Arena Mode (16 page)

“It’s...nice.” What else was I supposed to say? I’m a guy. I had no idea how to respond when I saw a piece of jewelry.

“It’s
yours
,” she replied, nervously brushing the pink tresses from her face, tucking a lock behind her ear. “If you want it, I mean. Here, I’ll show you how it works.”

She carefully twisted the band in different directions and it unscrewed, falling into three distinct pieces. Separated they were simply unrelated shapes, but connected, they formed a never-ending geometric shape that flowed together, like a snake eating its own tail.

“These represent your life,” she explained, touching each ring in succession. “Past, present and future.” She opened my hand and dropped the rings into my palm. “I know your past has been a little rocky. And let’s face it, your present isn’t the best right now, either. But there’s
always
something good waiting for you in the
future if you have the will to make it happen.” She reached out and touched my chin, tilting my head upwards until our eyes locked. “And everything that happened in the past, good
and
bad, is what led you to this moment. This is a reminder.”

Peyton’s power was her ability to open up. She was so unafraid to leave herself raw and exposed – it made her one of the strongest people I’d ever met. It was amazing to see, and also humbling. At times, her confidence was like a mirror, reflecting my emotional cowardice. “I don’t know what to say,” I mumbled, glancing back down into my sweaty palm.

“I know you suck at this, so don’t say anything.” She pulled a long silver chain from her pocket and laced it through all three rings, attaching it around my neck. “It won’t fit under your gloves so wear it here, beneath your armor.”

Her perfect lips curled into a mischievous smile. “I know you hate the ‘L’ word, so I won’t say it.”

My face must have gone white, because she burst into a fit of wild laughter at the sight of my expression.

“Not
that
L-word. I’m talking about ‘luck’, you emotional retard.” She just shook her head and continued to smile as she adjusted the rings around the chain. “I have no idea if these things will actually bring you any, but wear them anyway. Can’t hurt, right?”

It was usually around the time when I’d make a snide remark, mocking Peyton about her childish adherence to blind faith and ridiculous superstition.

I just smiled.

I didn’t believe in luck, and I
definitely
didn’t believe in lucky charms, but I was starting to figure out why some people did. It was a physical representation of hope, and sometimes being able to wrap your hands around a concept offered a special type of comfort that words couldn’t provide.

I reached down and touched the rings dangling around my neck. I parted my lips to thank her, but she shook her head. “Thank me when you win the tournament.”

Gavin shouted to me from the back of the store. Without another word, I left Peyton and began my final strategy session.

We spent hours studying the holographic image of Manhattan, where twenty-six weapons were hidden. They were scattered throughout the city, in alleys, on rooftops, and occasionally out in plain sight. The only issue was that I couldn’t identify them: they were encased in large ornate boxes, like treasure chests a pirate might find in a low-budget movie. The boxes were identical, with a single exception: half had a gold ornament on the lid, and the other half had a silver one.

I wasn’t sure what the symbols represented, but my intuition was telling me that thirteen of the twenty-six boxes should not be opened.

Committing the map to memory, I could easily locate the weapons within The Arena. It was just a matter of being quick enough to get to one before a competitor beat me to it.

Midnight came quickly. After a long strategy session, we decided it was time for some rest and to close down the store.

Gavin opened one set of his security shutters at the front of the store to reveal a small group of reporters, snapping pictures and shouting questions when they spotted me through the glass. I used my forearm to shield my eyes from the flashes, and heard a spattering of questions, each stranger than the last.

“What other powers do you have?”

“Is it true that you’re a shut-in?”

“Is that guy to your left a personal trainer, or your secret lover?”

Gavin sneered and waved them off. “Get the hell out of here! The tournament is
tomorrow
, Mox needs some rest.”

Realizing that the group wouldn’t disperse, he stepped back and slammed the shutters closed and lowered the security bars into place with the touch of a button. Gavin wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being followed home by paparazzi, and neither was I, so we decided to spend the night at the store.

Gavin pulled a red blanket over Peyton, who had passed out on the couch with a textbook curled tightly in her fingers.

He retired to his office and crashed on his couch.

I was stressed and exhausted, but on the eve of the tournament, I knew that sleep wouldn’t come easy.
 

I spent the night pacing the length of Excelsior’s stacks
, stopping periodically to remove a comic from the long transparent drawers. I re-read some of my favorites, and casually flipped through others. I scanned the sequential art, page-by-page, studying the epic battles between good and evil. Punches thrown, plasma bolts fired, conflicts that raged from the smallest towns in America to the deepest reaches of space.

Then something occurred to me around three in the morning: when a hero and villain did battle, more often than not, there was a common theme that played a part in their struggle: a moral code. The code is why Lex Luthor is still alive after more than a thousand issues, given that his arch-enemy is
Superman
. The Man of Steel is an immortal demigod from the planet Krypton, infused with more power than any being in the universe; he possesses superhuman speed, hearing, vision, flight, and enough strength to literally move a planet ... and yet, his biggest rival is a middle-aged bald dude in a crappy suit.

