as if it were a scabbard. Using both hands, he reached up and twisted a latch at the base of his neck, causing a hydraulic hiss. Releasing the latches cut the power to his head, and the piercing red eyes winked off. With a jerking motion, he removed his helmet and tossed it aside.
“Attorney-client privilege doesn’t mean what it used to, I guess.” I leveled my K9, ratcheting back the hammer with my thumb.
“No matter,” Frost said casually. “I was about to reveal myself anyway. Right after I had eliminated you.” He ran a metallic hand across his forehead, brushing the sweat-drenched hair from his face.
“Well, I can’t cross the bridge or tap out anymore – you saw to that. So here I am. Take your best shot.”
Frost extended his palm towards me, illuminating his miniaturized CDU.
I stared into the light, unblinking.
He furrowed his brow, glancing down at his gauntlet. “It’s not ...”
“Draining me?” I interrupted. “Nope, not so much. Red lighting was a nice choice of color, though. Very dramatic.”
“You’re more powerful than I thought,” he conceded. “But your fate will be the same. You might have killed a god, but once I eliminate you ...”
I didn’t wait for him to finish. I squeezed the trigger as I ran, blasting a handful of Frost’s own office supplies from the barrel. The pens and paperclips bounced harmlessly off of his armored gauntlet as he shielded his face. The blast didn’t even cause a scratch – and I knew it wouldn’t – but it bought me a second. A moment to holster my gun, tighten my grip with both hands and hack at him with my broadsword.
The gamble didn’t pay off. He unsheathed his katana and blocked my strike with a single elegant motion, swatting me away with his free hand.
My swordfighting lessons were clear in my mind, and I employed all the basics that I’d learned; dodge, parry, counter-strike – it was useless. Even years out of practice, and encumbered by a massive metal exoskeleton, Frost was still a wizard with a blade. His movements were precise, and his attack was relentless. A well placed slash threw me off balance, and my attempt to block the next incoming strike broke my sword in half. Still clutching the hilt with both hands, I watched the top half of the blade snap off, spiraling down the street.
The next few moments were a blur. I ducked and evaded a series of slashes, tumbling to the pavement. Frost hacked downward like a lumberjack swinging an axe, and I was barely able to roll and avoid the blow. His blade struck the curb with a heavy clang, sparking wildly. The Fudō armor was fast, but thankfully not fast enough. Had he swung with the speed of a normal swordfighter, I’d have been chopped in half with a single well-placed stroke.
I shuffled backwards, frantically searching the ground for a makeshift weapon, or some ammunition to load into my gun. Frost continued to pursue. I swayed and narrowly avoided a strike, but was not so fortunate on my second attempt. He slashed horizontally, opening a wide gash from the edge of my cheekbone to just beneath my ear. I stumbled and tripped, awkwardly twisting my knee as I fell.
Frost took a moment to admire his handiwork. He flicked his wrist and whipped his katana downward, spattering the pavement with my blood.
I was unarmed, bleeding and sitting flat on my ass. If I was about to leave this world, it wasn’t exactly the heroic exit I was hoping for. I considered my final moment. If Gavin and Peyton were going to watch me die, the least I could offer them was the knowledge that I wasn’t afraid. I locked onto Frost’s eyes and invited the inevitable.
He stalked forward, sword drawn back. It must have dawned on him that I was unable to fight back, because he relented in his attack, and turned towards Ramsley’s body. Frost retrieved the fencing saber from the fallen competitor’s hand and tossed it down the street. It bounced and clanked at my feet.
I stood, lifting the sword off the pavement. “What is this?”
“A level playing field,” he responded flatly. “We finish this one-on-one: two armed warriors, one champion.”
I laughed under my breath, dropping the sword at my side. "You have to be kidding me. You think Arena Mode has been fair? This entire tournament has been bullshit.”
His faced creased into an uneasy frown. I could tell that I’d caught him off-guard, and I definitely struck a nerve. “This tournament,” he shouted, pointing a finger in my direction, “is my greatest achievement. Twelve superhumans in one arena, fighting for supremacy. There has never been an event like this.”
“Maybe there never should have been. We don’t even know their potential yet, and you gathered them up so you could have them all executed.”
“Everyone had an equal chance to win,” he insisted. “It was a level ...”
“Yes, I know,” I shouted in frustration, motioning to the carnage surrounding us; the collapsed buildings, the burning wreckage. “You keep saying this is a ‘level playing field’, but you’re trying to convince yourself. You had the medics killed, changed the rules mid-game, installed CDUs into your suit – how is any of this shit ‘fair’? You’re no better than the thugs who run rigged casinos out in the Dark Zone.”
“I did what I had to do,” he screamed violently, angry blue veins protruding from his forehead. “How the hell am I supposed to compete against you? Defeat people gifted with incredible abilities while I lay rotting in a bed, unable to move? Explain how that’s fair.”
If Cameron Frost wasn’t a delusional sociopath, I would have almost felt sorry for him. For someone so driven by competition, being imprisoned in a wheelchair during his athletic prime must have been the ultimate punishment. It wasn’t hard to figure out what drove him to this insanity.
“What happened to you isn’t fair. But you can’t be crazy enough to think you could control this chaos. The outcome was never going to be fair, no matter what you did.”
“Stop it,” he seethed, steeling his resolve. “Stop talking. You can’t take away my glory. I’m about to make my way into the history books. Tonight I will beat Musashi’s record, and I will win the first ever Arena Mode. Pick up the sword and fight me.”
There was nowhere left to hide. My bag of tricks was empty, and aside from the unloaded gun holstered to my thigh, I was unarmed. It was time to go for broke.
“You’re not the only human in this competition, Frost ... and you’re not the only one with a disability.”
His eyes seemed vacant, but I saw the pieces slowly falling into place: his CDU’s having no effect on me, the fact that I hadn’t used any superpowers t
hroughout the entire tournament – he knew I was telling the truth. As the realization set in, Frost gazed back at me, slowly shaking his head. “Don’t take this away from me,” he said, not much louder than a whisper. “This is mine. I deserve it ... I need it.”
“Go ahead,” I said flatly, turning my back in defiance. “Let’s see what the history books say about the great Cameron Frost: the man who won Arena Mode by putting a sword in the back of an unarmed man.”
“Face me!” He screamed wildly. I heard the grind of moving gears, and his metallic boots crashing into the ground as he approached.
I clutched the rings suspended around my neck. I squeezed the three angular pieces of silver so hard that the edges sliced into my palm, sending a single drop of blood to the pavement at my feet.
If there was ever a time to believe in luck, this was it.
When I tore them from the chain with one hand, I lifted my gun with the other – the rest of my plan was executed in one fluid motion.
Dropping them into the barrel.
Pivoting.
Pulling the trigger.
When the projectiles fired, they had only inches to travel. They tore through the soft tissue beneath Frost’s jaw, blasting deep into the base of his skull.
He clawed at the wound as he fell, attempting to dig out the rings that had torn a sizable opening in his throat. He gasped and sputtered, mouth moving, trying to make a sound. Whatever final words he was trying to say, it was too late.
The hours that followed Arena Mode were a haze: a dizzying collage of events that I struggled to push my way through, fighting off the pain and exhaustion.
Arena Mode Page 22