Arena

by Holly Jennings

  I sank into the foam mattress as it morphed around my body. Staring up at the ceiling, I surveyed the green-gray metal, same as the walls, floors, and everything else in the room. Only the bed and its sheets provided any color or softness. Every drawer and shelf was built into the walls, so they were perfectly smooth, broken only by the occasional seam or handle where a compartment opened. Save for the bed, only our scattered clothes took up any floor space.

  Nathan’s ragged breaths beside me slowed as he recovered, and grew even slower, descending into soft snores. I pressed my side into his, and the heat from his skin radiated against mine. I smiled and shut my eyes. Done. This sorry excuse of a night was finally over.

  The taste of sake lingered at the back of my mouth, while sweet tremors still rippled through my nerves. If sake and sex could make a buzz together, then I was nestled comfortably on the clouds of oblivion. But no amount of sex or alcohol could ever compare to hours of REM.

  Sleep. The sweetest escape outside the virtual world. A middle finger at reality.

  Tomorrow would be back to training. During the preseason, the RAGE matchups had taken place every Saturday night. On the days between, we trained and promoted our sponsors, the latter taking up more time than the former. But now, we’d be grinding our asses into the mats, and hopefully, the tournament’s matchups would go better than tonight’s.

  No, it had to go better than tonight’s. One loss in tournament play, and we’d be eliminated.

  I shifted to my side, listening to Nathan’s deep breaths. Air filled his lungs, expanding his chest, and left on an exhale. The calming rhythm brought forth my own drowsiness, and I drifted toward sleep.

  A soft ping dragged me back from the edge of slumber. Grumbling, I ground my fist into the mattress. Peeking out from beneath the scattered clothes on the floor, my tablet blinked. New message. It pinged again.

  With a heavy sigh, I pulled myself out of bed, dug my tablet out from the pile of clothes, and tapped the screen. The message opened.

  Kali,

  Meet in my office at 01:15.

  Clarence

  My gut twisted. What did he want? If it was about our loss tonight, wouldn’t he message the entire team? I glanced at the current time above the message—01:07. Shit. I scrambled for my clothes. A zip of my pants and a clasp of my bra, and I was halfway dressed. Then I located my shirt and one shoe. Great. I knelt next to the bed and lifted the overhanging blanket to peer beneath. The bed shifted as Nathan leaned over the edge toward me.

  “What are you doing?”

  I groped around the shadows beneath the bed until I landed on the soft, velveteen lining of my missing high heel.

  “I gotta go,” I said, pulling my shoes on.

  “Why?”

  “Clarence wants to meet with me.”

  I looked up and met Nathan’s cold expression.

  “Why’s he asking for you and not all of us?”

  I slid my arms through the sleeves of my shirt. “I don’t know.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know.” I glanced down as I fumbled with the last few buttons. There. Decent.

  “Why—”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “He wants to meet. That’s all it says. Read it yourself.” I motioned at my tablet on the bed, where the message still blinked across the screen. Nathan glanced between it and me a few times, then waved me off.

  As I headed for the door, the bed shifted as Nathan stood. Was he following me? Then I heard a drawer pulled open and the sound plastic makes when it crunches between fingers. When I looked back, Nathan was cutting lines of white powder on a shelf he’d pulled out from the wall.

  “Are you stupid?” I spat. “How much did you already do at the club?”

  He sent me an incredulous look. “How else am I supposed to get to sleep?”

  If he needed it to get to sleep, that meant only one thing: heroin.

  HP was a stimulant and could keep you up all night if you did enough hits. Most gamers did enough to enjoy themselves at the club but not so much that they couldn’t relax after. Nathan lacked such control.

  “We have testing tomorrow,” I reminded him.

  He shrugged. “Bought and paid for.”

  Bought and paid for. That was one of the first things we learned about the life of a pro gamer, when Clarence had assembled the five of us in his office for the first time.

  “You’ll be expected to be in the public eye at all times,” he’d said, after basic introductions and some other drivel I’d tuned out. “There are clubs in L.A. that cater exclusively to the gamer scene. Be there every night. If you drink or do anything else there, the cost will be covered. Just make sure you’re seen by the cameras, and you’re sober enough for training in the morning.”

  “What?” Hannah had asked. “Don’t we have to be clean for testing?”

  Clarence chuckled to himself, one of the only times I’d heard him laugh. Even then, a smile hadn’t touched his face.

  “They’re cute when they’re new,” he’d said, speaking to no one in particular. He shook his head and looked back at us. “Like I said, anything you do at the clubs will be covered.”

  It didn’t take an expert in reading between the lines to know what he meant. The technicians had been bought off, and no matter what we did, our drug tests would always read clean.

  I glanced between Nathan and the shelf a few times but couldn’t think of anything else to discourage him.

  “Whatever. Just, for God’s sake, take it easy.”

  I exited the room and turned back to the door to enter the lock code on the keypad. The door slid shut as Nathan sniffed the first line up his nose.

