Arena Mode (14 page)

When the show was ready to resume, Kenneth invited me back to the secured press area in front of the stage.
He wanted to
watch the rest of the weigh-ins up-close so we could scope out the competition and strategize. I politely declined. I had experienced enough excitement for one day, and was content to lounge in my dressing room where the simulcast was being aired on a wall monitor.

Plus there was a couch and snacks. Had I known that before I would have never gone outside in the first place.

I invited him to stay and enjoy the mountains of junk food that were sprawled across the table, and it didn’t take much convincing.

The towering screen behind the stage was somehow still functioning, despite the bottom-left corner being burnt to a crisp. The next competitor’s name and statistics flickered into view: Sergei Taktarov, hailing from Stary Oskol, Russia, age twenty.

There must have been an error when Taktarov’s personal information was being programmed for the show, because the Russian flag was nowhere to be seen. A plain red flag with a golden hammer and sickle appeared, topped with a small star – The Red Banner of the old Soviet Union. That flag hadn’t been used since the USSR dissolved in 1991, so it was a glaring mistake. Whoever was in charge at Frost’s graphic design department would likely be up for a performance review.

The curtains parted, but Taktarov was nowhere to be seen. The crowd watched in silence as a young girl strode confidently onto the stage, clutching a sheet of lined paper in her tiny hands. Her simple white dress and matching shoes were as pristine as her porcelain skin, and her blond hair was pulled into a tight braid. Judging by her height and frame, she couldn’t have been older than ten, but there was something disarming about her; something in her crystal blue eyes as she gazed out at the horde of reporters and screaming fans. It was the way she presented herself without any trace of intimidation, as if she’d done this a thousand times.

She quietly cleared her throat and began to speak, though she never once glanced down at her notes. “Thank you for allowing me this opportunity,” she began in a soft voice. Her Russian accent was apparent, but her perfect cadence and enunciation implied a considerable amount of study. “My name is Valeriya Taktarov, and I am here to make a prepared statement on behalf of my older brother, Sergei.”

“That’s strange,” I whispered to Kenneth. “I wonder why Taktarov isn’t speaking for himself?”

He just shrugged. With a wealth of superhuman-related knowledge, even Kenneth seemed baffled by this turn of events.

The girl stood a little straighter and addressed the crowd as if she were a professor lecturing her students. “God has given me a gift. I have been blessed with flight and strength, and powers beyond that of any mortal man. I believe I was given these abilities for one reason: to come here and deliver a message to the people of this country, and to the citizens of the world.”

“I am now in a nation where words are used with complete ignorance. Words like ‘communism’ and ‘socialism’ are spoken with contempt, while their true meanings are completely unknown.” Valeriya’s demeanor suddenly darkened; her innocent, crystal blue eyes narrowing with contempt. “I am
disgusted
by the arrogance of America. Your politicians claim that capitalism is your saviour – a symbol of your freedom – but it is simply a means to transfer all of your wealth to those who already possess riches beyond measure. The chosen ones live like kings and queens, while the workers are forced to survive on the bare necessities. Your people are promised a chance to achieve the so-called ‘American dream’, which is no more than a fantasy constructed by a media who report only what they are told. They are simply puppets, scribes to power.

“This disgraceful philosophy of worshipping greed is not merely a cancer that has infected America, it is a plague. It is a virus that spreads through simulcasts and the internet, poisoning
the rest of the world.” Valeriya paused for a moment
, and cleared her throat once again. She swallowed hard, as if the coming words were going to be difficult to say. “Sadly, my mother Russia was not immune to this disease. Once a great country, my land is now an oligarchy, much like this nation. We are as morally bankrupt as the United States, with politicians who run the government like the Mafia, profiting from war and the misery of others.”

“This will end,” she stated emphatically, fighting back tears. “When I win The Arena Mode tournament, I will take the prize of ten billion American dollars and start a movement – a new socialist party that will bring back the values of the Soviet Union. No longer censored by a government-run media, we will have the means to let all citizens hear the truth ... and so, the revolution will begin.”

