Arena Mode (10 page)

Officer Todd sat next to me and made a hand signal to the pilot in the cockpit. The craft ascended vertically, and we headed towards the most iconic building in The Big Apple’s skyline: Frost Tower.

“Sorry about the theatrics,” the businessman said in a low grumble, finally averting his eyes from his reading material. “We’re necessarily cautious at the Frost Corporation. This is our first time dealing with superhumans in person, and as you can imagine, we have our reservations.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’m Matthew Moxon.”

“Jerry Epstein,” the man said with a barely perceptible nod.

I extended my hand in friendship, expecting him to shake it. He responded by peeling the top sheet of paper from his clipboard and pressing it into my palm.

“Read this over before we arrive,” he said flatly. “Mister Frost likes people to be aware of his latest policies before meetings. It saves time and reduces unnecessary questions.”

I switched on the small reading light over my head and examined the paper. It was a memo. I had no idea that companies still distributed physical messages to their employees anymore, but it definitely wasn’t the strangest thing I’d seen that day.

“Mister Frost likes hard copies,” Epstein said in a low monotone, as if he’d already explained this countless times before and was tired of continuing to do so. “He feels that people take instructions more seriously if they’re printed out.”

He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and stuck it towards me without looking. “Sign the bottom when you’re finished reading it. Mister Frost also likes to know that people have read his memos.”
 

From:
The Desk of Cameron Frost
To:
All Employees
Subject:
Rules and Regulations for the Upcoming Tournament
Date:
June 16, 2041

There has been harsh public scrutiny surrounding the rules of the upcoming tournament, which the media has simply dubbed a ‘death match’. This term is derogatory, and ultimately misleading.

As with all sports there are strict rules and regulations that the athletes must abide by when competing. To clarify this, I am instructing all employees, as well as the competitors, to make use of the following information when interacting with the press:

1) Always refer to the rules as ‘Arena Mode’.
This tournament is not a death match, street fight, or a no-holds-barred brawl. The term Arena Mode simply refers to the fact that a number of athletes – thirteen in this instance – will be competing against each other simultaneously, in a single-elimination format.

2)
Refrain from using the term ‘fight’ altogether.
If two competitors are battling, this is to be referred to as an ‘engagement’.

3) Remind people of the ‘tap out’ option.
If a competitor is injured and wishes to exit the tournament, they can retire. This can be done by verbally surrendering at any of the medical stations (which will be accessible at various locations throughout The Arena) as well as at both bridges that lead off the island.

4) There will be no engagement during medical intervention.
If a competitor is receiving care, other players are forbidden from attacking them for the duration of their treatment. Making contact with an athlete while they are inside a designated medical zone will result in a disqualification.

5) There are no corporate sponsorships.
To preserve the integrity of the tournament, no logos or company names are to be worn on the athlete’s attire.

6) No personal weapons are allowed.
A variety of firearms, explosives and bladed weapons will be available for use inside The Arena. To maintain a level playing field the competitors are not permitted to bring their own armaments into the tournament.

7) There is to be no excessive use of violence.
If a competitor dies during an engagement, no additional damage to their corpse will be accepted. Decapitation, evisceration, flaying, and other forms of mutilation are frowned upon, and could result in a verbal warning and/or fine.

8) The golden rule is ‘sportsmanship’.
Foul language, obscene gestures, and revealing attire will not be tolerated. The tournament is a family viewing event, and all athletes are to act accordingly.

Cameron Frost

As I finished reading (and signing) the memo, we’d already begun our descent,
touching down quietly on the hover-pad at the top of Frost Tower. The officer stepped out first, repeating his thorough security check. After searching the perimeter, he motioned to the pilot, indicating that the coast was clear, and we filed out onto the circular tarmac.

At the pinnacle of America’s tallest structure, the air was cooler and the wind was stronger than I’d expected. The panoramic view of Manhattan was spectacular; an endless array of glittering lights scattered across the island, converging to form a powerful spotlight that stretched into the clouds. I could see as far north as Times Square, where a spectrum of neon blinked and danced in the distance. It was in stark contrast with the surrounding area. Across the river, the significantly dimmer lights that emitted from The Fringe paled in comparison, and gradually faded to an inky blackness that consumed the Dark Zone.