  —

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  Clarence stood with his back to me, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. The team’s facility lay sprawled beneath, mimicking the outline of a steel-and-glass sand castle. Or a prison. Half-sunken tunnels ran between several central hubs. An outdoor workout yard and running track took up the north end. Cinder-block walls surrounded it all. No barbwire, though, or manned guards. At least, that I knew of. Beyond it lay the city of Los Angeles. If I squinted, I could make out the U.S. Bank Tower and the Aon Center among the collage of glowing skyscrapers. Darkness bled through the rest of the city, between the thousands of twinkling lights, as if a galaxy had nestled itself into the ground.

  Clarence gazed out the window, overlooking the facility as a god does its own creation. He owned the entire compound. The training rooms. The virtual pod center. The bunks. Even us.

  I sat in the chair across from his empty desk, tapping my foot against the floor. The carpet was so wiry and dense, it scratched at my shoe with every tap. The office was one of the few rooms with drywall instead of steel, and it was painted to match the sullen green shade of the carpet. Only the white border of the baseboard separated them. High in the ceiling overhead, dim lighting shone down but failed to reach the floor, as if trying to hide the imperfections of the room. There weren’t any. Clean lines. Perfect spacing. All as rigid and unyielding as Clarence himself. Why is it when people decorate they splatter more of themselves over the walls than paint?

  “No,” I said, shifting in the chair. I stopped tapping my foot and watched his back. “You didn’t interrupt.”

  “There was a problem tonight.”

  Though the dim lighting in the room left our proprietor masked in shadows, it failed to hide the subtle heaviness in his tone. Did he expect us to win every match?

  I shrugged. “Yeah. We lost one. They were prepared. We weren’t.”

  “And why do you think that was?”

  “Maybe because we spent the last three weeks promoting our sponsors more than practicing.”

  Clarence cleared his throat, the same way my teachers used to whenever I’d sh
oot my mouth off. How some of them didn’t end up with throat cancer is beyond me.

  “Promoting the sponsors is essential to electronic sports,” he said. “They’re the ones who pay for the tournaments and prizes. Without them, the gaming league would fall apart.” He paused, still gazing out the window. “I know my team. The problem is with your leader. You don’t have one.”

  I suppressed my scoff. “Actually, we have two. Unless you missed the after-arena fight.”

  He nodded. “I was in the observation lounge. It was hard to ignore.”

  Located above the pod center, Clarence always watched us through the tinted glass—before, during, and after the fights. Though I never saw his image on the other side, I had always felt him there, like the monster that hides under kids’ beds.

  “Could you smell the testosterone up there, too?” I asked.

  He clucked his tongue at my comment. Guess that was his version of laughter.

  Around the office, posters hung at regular intervals, three feet above the floor and one foot between. The flexible LED screens shimmered with life-size images of the team. First of Nathan and Derek, both shirtless, their chiseled abs glistening with sweat.

  WE DRINK PROTEIN ENERGY BOOSTERS®.

  One of Hannah. Perfect, tanned skin. Model height. Posed with her hands on her hips while a wind machine whipped her waist-length, strawberry blonde locks around her hourglass figure. She wore training gloves and a sports bra that jacked her breasts up to her chin.

  I WEAR GIBSON® TRAINING GEAR.

  Clarence left his post at the window and strolled toward his desk, finally revealing himself from the shadows. He wore a suit so crisp and stark green, he blended into the walls behind him, only to reappear when he crossed in front of a poster. His blond hair was just long enough to pull into a low ponytail. With tight skin and hard features, he was one of those people born looking plastic, even without the surgery. A Ken doll, and not in a good way—if there was one.

  “Two leaders?” He nodded. “Yes, but neither will back down from the other. So, how do I choose?”

  He sat at his desk, steepled his hands against his lips, and stared at me. Silence fell over the room, leaving the hum of air-conditioning as the only resonance. On the wall behind him, our logo shimmered on another screen, though this one was much wider than the individual posters of my teammates.

  I took a breath through my lips, as if it would break the tension. The taste of antibacterial soap invaded my mouth and nearly bleached my tongue. I coughed, clearing my throat. “Are you asking my opinion? I’m not exactly an impartial judge.”

  “Why? Because you’re fucking Nathan?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow in my direction. A shudder quivered up my spine. How did he find that out? God, was he watching the bunks like he watched over the facility?

  “Like I said,” he continued, “I know my team.”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared so intensely, I had to look away. My gaze landed on a poster of Lily dressed in her battle gear, pigtails curling over her shoulders. Lily. The tiny one. The blond one. Delicate and sweet until she cut you into a dozen pieces before you could blink. People really do love irony.

  “Normally, the owner chooses the leader of the group,” I said, managing to meet his eyes again.

  “I was waiting to see if one naturally rose out of the ranks before the start of the tournament.”

  “Look, if you’re asking me to choose—”

  “I’m not asking you to choose,” he said. “I know who I want.”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  Laughter gripped me, and I doubled over in the chair. Since when was Clarence funny? When I recovered, I met the tight lines of his mouth. My smile faltered.

  “You’re serious?”

  He nodded, one swift jerk of his head. I should have known he was. Clarence never cracked a joke. He was a businessman to the core.

