Arena

by Holly Jennings

I sighed and pulled myself out of the pod. My feet touched down on the metal floor, as smooth and clear as glass. Everything inside the cylinder-shaped room of the virtual pod center was either white or a shade of gray. White pods, monitoring stations, computers, and screens. Gray floors and walls and accents. Nothing but clean lines, metal, and glass. From the past to the future in a blink.

  My vision phased between blurry and clear as I pushed myself to the center of the room, where Derek and Nathan stood toe to toe. Both were dressed in the jumpsuits we’re required to wear when we plug in. Stark white, just like the inside of the pods, as if the connection to the virtual world had to be immaculate.

  “You had one guy to take out. One,” Derek said, holding up a finger for emphasis. “If you can’t handle that, maybe Lily should fight with me.”

  The five-foot-nothing blonde slunk against the far wall. Other than her pod suit, Lily was a mirror image of her virtual avatar. She twirled a finger through her pigtails and narrowed her eyes at Derek but kept her back pinned against the wall.

  Nathan scoffed. “Haven’t you seen her stats lately? She has twice the kills you do.”

  Standing so close, the two of them were like the opposing halves of a yin-yang symbol. Derek’s dark skin and features versus Nathan’s pale complexion, blue eyes, and light brown hair. Opposites in coloring and exactly the same in everything else. Same height, same muscular build, same alpha-male personality. When Clarence had assembled the team, he certainly didn’t make sure we all got along with each other.

  Derek waved him off. “Whatever. It’s Hannah’s fault, anyways.”

  “My fault?” Hannah exclaimed, taking a step forward. “You two were long dead before they came after me.”

  The programmers, who sat at the workstations behind the pods, stood and peered around the monitoring screens at the scene. One simply stood, started packing up, and shook his head, as if the scene in the middle of the room was nothing more than the same show stuck on repeat.

  “It was no one’s fault,” I said. “They left one to guard their tower and pushed in with four. No one fights like that. We were unprepared.”

  Nathan nodded at Derek. “No. It was his fault. He went down first.”

  Derek pointed a finger back at Nathan. “Like you had nothing to do with it.”

  “We were all unprepared,” I said, raising my voice over theirs. “We lost one. Get over it.”

  What the hell was I saying?

  The last few months played back in my head. Hours of training, grinding against weights until my muscles screamed. Endless battles in the virtual world, ripping my sword through any foe the programmer could muster. Weeks of preseason gaming, where no team could touch us. All that training, all that effort, and we had lost. No. Big. Deal.

  Pffft. Even I didn’t buy that.

  Derek took a step closer, as if to challenge Nathan. The muscles in Nathan’s jaw flexed.

  “Get out of my face,” Nathan warned.

  “What are you going to do about it, Nancy?”

  Nathan shoved him. Derek gripped his collar. They both pulled back to punch. I wedged myself between them and fisted a hand in each of their suits.

  “Walk away.”

  They glared at each other, but neither threw a strike with me in the middle.

  “Hey.”

  I tugged on their suits to get their attention. They dropped their arms, but neither looked down.

  “Come on. We have a press conference.”

  I released my grip and walked toward the exit. Only two sets of footsteps followed. I turned back. Lily and Hannah halted on my heels, while Nathan and Derek remained in the center of the room, still locked in a staring contest a pace apart.

  I tossed my arms up. “You need a room, ladies? Let’s go.”

  Derek left first, head high, like he’d won. Nathan lingered, burning holes in the back of Derek’s head. After releasing a shaky breath, he followed us to the exit.

  Navigating the steel tunnels of the facility, I led the team to the double doors marked PRESSROOM. A guard manned either side. With bulging necks, tattooed arms, and ex-convict vibes, they were intimidating enough to make a group of Marines piss themselves.

  “They’re chomping at the bit,” one of them said. “You ready?”

  He looked right at me, as if I spoke for the entire team. I glanced back at my four teammates. Guess I was the one in front. I nodded at the guard.

  “Go for it.”