Just as Valeriya’s prepared speech came to an end, her brother arrived from overhead. The timing couldn’t have been more dramatic. Sergei Taktarov soared above the stadium, circling several times before touching down at center-stage. He was no longer the boy that Cameron Frost had boasted about during his reveal; the scruffy-haired blond kid wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans. He looked regal – almost otherworldly – like he belonged among a pantheon of gods. Dressed in a white and grey bodysuit, his granite-like musculature was completely visible. The outfit was complete with matching gloves, boots and a long flowing cape, secured by a rounded cowl that covered his neck. The only color he wore was in the form of a single red emblem: a hammer and sickle emblazoned proudly on his chest.

“And now,” Valeriya announced with pride, “my brother, Sergei Taktarov, will be known simply as ‘Russia’s Son’.”

A scattered applause rang through the stadium, while some snapped pictures and captured the moment on video – but most observers looked on in stunned silence.

After allowing himself to be weighed, Taktarov whispered something to his sister. She stepped down off the stage, carefully navigating the stairs as she descended towards the press area. She tapped one of the heavily armed security guards on the leg and asked him to follow. He agreed, and positioned himself on the stage, thirty feet away from Russia’s Son.

“Prepare to fire your weapon,” she instructed. He leveled his machine gun and awaited her word.

Sergei removed the glove from his right hand and extended his palm in front of him, nodding at his sister. Valeriya gave the guard permission to fire.

He pulled the trigger.

A single round bounced off the Russian’s hand, falling harmlessly to the stage.

“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked innocently. The guard reached into his utility belt and pulled out a bright red bullet: a Dragon Slayer.

The guard asked if she was certain, and the young girl insisted. Loading the bullet into his weapon, he took aim and fired once again. And once again Sergei blocked the incoming projectile with his hand. It exploded on contact, bursting into a bright orange fireball that temporarily engulfed the Russian. When the black smoke dissipated he stood in the same position, arm extended, expressionless.

I hoped that the following competitor had something spectacular to display, because Russia’s Son became a tough act to follow.

Next up was Jérôme Fontaine, known simply as ‘Vitesse’ – the infamous runner from Montreal. His speed was unmatched, and he might prove to be the dark horse in the competition. From head-to-toe, the French-Canadian appeared aerodynamic; his long, wiry frame was sealed into a form-fitting spandex bodysuit (a suit bearing the black, yellow and green colors of Jamaica’s flag – a nod to his heritage), complete with closely cropped hair and a pair of angular glasses. It’s difficult to kill someone you can’t catch, and I wasn’t sure how anyone was going to slow him down.

Cassandra Cole was another prominent public figure, having won the Women’s Bantamweight Title in mixed martial arts by the age of twenty-five. Tall, statuesque and classically beautiful, Cole certainly wasn’t the prototypical female MMA fighter – she adorned the covers of fashion magazines and accepted movie roles in between title defenses. Now banned from competition due to her superhuman status, her focus had shifted away from sports; for months there had been rampant online speculation that Cassandra would be cast as Wonder Woman in the upcoming reboot. Not surprising, given her raven hair and striking blue eyes. If they needed someone to portray an Amazonian demigod, I couldn’t imagine anyone who would more closely
fit the description.

She stood on the scale and posed for the cameras. I recently read that she possessed superhuman strength, agility and endurance, but I had yet to see a display of her abilities – and apparently Cole wasn’t going to tip her hand. She chose not to put on a show, which was actually helpful for me. If I had been the only
competitor to not display any abilities on stage, it might have caused some suspicion.

The following competitor was Paul Glendinning, a former pro football player from British Columbia, Canada. His profile on the big screen listed one of his nicknames as ‘Logan’, and I could understand why – his stocky build, dark hair and substantial sideburns gave him a very Wolverine-like appearance. As he strode confidently on-stage, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, I almost expected him to extend three Adamantium claws from each hand.

I recognized him from his college days, where he was the star running back on the same team as Dwayne Lewis. In his prime, Glendinning was known as ‘Dozer’ for his ability to barrel over defenders with ease, en route to running a record number of yards for the state of Arizona. He was an early draft pick, but his NFL hopes were dashed along with Lewis’ when test results indicated that he possessed latent superhuman abilities. That was the last anyone had heard from him since he returned home to Canada.

