Arena Mode (12 page)

“No, full contact swordfighting is
not
a safe sport, and sometimes the athletes die. But
that’s
the sport. And people simply accept it, both the spectators and the participants. Arena Mode will be no different. We will take
every
precaution necessary to make it as safe as possible, but there will be injuries...and unfortunately, there will also be fatalities.

-
Cameron Frost
(New York Chronicle Simulcast, May 2041)

It was the day before the tournament, and excitement for Arena Mode had reached a fever pitch.
Cameron Frost’s media blitz was about to culminate with the spectacle that would serve as the appetizer for the main course: the weigh-ins.
Fifty-two thousand screaming fans were packed into Yankee Stadium, awaiting the arrival of thirteen super-powered competitors.

I received instructions from a producer beforehand. My role was simple enough: walk on stage, strike a pose, and step onto a scale to officially register my weight. I had no idea why we needed to be weighed since there were no weight classes within the tournament, but the athletic commission insisted. It had always been done for boxing, mixed martial arts, and most recently swordfighting, so the tradition (for whatever reason) continued. If there was one thing that politically appointed commissions were good for, it was following rules to the letter, regardless of how little sense they actually made.

After a tense few days of training, I was glad to be away from The Fringe. I had been avoiding Peyton whenever possible, dodging her messages and cutting conversations short when I passed through Excelsior. I needed to create distance, for both our sakes. I had to focus one-hundred percent on the event – my life depended on it. And she needed to stop clinging to the hope that I would be there for her in the future, when the odds were that she’d be attending my funeral before the end of the week. At least if Peyton resented me, just a little, it would make that day easier for her to get through.

I tried to clear my mind and focus, and think of the day as an opportunity – I could finally get a closer look at the other competitors. To date, the only entrants I’d seen were Sergei Takarov, the flying kid from Russia; Dwayne Lewis, the mammoth construction worker from Arizona; and Jérôme Fontaine, a tall, lanky sprinter from Montreal who was fast enough to outrun most man-made vehicles.

I stood in front of the stage, safely separated from the crowd by a wall of police officers in full riot gear. It was like a rock concert, only there were more armed guards than a maximum security prison. As we awaited the first competitor, the enormous screen behind the stage played highlight footage from the Full Contact Swordfighting League. Clips of Cameron Frost’s most notable victories were rotating by, accompanied by loud heavy metal music. The sea of onlookers was being whipped into a frenzy.

When it seemed like the anticipation was about to boil over into a full-scale riot, Frost finally appeared on-screen. His face elicited a roar from the audience. “Welcome, New York City,” he shouted, “and welcome to everyone watching around the world, wherever you are. This is the beginning of a monumental day. When historians look back at the most significant moments of the twenty-first century, they’ll start by studying the event that changed sports forever: the first Arena Mode tournament. And it all starts right here, right now.”

The chants of approval increased in volume and intensity. The noise level inside the packed stadium went from thunderous to nearly deafening.

“And now,” he concluded, “I give you the elite – the best of the best. Here are the thirteen warriors who will do battle inside The Arena.”

A laser light show and fireworks display illuminated the sky, and music blared in preparation of the first competitor to step on stage.

As I waited impatiently for my turn, I heard someone shouting my name, trying to attract my attention. “Matthew Moxon! I can’t believe it’s
really
you!”

I turned to face a man around my age, who appeared to be as ordinary as I was; average height, brown eyes, brown hair, and with a slightly pudgy frame that made me look like an Olympian by comparison. I was confused as to how he snuck by security, since this area was reserved solely for superhumans, but I was even more baffled by his attire. His bright blue costume and mask looked home-made, like something you’d see at a fan convention; it was complete with matching gloves, boots, and a large insignia sewn onto his chest in the shape of an eye.

Cosplay was one of the few comic book-related activities that I didn’t take part in, but I’d always admired people’s dedication at designing and constructing outfits that paid homage to their favorite characters.

I studied him for a moment. Even with my wealth of knowledge when it came to comics and anime, this costume went way over my head. If this guy was trying to emulate a character, it must have been an obscure one, because it didn’t resemble any superhero I was familiar with.

“I’m Kenneth Livitski,” he said, beaming with child-like enthusiasm. “But you can call me ‘The Living Eye’. Check this out!” He stuck out his chest, placed one hand on his hip and extended the other in front of him, revealing a white glove with the same eye logo sewn into the palm.

I nodded and smiled awkwardly. “Cool, man. Look, I’m going up on stage in a bit, but if you want my autograph or a picture or something ...”

He held his stomach with both hands and threw his head back, laughing boisterously. “No, you don’t get it. I’m
in
the tournament as well. I’m a superhero, just like you!” He paused for a moment, and added, “But if you’re cool with it, I’d
really
love it if you could sign something for me after the weigh-ins.”

“Of course,” I replied with a friendly smile. “So, this costume ... you made it?”