  They opened the doors, and reporters poured out, like water from an open floodgate, jamming their microphones in our faces. Christ, were they trying to stick them up my nose?

  “What happened tonight?”

  “Has Team Defiance finally met its match?”

  “What does it feel like to lose?”

  Security wrestled them back enough for us to squeeze past single file to the stage, which was backdropped by an oversized banner reading:

  VIRTUAL GAMING LEAGUE

  2054 RAGE TOURNAMENTS

  We sat overlooking the sea of journalists and cameras. First Lily, then Derek, followed by Hannah, Nathan, and me. The way we’re told to sit. The men between the women, short framing the tall, dark features mixed with light. Balance. Cohesion. Like this, we looked like a team.

  Image is everything.

  Cameras clicked and flashed, throwing lights across the stage. A middle-aged man walked up to the podium beside us, his shoulders nearly as slender as mine. Definitely not security. He tapped the microphone and waved a hand, appealing to the crowd of reporters to hush. A new emcee. Great. Another face, another name.

  The roar of the crowd dulled down to murmurs and whispers.

  “It’ll be an open floor tonight,” the emcee said. “I’ll call on you one at a time. And I mean, one at a time. Now . . .”

  The reporters threw their arms in the air as they waved, shouted, and teetered on the edges of their chairs. The emcee pointed to a man in the front row. He stood.

  “Jeffrey Stout, L.A. Times. As a heavy favorite team in the competition, do you feel that the pressure to excel got to you tonight?”

  “I don’t speak for everyone,” Hannah said into her microphone, pursing her lips, “but it’s the pressure that makes me excel.”

  She winked at the reporter. He faltered, mouth hanging open, then managed to sit down and make a few notes on his tablet. The commotion started back up until the emcee pointed to a woman in the center. She stood, straightening her skirt.

  “Kelly Martin, Sports Illustrated. Your opponent beat you in record time. How does that make you feel?”

  “The Death Match is only the end of the preseason,” Nathan said. “It just gives us a new record to beat in the tournament.”

  More shouting. The emcee picked another.

  “Steve Trainor, ESPN. Now that your loss in the Death Match landed you in the losers’ bracket, how can you guarantee to your fans and sponsors you won’t suffer another like this one?”

  “We train,” I said, pressing my lips tight against the microphone so I’m heard above anyone else. “We work harder than we did before. We challenge each other and ourselves. Next time, we’ll be ready.”

  More questions. More yelling and shoving. We took turns answering, making sure to stay in character. I sat in my chair, but there might as well have been a robot Kali in my place. There but not really there as the people shouted and the cameras flashed, all a distant echo. Maybe someone would ask what designer I was wearing while still dressed in my pod suit. Or better yet, how tough it was to be a woman in a male-dominated sport.

  This was my reality.

  I eyed the exit doors as images of the pod room trickled into my thoughts. Maybe I could sneak in a few hours of virtual time once this was all done.

  “Okay, that’s it for tonight,” the emcee called. The reporters jeered and protested.<
br />
  “No, no. Over here.”

  “Just one more question.”

  The emcee shook his head, refusing to give in. I tapped my microphone, but it didn’t echo back. Already shut off. Couldn’t answer if we wanted to.

  Always leave them wanting more.

  With security’s help, we shouldered our way through the crowd to the double doors. The reporters chased after us, ignoring the sign marked FACILITY EMPLOYEES ONLY PAST THIS POINT. Security shoved them back and slammed the doors shut, cutting off the noise and commotion, as if sealing off a gateway to another world. I clustered with my teammates in the hallway, listening to the protests of the reporters in the other room, muffled by the metal doors, like being underwater.

  “This is bad,” Hannah said. “We should go out and be seen around the city, so people think we’re not bothered by the loss.”

  “Fine,” Nathan agreed. “We’ll meet in an hour and hit a few clubs.”

  Derek stepped forward. “Who made you boss?”

  Here we go again.

  “Speaking of the boss, what’s Clarence going to say about tonight?” Lily asked. Everyone looked at the tiny blonde, then exchanged glances with each other. My stomach swirled, and I had the feeling mine wasn’t the only one.