“Strange coincidence,” I said, leaning towards Kenneth.

“I know, eh? He
does
look like Wolverine. Not so much in the comics, but in the old movie version, where Hugh...”

“Not
that
,” I interrupted, pointing towards the screen. “It’s strange that Dozer was on the same football team as Lewis, and they both ended up being superhumans.”

“You haven’t read the latest?” Kenneth asked, his enthusiasm bubbling over. “Some new research out of Argentina is saying that if two people are in close proximity who both have superhuman potential, they could ... I don’t know how to explain it – feed off of each other’s powers? Sort of like they’re drawn to each other magnetically. And their abilities could change and increase ... or something. Anyway it’s interesting. Google it sometime.”

Dozer moved to the edge of the platform and unbuttoned his top, eliciting a few cheers from the women in the front row. He grinned and tossed the flannel shirt into the crowd, which incited a miniature-riot of its own.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tensed his entire body; fists clenched, muscles flexing, veins rising to the surface. The metamorphosis began. His skin hardened into a bronze, metallic substance, but it was still pliable, allowing him to move with the same speed and dexterity. He still appeared human – and his facial features were not unlike they were before – but Glendinning had become a powerful, living statue.

Cracks splintered into the stage at his feet. The platform creaked, and began to buckle beneath his increasing weight. It was clear that his physical transformation added mass and density, but it was difficult to tell how much since he remained the same height and size.

Dozer stepped onto the scale. The oversized metal platform bowed beneath him, and the electronic reading peaked at two-thousand pounds – apparently the limit for the device.

A young, flustered assistant wearing a headset knocked on my dressing room door, not bothering to wait for me to answer before swinging it open. “Axel wants you ready in ten,” the kid shouted, adjusting his black-framed glasses.

“Axel?” I asked, in between crunching mouthfuls of barbecue-flavored chips.

“The
producer
,” the kid snapped. “The producer of this
entire
event? We’re already running behind schedule.” He squinted at me, as if he was carefully studying each pore on my face. “You
have
been to make-up already, haven’t you?”

I paused momentarily. “You
do
realize that I’m a dude, right?”

Kenneth held his stomach and laughed boisterously, eliciting a frown from the grumpy assistant.

“Stage make-up,” the kid replied with an exaggerated huff. “
Everyone
needs at least a touch of powder. The overhead lights cause a glare, and it’ll show up on camera if your skin is too oily.”

“Can’t have that.”

He glanced at my armor. “And
that’s
what you’re wearing? If you’re going to dress up as a blue Power Ranger, I don’t care, but you’ll have to get it cleared by the legal department before you go out there. You might be violating a copyright.”

Before I could respond the next competitor stepped out on stage, drawing my attention back to the monitor: Fudō-myōō, from Tokyo, Japan. His age was not included in his profile. There were no additional details except for a nickname: ‘The Immovable One’.

Brushing through the curtain was a man in an exoskeleton that made
my
suit look like a mail-order Halloween costume. I assumed it was a man – the competitor was covered in thick armor from head-to-toe, so for all I knew it could have been a woman.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one searching for loopholes in the pamphlet-sized Arena Mode rulebook. From the looks of it, someone had taken my idea of wearing protective armor to an entirely new level.

The suit’s design was undeniably influenced by Japanese pop culture; a nod to the robots that do battle with the menacing ‘kaiju’ monsters of Asian cinema. Aside from the familiar frame and structure, the shining silver armor was decorated with red discs on the helmet and shoulder plates, representing the rising sun of Japan’s iconic flag. The palms and chest were illuminated by powerful lights, which I assumed were circular power cores. Even the expressionless crimson eyes gave off a brilliant light. Whoever designed this walking tank wasn’t taking any chances; not a single square inch of skin, including the user’s eyes, was visible beneath nearly eight-hundred pounds of solid metal. If there was a weak spot on this machine, I couldn’t see one.