Arena

by Holly Jennings

  I took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s not so bad now.”

  I pushed myself up slowly, and when my body didn’t protest, crossed the training room to Hannah’s side.

  “If we would have known you two were still training,” she said quietly, “we would have joined you.”

  “Would you want to?”

  She shrugged.

  “We worked our asses off all day,” I said. “This should be your time to do what you want. If you want to train, train. If you want to go out, go. But the nights should be ours to do whatever.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, right. That’ll be the day.”

  “I think it’s reasonable. Sometimes we need time apart. Sometimes we need time alone.”

  Hannah glanced at Rooke in the background. “Oh. Time alone. I see.” She winked. “Have fun.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Yeah, right.” She leaned toward me. “I might not know much about men, but make sure he wears a rubber and holds you afterwards.”

  I chuckled. “Fuck you. Get out of here.”

  She left with a smile. I listened to her heels clicking along the hallway. Once she was out of earshot, I turned back to Rooke and grinned.

  “One more round.”

  It was actually three more rounds and several fresh bruises later when we finally called it quits. My stomach held off for the rest of the night, and my love of competing and drive to make Rooke cry pushed me on until I couldn’t hold the staff anymore. In the women’s locker room, I showered and planned on bed. Another early night wouldn’t have been a bad thing. So how I ended up alone with Rooke in a darkened hallway was another story.

  I huddled near the exit door, hugging myself.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I told him. I squinted at his outline in the shadows. “I’m leaving.”

  He grabbed my arm. “It’ll be great. I promise.” He spoke in soft, soothing tones, the type men use to coax women into trouble. “You won’t regret it.”

  I glanced at the hallway corners, looking for the red light of a camera. “What if we get caught?”

  “We won’t.”

  “I don’t think you realize how much Clarence watches us.”

  He stepped up to me and his face appeared in the darkness. “I don’t think you realize how much I want this.”

  He looked down at me with pleading eyes, and when I saw the hunger within them, I believed it.

  I sighed. “All right. Fine. How much longer?”

  On cue, several loud knocks pounded on the door beside us, followed by a gruff voice.

  “Pizza delivery!”

  Rooke grinned and yanked the door open. The sweet smell of dough and mozzarella wafted in, curling through the sterile air of the facility. My stomach rumbled. Maybe this was a good idea.

  I poked my head out the door as Rooke took the pizza box in his hands. The delivery guy’s mouth fell open.

  “Holy shit, you’re Kali Ling.”

  That’s me, baby. Loud and proud. I signed for the pizza and started entering a tip. He waved me off. “Hey. No tip required.”

  “Why not?”

  “Geez, you know how much your autograph is worth? You never sign things for the fans.”

  A chill ran through me. I glanced between him and my signature on the digital receipt. And I thought my mother was good at inadvertent guilt trips. I nodded, though my head didn’t feel quite attached to my body.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  He beamed. “Wait until I tell my friends. They’re never going to believe this.”

  He walked away, shaking his head. As I watched him leave, my conscience did a tap dance at my heart. I sighed, and pursued him.

  “Hey, wait.”

  He turned around.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Mike.”

  I nodded at his tablet. “You got a camera on that thing, Mike?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  I looped an arm around his waist. “Well, take a pic already. My food is getting cold.”

  He froze for a second, then fumbled with the tablet. I kissed his cheek just as the camera clicked, and could have sworn I felt his knees buckle. He stuttered out a word that sounded like “thanks” and stumbled back to his car, grinning in a way I’d only seen on Cheshire cats.

  Rooke’s eyes narrowed as he watched the delivery guy float away.

  I folded my arms. “Jealous?”

  “Of course,” he said, ducking back inside. “He gets to eat pizza all day.”

  I glowered at the spot where Rooke had just been, gritting my teeth together. My heartburn was back. Since when did I have competition as the leader of the smart-ass-retorts domain? I caught the door just before it closed and followed Rooke down the hall.

  “Up to thirty-five years ago,” he protested, as we entered the rec room, “that’s the way everything was delivered.”

  I sat on the floor. “I’m just saying it’s still weird to see a person instead of a drone.”

  He sat next to me and placed the pizza between us. “After the government commandeered so many for the Diablo cleanup, I think it’ll be a while before everything gets back to normal.”

  “Probably just in time for the next disaster.”

  Rooke shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of prefer the human element. It’s nice to have a person tell you to have a nice day instead of a machine.”

  “Really?” I gasped, placing a hand over my heart. “You prefer things the old-fashioned way? You don’t say. Remind me to get you a loom for Christmas.”

  He frowned. I laughed.

  I grabbed the first slice from the box, watching the cheese pull into foot-long strings. When I took a bite, my eyes fluttered shut. The gooey mozzarella melted in my mouth. I smiled at Rooke as he picked a slice for himself.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  I sighed. “Almost as good as coffee.”

  He chuckled, shook his head, and devoured his slice in three bites.

  Boys.

  “How’s your stomach?” he asked as he reached for another piece.