  “Just forget about that for now,” I said. “Hannah’s right. We should go out. Together. Show people we’re still a team. And if we leave, we can avoid Clarence, too. For a while. Right?

  Everyone exchanged glances again and, eventually, nodded in agreement.

  “Good. Meet here in an hour.”

  —

  An hour and some-odd minutes later, I stood between Derek and Nathan, posing for the cameras outside the club. Beyond the towering buildings of the city, the sun was slowly setting, and the heat from the mid-August day still curled through the air. Around us, the paparazzi plastered themselves against the guardrails, elbowing each other and clawing at us, out of reach. The boys wore casual suits, no ties, with several buttons left undone as if they’d started doing them up and forgot about the rest. Yeah. Forgot, on purpose. Every turn flashed another angle of the muscle beneath.

  “Kali.”

  My name intermingled with the others. I pulled at the chain around my neck, so the yin-yang pendant showed above my shirt.

  We all played our parts.

  I struck a pose the way I’d been taught. Leg forward, weight shifted to one hip, the same one my hand gripped. Then I tilted my head and let a coy smile complement my slick dress pants and silk top. Conservative. Demure. Movie star.

  Nathan leaned close and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is your face going to crack, warrior?”

  I spoke back through my teeth. “No, but yours will under my fist.”

  He chuckled, and murmured something that sounded like saucy. Hot rage flashed inside my chest. I snapped a quick blow against his ribs. He grabbed my wrist and twisted. A devilish grin filled his face.

  The cameras exploded as the paparazzi pushed toward us. The guardrails whined in protest. They whispered among each other, but all were thinking the same thing. Maybe they’ll fight right here.

  Nathan turned to the crowd and held up his hands. “My fault. I should know better.”

  They laughed, and a voice from the back called out, “She’d pin you in a second.”

  Nathan laughed along with them, but leaned toward me and lowered his voice again. “And I wouldn’t stop her.”

  Heat flashed through me again, but this time, it wasn’t in my chest. Opposite the view of the cameras, his fingertips lingered on my lower back and grazed down. My breath hitched before I smacked him off. He winked in response.

  I shook my head and glanced at Hannah and Lily on the carpet behind me, also posing for the crowd. Cleavage spilled out of the dress that barely covered Hannah’s body, while Lily’s pigtails, plaid skirt, and knotted blouse belonged to a schoolgirl about to be expelled. They laughed and waved, and kissed. The camera flashes turned to lightning strikes.

  It’s what they want.

  The club’s bouncer came forward and ushered us toward the club. Like the reporters in the pressroom, the cameramen shouted their protests. The bouncer shoved a few of them off the rails and started leading us toward the club.

  “Fuck you, man,” one of the reporters shouted as he landed on his ass. “I’m suing.”

  The bouncer whirled around and marched up to him. The man backpedaled away, eyes wide, as he clutched his camera.

  “Kidding, kidding.”

  The bouncer scowled and led us into the club without further protest from the crowd. Inside the lobby, he turned to us.

  “IDs?” he asked. We all laughed, and he joined in. “What? Afraid I don’t know who you are?”

  “It’s the date of birth you’d have a problem with,” Nathan said, nodding back at me, Lily, and Hannah. Derek and Nathan were both twenty-one, old enough to be in any club. The girls and I were all a year short.

  The bouncer held up his hands. “Hear no evil, see no evil.”

  “Good man.” Nathan patted his shoulder as he passed, but the bouncer grabbed his arm and pulled back.

  “What the hell?” Nathan shook him off.

  “You’d better let me take you straight to the VIP area,” the bouncer said. He paused, and his gaze flicked toward the club’s interior. “The crowd’s a little pissed.”

  Of course they were. We were a heavily favored team because of how well we’d done so far in the preseason. Thousands, if not millions, had expected us to win tonight. After such a brutal slaughter, no one would be impressed.

  Nathan’s sharp expression softened into one of neutrality. “Yeah, fine.”