  A businessman . . .

  Wait. This was a ploy. A way to force a truce between Nathan and Derek. Of course, he couldn’t choose either of them to be the team’s leader. They’d rip each other’s throats out. I was just the pawn he’d decided to stick between the warring knights.

  “I’m not getting in the middle of this,” I said. “Someone else can do it.”

  “I’m not picking someone else.”

  “Why? Are you afraid Hannah or Lily will spit in your face?”

  “Lily and Hannah do what I tell them.”

  I scoffed. “Did you tell them to be a couple, too?”

  “No. That was a serendipitous outcome. People love it.” He waved a hand at the window, as if the city represented the masses.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, you can forget it.”

  “This isn’t open to debate.”

  “You’re right, because I’m not doing it.”

  “Let me put it this way.” He leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. “Do it, or you’re off the team.”

  My mouth fell open. “You can’t do that.”

  “Actually, I can.”

  “The team is so popular because of all of us,” I said. “You can’t just kick me out. I have fans. They’ll hate you.”

  “Don’t overestimate your value. You are replaceable. Two weeks, and you’d be forgotten.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. How could he do this? I wasn’t replaceable. I was loved. By everyone. I gave the people what they wanted. I put on a good show and acted my part. How could he think I was expendable?

  “I thought you’d be more excited at the opportunity,” Clarence said, letting out a weighted sigh. “No woman has ever led a team in the VGL before. If you won the tournament, it could mean worldwide recognition. Maybe even the eSports Hall of Fame.”

  Holy S-H-I-T.

  Worldwide recognition? The Hall of Fame?

  I went numb all over—except for my heart, which fluttered. I’d be set for life. I wouldn’t even need to compete for money or sponsorships. They’d be handed to me. Not that I’d ever quit competing. Well, maybe when I got old.

  You know, like thirty.

  “I take your silence to mean you’re reconsidering?” Clarence asked, a smug tone laced in his voice.

  I nodded, still spinning from the glory and flashing lights in my head. “I’ll do it. I’ll lead the team.”

  “Good.” He pushed himself away from the desk and stood. “You’re dismissed for now. I don’t need you looking tired. Get back to your bunk.” He cleared his throat again. “Or Nathan’s, since you seem to prefer it.”

  My jaw clenched. I glared up at him, digging my nails into the arms of the chair. “Are you going to make that public, too?”

  He shrugged. “If it becomes profitable.”

  I drew deep, shaky breaths to calm my nerves, but heat still coursed through my veins. He knew what I was capable of. Why wasn’t he afraid I’d cut off his head in his sleep? If this was the arena, if I had my sword . . .

  Clarence stared down at me, unwavering, like he was looking through me. Like he could see my thoughts and knew they were wrong. Whatever. I swallowed the smart-ass remark creeping up my throat and pushed myself out of the chair. As I turned, the wall behind me buzzed and faded into a screen. A wall that wasn’t really a wall, just mimicked the green walls and white border when it wasn’t on. Artificial intelligence in all its glory.

  A reporter popped up on the screen in front of a background of gray rubble and ash.

  “. . . as you see behind me the devastation still left behind as thousands of drones and other robotic resources continue to be part of the cleanup effort . . .”

  The caption at the bottom of the screen read:

  DISASTER AT DIABLO 2053: ONE YEAR LATER

  I don’t know what genius decided to put a nuclear reactor near a fault line, but we’d learned
the full stupidity of it last year. Apparently, power plants don’t like earthquakes. Who knew? But since when did Clarence watch anything other than the VGL’s home channel, let alone updates on the disaster cleanup efforts?

  The channel changed abruptly.

  The screen went black at first. Then the RAGE standings faded into view, featuring the double-elimination bracket used in standard championship play in any Virtual Gaming League event. Every team in the tournament was now divided into the winners’ bracket or the losers’ bracket. The layout reminded me of a lineage tree, except this one only expanded sideways. Our team, Defiance, sat in the losers’ bracket.

  The screen clicked off. I turned to find Clarence standing only inches away. A chill crawled up my spine, and my feet itched to take a step back. What a creep.

  He leaned over me, head high as he looked down his nose. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  I stared into his eyes, black holes of endless depth. Like hopelessness, or death. Swallowing, I lowered my gaze to his chest and nodded.

  “Good,” he said, tone surprisingly light. “I look forward to seeing what you’re capable of. You’re dismissed.”

  I left, feet carrying me swiftly to the exit. When the beast says you can go, you run.

  At the doorway, I paused. Next to it was a poster of me. An iridescent shimmer rolled through the LED display as the air-conditioning sent tremors through the paper-thin screen. Unlike my teammates, I was posed fully clothed, my half-American, half-Chinese heritage emphasized through the outfit I wore. A traditional Chinese cheongsam dress in style—high collar, tight waist, and a long slit over one leg. But also Americanized—shimmering white and no pattern like the pods’ cores. It cut several inches too low down the chest, only a pin’s width wide, to reveal a hint of cleavage. A symbol of demure, deadly beauty. Tasteful. Acceptable. Desirable, even.