  “Good. I’m taking it slow.”

  As I chewed my own slice, the incident with the delivery guy came back to mind. I’d never signed anything. For anybody. None of us had.

  “You okay?” Rooke asked, looking over my expression.

  “No. That pizza guy was right. We never do things for the fans. We should. They’re the reason for all of this.”

  “You really think Clarence would go for that?” He scoffed. “He’s trying to give us a godlike status. I don’t think interacting with the fans would help our image.”

  I shook my head and frowned. Image. How important.

  I turned to the wallscreen and raised my voice. “On,” I commanded. “Station: VGL.”

  The screen flicked on and jumped to the VGL’s home channel.

  The entire wall filled with a scene on a mountain cliff, where two cars raced side by side up a narrow path. As they entered a tight corner, the inside car swung wide, driving his opponent out. He skidded along the corner, his back wheel cutting off the edge. I stopped chewing and leaned toward the screen.

  The scene slowed, purposely entering slow-motion mode as the car teetered. The camera panned up, revealing the stories-high drop into the rocky shards below. My breath caught in my throat. Inside the car, the driver slammed the clutch into gear, and the car rocketed down the road. Safely. For now.

  I sighed. “Ugh. I forgot it was Sunday. Virtual car racing.” I made a face and glanced at Rooke. His grin matched the delivery guy’s from earlier. My jaw dropped open.

  “You like this stuff?”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Oh God, you’re one of those men who thinks it’s an art form, aren’t you
?”

  He grin faded as he grew defensive. “Of course it’s an art form. Who drives their own car anymore?”

  I rolled my eyes. Rooke nodded at the screen.

  “You ever play anything other than the RAGE tournaments?” he asked, between swallowing pizza slices. “I mean, at this level. Full immersion with no safeguards.”

  “Not really. You?”

  He nodded. “A little of everything. I doubled up in the amateur league, RAGE and Special Ops.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Better chance of getting picked up as a pro if you do more than one.”

  “Is there much difference between them?”

  He half nodded. “Yes and no. They’re both about tactics and eliminating the enemy, but you tend to die faster in the Ops. It’s all about shooting, so without limbs flying off everywhere, it’s not nearly as brutal. At least, when you’re on the inside. Some viewers think it’s just as bad. And by bad, I mean good.”

  We shared a grin.

  “Does getting shot hurt?” I asked.

  Okay, yes, I’d played enough first-person shooters to be an army commander. But never had I played one at the pro level, where I’d actually feel the bullet puncturing my body.

  “Usually, swords hurt more, but it really depends where you get hit,” he explained. “You have to take out your opponent as fast as possible in the Ops games. Even when they’re down, they can still shoot you or throw a grenade. It’s not like in the RAGE tournaments where you’d only have to stay at arm’s length to avoid getting hit. Plus, in any type of army setting, you tend to wear armor, so when you get hit, either it doesn’t go through or you get killed instantly.”

  “Hey, we wear armor, too.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot more skin exposed.”

  His eyes landed on my stomach when he said it, and for a second, he seemed to forget about the pizza in his hand. His gaze slid up my form, slowly, and met my eyes. Warmth curled through me, and my breath shortened under the intensity of his stare. I swallowed the bits of pizza in my mouth in a gulp. Finally, he seemed to remember he was in the middle of speaking and cleared his throat.

  “So, it’s easier to find vulnerable spots and kill your opponent in a multitude of ways.”

  Multitude. Pffft. Who uses that kind of word in everyday speech? Though judging by the look in his eyes, it wasn’t killing me he was thinking about doing in a multitude of ways. I was pulled out of the thought when Rooke folded two slices together and stuffed them into his mouth at once.

  I motioned at the synthetic box the pizza came in. “You gonna go for that next?”

  He shrugged. “What? Haven’t you seen a guy eat before?”

  I scoffed and turned back to the wallscreen. A giant boulder tumbled down the mountain’s side and crushed a car on the road. The vehicle flattened and burst instantly, like a balloon popping glass shards and metal bits instead of pink rubber.

  Rooke winced. “Yeah. That’s not fun.”

  “You’ve done car racing, too?” I asked. He answered with the same cat-inspired grin. I shook my head and glanced at the open doorway to the facility. “Clarence would kill us if he walked in right now.”

  “Sure, he’s a dick, but you have to feel for the guy a little. His brother was killed in the Diablo disaster.”

  I nearly choked on my food. “What? Are you serious?”

  Rooke nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So, his brother worked at the plant?”

  “Are you kidding? They owned the plant. That’s how his family made all their money. Nuclear energy.”

  “Wait, how do you even know that?”

  “Like I said, I read everyone’s stats.”

  I chewed a little slower then as my body went numb. I didn’t know Clarence even had a brother, let alone that he’d died. Is that really why he was such a dick all the time? Guess everyone in this industry had a story to hide and a part to play.

  “I still find it surprising,” I said, “that people love to watch virtual gaming so much. You’d think with all the violence and war threatening to break out all the time, they’d be looking for entertainment that’s a little more . . . mellow.”