Officer Dziobak tapped my shoulder, indicating it was time to go. He ushered me down a long narrow ramp that led to a steel door. He pulled it open after inserting his gold card and ushered me inside with a friendly wave. “This is the end of the line for me,” he said with a firm handshake. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The officer slammed the door behind me, and for a moment I stood in complete darkness. I must have tripped a motion sensor, because the long, narrow hall began to illuminate. One by one, a series of wall-mounted torches burst to life, lining the length of the corridor. It felt as if I was exploring a secret underground pathway located beneath a castle, and no architectural detail had been neglected.

The firelight flickered dramatically off the dark stone walls, highlighting a countless number of paintings. The gallery must have been worth as much as the building I was standing in. Ambling past the iconic pieces that I recognized but couldn’t name, I arrived at an equally iconic series of comic books towards the end of the hall, mounted in protective glass cases. His collection put mine to shame; mint-condition first issues of the most well-known comic series’ in history – The Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, The Incredible Hulk – all meticulously preserved. And the highlight, without question, was his copy of Action Comics #1: the first appearance of Superman.

I stopped and gazed at the cover, depicting The Man of Steel hoisting a car above his head, and couldn’t help but think of its value. Not just in terms of its monetary worth (at seven million dollars, that one book alone could more than pay for my surgery) but of its significance as a historical artifact. Without it, superheroes as we know them might never have existed in fiction. I was always a fan of Cameron Frost, but I never knew we had so much in common.

The scarred wooden door at the end of the hall was flanked by a suit of armor on each side; decorative medieval knights stood at attention, clutching a broadsword in one hand and a shield in the other. I contemplated whether I should knock or twist the heavy iron knob. Then a series of electronic beeps echoed through the hall, and the door slowly swung upon, inviting me to enter.

The dimly-lit room was cavernous – sparsely decorated with no more than a round metal desk as the focal point, and a wall of glass towering behind it. The sheer size of the floor-to-ceiling window created a dizzying effect, as if the office was floating nearly three hundred stories above Manhattan. I was expecting something upscale – even extravagant – like an office I could picture inside of Wayne Manor. As far as luxury goes, this puts the Fortress of Solitude to shame.

“A few weeks ago I asked the superhumans of the world to impress me,” Frost proclaimed as he wheeled his chair towards me. “What you did today
was
impressive, Mister Moxon. Very impressive indeed.”

“Thank you,” I said with a warm smile, feeling more star-struck in his presence than I’d anticipated. I was also taken aback by his appearance; well dressed, clean-shaven, with his hair neatly parted, he hadn’t looked this polished in years. Certainly not during his simulcast just weeks ago. It was as if Frost had turned back the clock, and for whatever reason he seemed invigorated – almost youthful. It felt like I was meeting the man who inspired me with his speeches years ago, before the tragic accident that spiralled him into depression.

Frost cracked a knowing smile. “I can only assume that the show you put on was meant specifically for my viewing pleasure.”

I didn’t want to tip my hand. I was hoping he didn’t have any suspicions about the crime that Gavin had staged. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because I don’t believe in coincidence,” he replied swiftly. “Humans manifest their powers in their mid-to-late teens, and you’re nearly thirty. So you’ve had your abilities for several years, am I correct?”

“Yeah,” I said with a quick nod, “it’s been a while.”

“So for more than a decade you
could
have done what you just did. You could have chosen to stop a crime, protect your city – but you didn’t. You waited until now.” He wheeled back around the far side of his desk and tapped his finger into a tablet, generating a holographic projection that floated in mid-air; he produced my yearbook photo, driver’s licence, and a number of documents that I hadn’t bothered to look at since I graduated.

“You’re an interesting person,” Frost said, looking up at the projections. “I reviewed your high school test scores, college GPA, IQ results ... you’re not just clever. You’re far beyond that, aren’t you? You knew
exactly
what would get you into the tournament, and what would catch my attention.”

I nodded again, more tentatively than before. I didn’t know how he was able to acquire my academic records so quickly, but if he had equal access to my medical history there was no way I would be permitted to compete in the tournament.

He turned off the hologram and illuminated the room with a voice command, flooding his office with a crisp white light. “So, Mister Moxon, I’ve already learned quite a bit about you. The only thing I
don’t
know is what you want.”