“That’s right,” he said with pride, running his hand up and down the stitching along the seam of his glove. “I was up sewing every night for three weeks, and I
finally
got it done, just this morning. I had to do it by hand because my mom’s stupid sewing machine broke.”

“That’s some nice work,” I said, looking it up and down. “But you know we’re not required to wear costumes. Competitors are just going into the tournament with armor, or regular clothing.” I paused for a beat. “You’re not going to actually
wear
that on game day, are you?”

The heat rose in his face as his enthusiasm faded. “Well ... I’m not
now.
”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” I said reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just saying – well, you never know ... other people might wear them too.”

His smile quickly returned. “So Moxon,
your
armor looks amazing! How long did you work on it?”

I was wearing my full body suit, with my helmet resting under my arm. I figured that since I didn’t have a power to actually display on stage at least I could
appear
somewhat heroic – hopefully a few spectators would recognize me from the internet. “I had it custom made to fit me, actually. It’s a modded FCS suit.”

“No shit!” he exclaimed. He poked and prodded at my chest plate, and ran his hands over my gauntlets. I wanted to explain the concept of personal space, but I was afraid of hurting his feelings again.

After thoroughly inspecting my armor, Kenneth looked around suspiciously, ensuring that we weren’t being spied on. “So,” he said in a hushed voice, cupping one hand over the side of his mouth, “do you think we should team up tomorrow?”

I wasn’t aware that teams were allowed, but I hadn’t seen any rules to the contrary. “Sure ... I guess? I’m not really shooting for first place anyway. When I make the final four I’m tapping out. You can keep the first place winnings all for yourself.”

“Really?” he said with genuine surprise. “Can’t you blow stuff up with your mind? I figured you’d shoot for first place.”

“Yeah, my powers are pretty impressive.” I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced away. “So, ‘Living Eye’ ... that’s interesting. How did you come up with the name?” Awkwardly changing subjects was the only way I could think to avoid answering questions about my alleged super powers. When playing cards I was a master of misdirection, but lying in real-life scenarios never seemed to work out.

“It’s kind of a crazy story,” Kenneth began. “One day last summer when I was bored, I started reading about these spiritual concepts, like higher consciousness, auras, and the gate that leads to our inner realms. You know, all that junk they write about on yoga blogs. Of course I thought it was all bullshit, but it turns out that to do
this
, I just needed to open up my chakras.” He flattened his hand and stared intensely into his palm, directly at the eye logo sewn into his glove. A swirl of blue dust appeared out of nowhere, rotating like a miniaturized tornado. The particles coalesced, and solidified into a bright blue helmet – a perfectly rendered duplicate of
my
helmet. And it was small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. “Go ahead,” he said with an enthusiastic smile. “Pick it up.”

I removed my gauntlet and ran my fingers across the top of it, feeling the smooth, metallic texture, cold against my skin. I couldn’t believe it was real.

“Just
go ahead
,” Kenneth repeated with a laugh. “It won’t bite you, buddy.”

I picked up the replica and lifted it to eye level, studying the fine details. Using my thumbnail I flipped open the visor, and it functioned exactly like mine. “This is incredible. How long will this last?”

“As long as I focus,” Kenneth replied. He snapped his hand into a fist and the helmet fell apart. Thousands of glowing blue particles spilled through my fingers like sand, sparkling and disappearing as they fell. “Pretty awesome, eh?”

I was barely able to process what I’d seen. “So can you create
anything
you want?” I asked. “Is there a size limit?”

Kenneth cracked a goofy grin. “Anything, any size. If I can imagine it, I can create it. You and I can sit back and relax, and I can summon a giant angry lizard or a kick-ass robot to tear apart our competition. Before you know it, we’ll be billionaires.”

Suddenly this odd-looking cosplayer seemed like a very good ally to have inside The Arena. “You make it sound easy.”

“Trust me, with our combined powers we’ve got this thing in the bag.” He motioned to the stage where the rotating spotlights were starting to converge. The music was lowering in volume, and the weigh-ins were finally about to begin. “When I go up there I’m gonna put on a show to intimidate our competition. I’ve been reading a lot of H.P. Lovecraft lately...I was thinking about conjuring a giant Cthulhu, just for fun.”

I wasn’t sure if Kenneth was joking. Creating an enormous, scale-covered hybrid of a dragon with a squid for a face might not be the best way to win over the crowd, but it would certainly be memorable. And create some unique photo-ops. Before I could suggest a more subtle display of his abilities the host stepped out from behind the curtain and strutted on-stage, ready to start the proceedings.

My new friend made Arena Mode sound like a whimsical adventure; an opportunity to dress up, run amok on a giant island, and live out a real-life role playing game. For him it was like stepping into a fantasy. Why roll twenty-sided dice, pretending to swing swords and cast enchantments when you can do it for real? It was a naive and dangerous way to view this competition – and if the first person to step out on stage didn’t change his perspective, nothing would.