  “War is always threatening to break out. It’s nothing new. Bottom line: People know this is fake. I think it helps them to deal with violence. Makes it not so real, you know?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “You have a point, though. Maybe that’s why the Special Ops and other games aren’t as popular.”

  “You mean they’re too real? Like, something in the past or future is unfamiliar, so people enjoy it more. But something present-day just reminds them of the negative aspects of their lives.”

  “Exactly. The RAGE tournaments are based off ancient Rome, so no one nowadays ever experienced that before. It lets them escape.”

  On-screen, the racing cut out to a special promo. Five familiar warriors appeared in their battle armor, each a gigantic brute with a menacing grin, gripping a blade covered in blood. YOUR 2054 RAGE TOURNAMENT WINNERS’ BRACKET FINALISTS. I swallowed thick and dropped my slice of pizza back in the box. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

  Rooke looked over the screen and shrugged. “They’re just human guys. Painting them as invincible is part of their image.”

  “Then they’re damn good at playing the part,” I said, just as the contents of my stomach roiled, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I gripped my midsection and doubled over, breathing sharply through my mouth.

  Rooke surveyed me for a second before his gaze stopped on my stomach. “That’s not because of InvictUS, is it?”

  I shook my head. “Why do I feel so nauseous? Is it the pizza?”

  “You didn’t plug in all day. Plus, isn’t this the time you’d usually be doing a hit at the club?”

  Yeah, it was. Guess this was the withdrawals he talked about earlier.

  “What other symptoms should I expect?” I asked.

  “Maybe some headaches. But it will be more psychological than anything.”

  “You mean I’ll crave it?”

  “That, and when you don’t let yourself have it, you’ll get . . . irritable.”

  “You mean I’ll be a bitch.”

  He laughed. “Sure, if that helps.”

  The waves in my stomach gradually subsided, like when the ripples of a pond smooth out again. I took a deep breath and slowly pushed myself up straight.

  “I talked to Dr. Renner about what’s going on,” I told him, staring at the wallscreen. “She says I need to come up with a plan to change and share it with someone who will understand.” I glanced at him. “So, I guess I’m asking for your opinion on what to do. I can’t cut out of the virtual world entirely. I still have to plug in for the team.”

  “You don’t have to cut it out completely. The sleeping pills, and the HP, and whatever else—that should go. We could sneak out of the clubs early. That will get you away from the drugs and give you some time at night to focus on yourself. I think as long as we leave together, it’ll be fine.”

  “And then?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you need. We could come back here. Train. Sit out on the roof. Meditate.”

  I hadn’t meditated in years. But it had always been a way of quieting the mind and connecting to the body—two things I needed desperately.

  “And you’re not wrong with thinking that games are supposed to be fun more than anything else,” he continued. “You just need to retrain your mind to think that way. The virtual world is just for fun, and reality is the place worth living.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You focus on the real. You have to learn to appreciate everything that’s here.”

  My hand instinctively went for my necklace. I thumbed the pendant, outlining the shape of the yin yang, especially the S curve down th
e middle that separated the whole into two halves. Virtual and real. They went hand in hand. Together, they symbolized my life as a gamer. But one had completely overtaken the other. Looks like it was time to brush up on the importance of balance. I think I had more than enough books to refer to.

  “When it comes to games,” he continued, “stick to consoles more than virtual. The classic ones seem to help.” He grinned. “We could play a few rounds.”

  I dusted off my hands and stood. “Not tonight.”

  Rooke peered up at me. “Where are you going?”

  “To bed, and part of you is coming with me.”

  He choked even though there wasn’t any food in his mouth. “What?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. I leaned toward him. He retreated, eyes darting about, like he didn’t know how to react to my closeness. My smile grew even wider.

  “I have reading to do.”

  CHAPTER 16

  This became our new standard programming.

  Every night, Rooke and I would meet on the mats. Darkness and moonlight no longer signaled parties and drinking, but instead meant the weight of a staff in my hands and the sounds of feet padding the mat and wood hitting wood echoing through the room. The night always ended in the rec room, studying matches and various VGL tournaments over whatever food we snuck into the facility for the evening.

  After devouring my fill and getting a few jabs in with Rooke—physical and otherwise—I’d return to my bunk to reread the Tao Te Ching and other books. Just before sleep, I’d sit on the edge of my bed and meditate, focusing on my body. Focusing on the real. We couldn’t come up with an excuse to stay in all the time, so we developed a routine. For show. We’d go to the clubs with the team, scoop a couple of hits of HP from the tray, and disappear onto the dance floor, crushing the pills beneath our feet.

  No one was the wiser.

  On the dance floor, I pressed my back against his front. His hands immediately gripped my hips and pulled me even tighter against him. I sighed and melted into him, pressing myself into every valley and crevice. Together, our hips rolled in harmony with the pulsing beat of the club. Within seconds, my heartbeat matched. I was completely aware of my body. And his.