Arena Mode (13 page)

I recognized the host instantly.
Strutting around on stage was Daniel Tate, an English talk show personality, notorious for his quick wit and scathing sarcasm. The scrawny blond Brit was dressed in black, with the exception of his jacket – an oversized red, blue and white abomination, plastered with the Union Jack.

Tate skipped his typical opening monologue and introduced the first competitor, reading from a stack of cue cards that he yanked from his inside pocket. “First on stage is a young girl from Rome: ‘Serafina the Butcher’. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” The big screen behind him illuminated with her name, vital statistics and a graphic of a waving Italian flag. He pointed towards the curtains with an exaggerated motion. A tall, thin girl with long raven hair emerged, casually holding a meat cleaver at her side. Her ash-white complexion appeared even lighter in contrast with her black dress, and her cold expression sent chills throughout the hushed stadium.

Tate looked her up and down, taking note of her sickly pallor. “For an Italian you look even paler than I do. When was the last time you went to the beach, love?” He held the microphone in front of her, but she passed by without even offering a sidelong glance, ignoring the verbal jab.

Making her way towards the front of the stage, two athletic commission appointees directed her to the oversized metal plate that was attached to an electronic scale. She stepped forward and was registered at one-hundred and eighteen pounds.

Tate followed her and clumsily flipped through his cards, searching for additional information. “It says here that you discovered your powers while working at your family’s butcher shop, when you accidentally burned three customers. I have to say, that’s some rubbish customer service! How did you manage that?”

Staring into the audience she extended her hand, slowly dragging the razor-sharp cleaver across her palm. The blade opened a gruesome laceration, but to everyone’s surprise it didn’t bleed – it poured acid. A stream of searing black liquid hissed from her skin, dripping through the scale at her feet. The metal smoked as the acid continued to melt the platform, opening a sizable hole in the stage beneath.

Without a word, Serafina turned on her heel and strode off-stage, brushing past the awe-struck host.

“Well, well,” Tate said with a small shrug. “Not the chattiest, is she? So, let’s keep things moving, shall we ...”

“Do you know her story?” Kenneth asked, leaning towards me. Before I could answer, he excitedly filled me in on the details. “She’s an aspiring model who was working part-time at her parent’s butcher shop, until one day she slips and cuts herself with a knife. She panicked when she saw the black acid coming from her cut, and started waving her arm around. She sprayed a bunch of people waiting in line, and rumor is that one of them was disfigured pretty badly. Then she had a mental breakdown or something.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“There’s this forum that follows
every
superhuman activity that gets reported around the world. I log in, like, ten times a day. Pretty cool, eh?”

The following competitor was Ayumi Ozaki, a twenty-five year old former baseball player from Japan; a pitcher with a killer fastball who was bestowed with the nickname ‘The Lioness’ by her fans. She was banned from league play when it was discovered that she was ‘pyrotactile’ (possessing the ability to ignite any object she touches.) She brought a wooden bat with her, and lit it on fire after her weigh-in to the delight of the crowd.

Next up was Winston Ramsley, a well-dressed fifty-seven-year-old man from London, with short, greying hair neatly parted to the side, and a very impressive moustache. I recognized him from the UK Swordfighting League. He was the only tournament winner to ever take home a championship using a fencing sword. His technique and accuracy were so precise that even the most skilled katana practitioners were unable to make contact with him. He was banned from the league for the same reasons: no superhumans permitted in sporting competitions.

“I’m seeing a pattern here,” I mentioned to Kenneth. “A lot of these people are former athletes.”

“Yeah, there’s some new research about that,” he explained. “Athletes have a higher level of mental focus than regular folks, and are more in tune with their bodies. Some scientists are saying it’s why they’re accessing their delta waves more easily and tapping into their potential.”

It made sense. When it was first announced that certain people possessed powers and abilities beyond those of normal humans, one of the first things to change, oddly, was sports. Every athletic commission in the country was testing athletes for urine, blood, DNA, and everything else they could think of. The concept of superhumans was so new that they didn’t even know
what
they were looking for at the time, but they were determined to ensure that no one was gaining an unfair competitive advantage. With their pro sports ambitions dashed, a number of athletes were turning to The Arena in an attempt to secure their financial futures.

Next on stage was Dwayne Lewis, a fan favorite due to his recent altercation in Arizona. Cheering fans held up signs inscribed with the word ‘Sledge’. The simulcast footage being circulated referred to him as having sledgehammer-like power in his fists after his now-infamous bar fight, and the moniker quickly stuck.

The crowd went wild as he stepped through the curtains, stooping to avoid colliding with a cross-beam. Making his first public appearance since the brawl, Lewis was also sporting a new look: three long scars that stretched down the length of his face, and a cybernetic ocular implant. The injury he sustained from his attacker’s trident left him blind in his right eye, so as a ‘signing bonus’ for entering The Arena, Frost had agreed to foot the bill for the expensive procedure, fully restoring his vision.

At well over nine feet tall, Lewis was a menacing sight on the simulcasts; in person, he was far more intimidating. The stage shook beneath his weight with every step, and when he stood on the scale it creaked from the pressure. He registered at nine hundred and thirty-two pounds.