  The bouncer led us down a hall and through a set of doors into the club. When I crossed through the threshold into the warehouse-sized room, the pulsing bass blasted my eardrums into my brain. Vibrations shook the floor and traveled up my legs. Bodies crammed wall-to-wall, all writhing and rolling against each other, moving like seaweed in an ocean of darkness and strobe lights. Maybe no one would even notice us here.

  We weaved our way through, led by the bouncer, and neared a table of men dressed in matching outfits, as if they were some lame techno band. The one closest to us was particularly sleazy, in leather pants and way too many gold rings. When Nathan passed, his eyes went wide, and he slammed his drink down on the table. “Hey, Defiance. I had money on that match. Suck my dick.”

  Nathan shot him the finger. “Suck mine first.”

  So much for not being noticed.

  The bouncer stepped between them, facing the men. “Maybe you should just enjoy your drink, sir.”

  He sneered at the bouncer. One of his friends nudged him. “It’s your fault. That’s what you get for betting on girls.”

  “Yeah,” another chimed in. “Who let them into this sport anyways?”

  They laughed.

  Suddenly, my middle finger wanted its moment in the spotlight, too.

  Nathan nodded toward me and my female teammates. “You wanna go against them? Be my guest.”

  They laughed again until I moved forward. The bouncer glanced back at me and sidestepped out of my path. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though I doubted it was only from the heat in the club.

  Most of the men peered up at me with smug grins, but a twitchy one at the back swiped the silverware off the table and hid it in his lap. I smiled and narrowed my eyes at him.

  “The first man I ever took down in the virtual world looked a lot like you.” I splayed a hand on the table and leaned toward him. “And I certainly didn’t need a knife like the ones tucked under your balls to make him cry.” His eyes darted about, and he shrunk down in his seat. My smile widened. “Did you want a demonstration? Why don’t you stand up? In fact, why don’t you all stand up?”

  No one moved.

  Silence settl
ed around us, despite the pounding beat pulsing off the club’s walls. Most of them swallowed and looked away. Finally, their leader found his voice and cleared his throat.

  “Whatever. Enjoy your evening.”

  All eyes lowered to the table and never met mine again. Egos aside, I left the boys intact and followed my teammates through the club.

  We emerged from the depths of the dance floor, climbing a single staircase to the VIP lounge that overlooked the rest of the club. From the view on high, I spotted the bar lining the back wall. Four bartenders raced to fill drinks as customers shouted and flailed, pressing themselves against the bar. One tender loaded glasses onto a minidrone and whisked it down the bar to a group of rowdy students. They blitz-attacked the machine and poured the alcohol into their mouths faster than they could swallow.

  Above their heads, a sign flashed in green neon.

  GO VIRTUAL OR GO HOME.

  A cluster of tables and a few couches punctuated the lounge. The five of us slipped into a U-shaped couch. The lounge was empty, save for a trio of men I didn’t recognize, until the one with his back to us turned around.

  “Oh shit.”

  The words slipped past my lips as I watched Mr. Gibson storm toward us. Nathan nudged me.

  “What?”

  I nodded to the distance. Nathan glanced behind him to see the potbellied man stalking across the floor. He turned back and lowered his voice.

  “What the hell is the CEO of a sports-apparel company doing at a club like this?”

  “Looking for us,” I said between my teeth. “What else?”

  The bouncer caught Mr. Gibson just as he descended on us, fisting his hands in his suit jacket.

  “Hey, hey. Back off.”

  Gibson wrestled with him. “I sponsor these jerks. You back off.”

  The bouncer peered down at us, his cocked eyebrow seeking confirmation. Nathan sighed and nodded. The bouncer released his grip.

  Nathan cleared his throat and turned toward the CEO. “Hey, Mr. Gibson. How’s it—”

  “You think I support a team of losers?” Gibson spat, looming over Nathan. “This is fucking ridiculous. The athletes wearing my brand of training gear can’t even make it through the Death Match without losing. How do you think that looks for me?”