It never made any sense. If Lex was
that
big of a threat, why didn’t Clark just grab him by the collar, fly him into outer space and toss him into the sun? It would be simple: one incinerated bad guy, and humanity continues on without having to worry about a ruthless criminal mastermind.

Of course everyone knew the answer to that question. It’s the same reason why Batman never kills the Joker, and why Spider-Man hasn’t finished off the Green Goblin once and for all. Because without an antagonist, Marvel and DC would have a
really
hard time selling new issues. Imagine Peter Parker spending twenty-two pages ironing his spandex while Aunt May sits in the background watching reality television? Not the most compelling reason to run out and buy comics on a Wednesday afternoon.

Heroes need conflict, and to create a great conflict, they need an equally great villain. That’s the world of fiction. In real life, however, there are no moral codes that superhumans will adhere to, ensuring that next month’s issue has a suitable enemy.

In reality Arena Mode wasn’t a sporting event – it was a depraved social experiment. A ten billion dollar prize all but ensured that the competitors would be ruthless and unrelenting, because that amount of money represented more than freedom, or security, or a monumental leap into a prestigious new social class. It was
power
; the pure, unadulterated power that comes with being one of the wealthiest people on the planet.

Superman was created in the 1930s, back when words like ‘ethics’ and ‘honor’ were still being used unironically. But in a few short hours, when the cameras started filming and the games began, the values of a bygone era would not apply. If comic book enthusiasts expected a series of battles guided by a moral compass that now ceased to exist, they were going to be in for the shock of their lives.

The small group of paparazzi outside of Excelsior had grown to a screaming horde.
An obnoxious, sweaty mob of belligerent photographers that hadn’t showered in two days were completely blocking the front entrance. No wonder celebrities were so fond of punching them in the face.

According to simulcast reports, there was a considerable amount of mystery surrounding my involvement in the tournament; was I injured? Was I in hiding? Would I be competing at all? Reading comments about myself drove me as crazy as the wait for the tournament itself. Aside from the speculation about my status, it seemed that everyone with an internet connection had an opinion about my chances of winning. My no-show at the weigh-ins, coupled with the betting odds against me, made ‘Mox’ a hot topic across the forums.

I tried to refrain from engaging in a flame war, but I couldn’t resist the urge. I wasn’t sleeping anyway, and I needed a distraction. I just
had
to respond to an iTube commenter who insisted that Dwayne Lewis would ‘eat the blue Power Ranger’ within the first two minutes.

Sorry, WompaMuncher69, I had to respectfully disagree.

Aside from scouring the web for gossip about myself, I was interested in reading everyone’s analysis after the weigh-ins. People had their favorites, but the consensus was that Russia’s Son would pummel the competition, smashing his way to an easy victory. And that opinion wasn’t limited strictly to the keyboard warriors; political spin and denunciations were already coming out of Moscow, with reports claiming that Sergei Taktarov was a Western spy, a traitor, and a pathological liar. I didn’t find the character assassination surprising. Should Taktarov claim first prize, a charismatic leader with ten billion dollars at his disposal would provide some stiff political opposition for their government, and they were undoubtedly terrified that someone might upset the status quo. When citizens are exposed to the truth, things like rigged elections and falsified news reports become a lot more difficult to get away with.

After a few hours of uncomfortable sleep in an old armchair, I was startled awake by raucous banging on the security gates. I flipped on the Trinitron and switched to the exterior security cams.

Peyton propped herself up and rubbed her bleary eyes. “What time is it?” she asked with a drawn out yawn. “And what the heck is going on outside?”

“Paparazzi,” I said with a frustrated groan. “They’ve been here all night. Go back to sleep, it’s not even six in the morning.”

When the security feed blipped into view, I saw a tall, narrow man with a thin moustache staring directly into the lens, dressed in a suit and bow-tie. He was standing amidst the photographers, and a long stretch limousine was visible in the street behind him.

I felt an itch on the back of my hand, and moments later a bright green hologram projected from my epidermal implant. A three-dimensional image of Cameron Frost’s face appeared several inches off my skin, causing me to stumble backwards. “What the hell?” I shouted.

“Good morning, Mister Moxon!” the projection said with a cheerful smile. “I hope you’re ready for game day. I took the liberty of arranging your transportation to The Arena. Suit up and we’ll see you in thirty.” The hologram winked off before I had the chance to reply – it must have been a recording, not a live feed.

I started to gear up. I quickly snapped my armor into place, ensuring that my rings were secured on the chain beneath my breastplate.

Peyton had drifted back to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake her. A tearful goodbye wasn’t going to help my mental state going into the tournament, and it definitely wouldn’t do her any favors in the likely event that I would never see her in person again. Leaning over the back of the couch, I kissed her forehead and tucked her in, silently promising that I’d do everything in my power to make it back.

I was in no mood to eat, so I skipped right to the equipment check. I quickly gathered my helmet and prescription pill bottle. I didn’t need anything else.

Before opening the security gates, I drew in a deep, shaky breath, and prepared myself for the first day of the rest of my life – however much longer that was going to be.