“Now
that
is one big lad,” Daniel Tate laughed, dragging a chair across the stage with one hand. He positioned it next to Lewis and stood on it, raising the microphone as far as he could reach, just below his bearded chin. “Do you have anything to say to your fans out there, Sledge?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “But I want to say hello to Taylor. Daddy loves you, and he’ll be home soon. Take care of mommy for me while I’m gone.”

I was struck by his demeanor. It seemed like Lewis was resigned to the fact that he
had
to compete – like he didn’t want to be here. “He doesn’t exactly seem thrilled about the tournament,” I said. “But I guess a new eye was too much to pass up.”

“No, that’s not the reason,” Kenneth replied. “Well, not the
only
reason. He’s here for his daughter’s treatment. It’s such a sad story: she has this rare blood disease, and their insurance company refused to cover her expenses. His wife has been petitioning for aid, but the government isn’t budging. If Sledge doesn’t come up with some serious cash, she might not make it through the year.”

When Lewis spoke, his voice was etched with a gritty determination. He was the first competitor I’d seen who didn’t seem interested in money or fame – he had something much more powerful driving him. With a motivation like his, Lewis might be the most dangerous man in the competition.

Next, the name Darko Simić appeared on the big screen, alongside the Serbian flag. He was listed as being from Belgrade, but a question mark appeared beside his age.

“That’s weird, eh?” Kenneth remarked. “No age listed? What is this dude, a vampire or something?”

A narrow, middle-aged man emerged from the curtains, trudging across the stage as he adjusted a pair of wire-framed glasses. He was enveloped in an out-of-date suit that looked like a relic from a museum, complete with a bow tie and patent leather shoes. It immediately drew chuckles from the crowd. Although his fashion choices were odd, it was the man’s hair that struck me: a frizzy, greying mess that shot out in every direction, as if he’d been comically electrocuted by sticking his finger into a socket. If Albert Einstein was in his mid-forties and had done away with his moustache, Darko Simić is how I imagine he’d look.

The host stood back and observed the man’s outdated attire. “What do you call
this
look, mate: ‘mad scientist chic’? I know that fashion trends go in cycles, but are we really back to 1890?”

Darko brushed off the snide remark and proceeded to the edge of the stage. He confidently threw his hands apart and clapped them together, causing a loud electrical buzz. When he drew them apart, a solid beam of purple light extended between his palms, eliciting some ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from the audience.

The Serbian smiled, apparently satisfied with the response, and moved his hands in small circles. The beam of light waved and bounced, dancing off his fingertips. When he felt it was time to conclude his demonstration, Darko clapped his hands back together, presumably to extinguish the beam – but to his surprise it persisted. In a panic Darko shook out his hands, causing the beam to twirl out of control. The sleeves of his suit ignited, and within seconds it travelled up his chest, engulfing his entire torso. He bellowed and staggered backwards, flailing wildly. Darko collided with the host, instantly causing Tate’s jacket to burst into flames.

The fire spread unnaturally fast, travelling across the stage and up the curtains. Within seconds it was scorching the bottom of the oversized screen, and the first several rows were scrambling towards the nearest exits in fear for their lives.

As firefighters quickly moved in to battle the blaze, a number of police officers arrived to escort us to safety. “Come on,” Kenneth urged me, pulling at my shoulder, “there’s nothing we can do
to help here.”

I had only been in the dressing room area for a moment when my wrist-com beeped, signaling an incoming transmission.

When I touched the device, a hologram of my friends projected into the air. “What the hell was
that
, man? Are you all right?” Gavin was in a panic after witnessing the live simulcast.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I assured him, attempting to steady my trembling voice. My nerves were shaken, but I didn’t want to concern him any more than he already was. “I’m in the back, and I’m safe. The fire is already under control, and the producers are getting the crowd settled before we finish the event.”

“They’re
still
going to continue with the weigh-ins?” Peyton shouted.

I nodded. “Yeah, that’s what they told us.”

Kenneth walked up beside me and smiled at my com. “Don’t worry about it guys,
I’m
here. I’ll take care of your friend.”

Peyton furrowed her brow and cocked her head to the side. “Who’s the blue Zorro, and how is
he
going to take care of you?”

“I’m The Living Eye”, he replied with a grin, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Me and Matt are buddies now, so you can call me Kenneth.” He removed his blue mask with a dramatic gesture, smiling even wider after his reveal.

I did my best to allay everyone’s anxiety. I explained to Gavin and Peyton that although what just happened to Darko was horrible, at least he was out of the competition – now there were only twelve competitors, not thirteen. Technically, I was one step closer to reaching the final four.

“Don’t listen to him,” Kenneth shouted. “As a team, we’re going to take first prize and split the ten billion. Have you
seen
this guy blow shit up? Together we’re gonna be unstoppable!” Kenneth’s enthusiasm was wildly infectious, but my friends didn’t seem to catch the fever.

“Just watch your asses out there,” Gavin said.

Several EMTs rushed Darko through the corridor, barely missing Kenneth and I as we put our backs against the wall.

He was strapped to a gurney, with an oxygen mask secured over his nose and mouth. As they hurried past, a plume of smoke billowed behind them, rising off the burnt rags leftover from Darko’s suit.

After what I’d just witnessed, I thought I was prepared for virtually anything, but the next competitor on stage was about to make an impact that would be felt around the world.