Arena Mode (2 page)

In 2041 when wars raged, disease spread and the deepening recession crippled all but the elite, there wasn’t a lot to look forward to. Except for The Tournaments. Internationally viewed sporting events where citizens volunteered to participate in dangerous competitions for huge cash prizes, all with the hope of clawing their way out of abject poverty. If you wanted to move from a one-bedroom roach motel into a shimmering mega-tower, you needed a small fortune, and for most of us, the only way to get
that
was to compete. And to survive.

The world was always watching when media magnate Cameron Frost unveiled the rules of an upcoming tournament, and this time the stakes were higher than ever. This season’s rules, or lack thereof, were brutally simple: thirteen people test their skills inside a secured urban battlefield, fighting each other ‘arena mode’. It sounded tasteful, but anyone familiar with video games knew that ‘arena mode’ was just a clever euphemism for ‘death match’. This was all or nothing – no reset button, and no extra lives. Twelve die in no-holds-barred combat, and one walks away with enough money to not just move into a mega-tower, but to buy one of their own.

Despite the inherent dangers of participating in one of the increasingly-violent events, it was an attractive opportunity for millions who faced an otherwise inescapable lifetime of misery. For the largest cash prize ever awarded, there would no doubt be a record number of volunteers, but this particular tournament had one little caveat: If you wanted to take a crack at surviving The Arena,
you had to be a superhuman.

When Frost said the words you could almost hear the entire planet’s jaw hit the floor.

We’d get to see an actual comic book battle unfold on a live simulcast. I know it sounds morbid, but this was a dream come true. Ever since I could remember, forums, video lounges and holo-sessions were aflame with arguments about who would win in a fight; Could Iron Man take out Batman? What if Thor battled Superman to the death? And how much ass could Wonder Woman really kick while wearing those ridiculous eight-inch stilettos? These were the questions that occupied my thoughts and dominated way too many of my daily conversations (primarily online, where I did the majority of my socializing.)

And soon – very soon – these questions were going to be answered; what the greatest superpowers were, and how they would stack up against each other in combat – not just across the panels of a digital comic or in a CGI-enhanced action sequence, but in real life.

This was it. The flame wars were about to end.

I never aspired to live among the privileged; I was content to live out the rest of my lower-class existence consumed with my collection of vintage graphic novels and tabletop RPGs. Like everyone else I occasionally watched the tournaments, and was especially excited about this one, but I was always just a casual observer. I’d never even
considered
entering one as a competitor, regardless of the potential for riches. But life is funny like that ... it has a way of turning you upside down and dropping you on your head right when you least expect it.
 

I craned my neck to the left and saw the producer smiling, holding up a single digit.
One minute left. Sixty seconds until I was about to skydive for the very first time, hoping I didn’t collide with a building on the way down. And that was the easiest task I had on my morning agenda.

At least I took comfort in the fact that the other competitors likely had the same reservations – the same panic attacks, sweat drenched palms and nervous ticks as the clock wound down towards show time. Although I had a feeling my anxieties were a little more pronounced than theirs – because unlike them, I couldn’t fly. I couldn’t shoot lasers from my hands or rip lamp posts from the ground. In a life-or-death battle to determine the ultimate superhuman, I was the only competitor without a super power.

.

My eyes snapped open to the ear-splitting chime of a new message echoing through my apartment.
When I collapsed into bed around sunrise I forgot to mute my wrist-com. I groaned, buried my face in my pillow and mumbled, “Playback.”

The small transparent device responded with an irritating beep, followed by an equally irritating voice.
“Good morning, Matthew! You have one new message, left by Gavin Lockridge, marked ‘urgent’. Begin playback.”

< Dude, do you know what time it is? Or even what day this is? This is
the
day, Mox. Get your ass down here before The Reveal or our goddamned friendship is over. Do you hear me?
Over.
Forever.
>

I couldn’t help but laugh. Gavin has been threatening to end our friendship on a daily basis for the past three years, always over something completely trivial. Whether he was reminding me to grab him a latte or demanding that I meet him at a bar so we could watch a swordfighting simulcast, it was reason enough to leave an ominous message.

I cracked my eyelids and checked my wrist: twenty-nine minutes until show time.

I dragged my feet onto the floor and raked my fingers through my short hair, feeling the beads of perspiration trickle down my brow.

The air conditioning was out. Again.

Living in a windowless concrete cube on the east coast of The Fringe was about as luxurious as a prison cell – and didn’t offer much more in terms of square footage – but it had the essentials. The landlord didn’t ask for any identification when I moved in, and she accepted my rent in cash. An occasional inconvenience when it came to cold air or hot water was well worth the trade-off for total anonymity; in my line of work, being off the grid was necessary to avoid unwanted visitors.

I rubbed my bloodshot eyes and squinted, scanning the dimly-lit room for last night’s winnings. My apartment looked like a failed game of Tetris; dozens of long white boxes littered the floor, stacked waist-high. Piled on top of the boxes was everything else I owned, which wasn’t much – mostly unfolded clothing and a few random gadgets I’d picked up online.

My filing system created a makeshift labyrinth that I had to navigate through in order to get anywhere in my apartment. After a winding journey to my kitchen, I located the tattered camouflage knapsack slung over the arm of my lone chair, and I pulled open the flap to expose the piles of cash inside.

Six thousand, two hundred and thirty-five dollars.

It was more than enough to cover the rent and pay off some existing credit, but I would have to make it last.

I used to work some of the upscale casinos in Manhattan where they had free drinks and lax security. As long as I dressed to impress, kept to myself and lost the occasional round on purpose, no one gave me a second look. On a good night I could clear thirty-thousand,
easy
.

But since The City was being retro-fitted for the upcoming tournament, security had tightened. Until further notice there were no paparazzi, no reporters, and no tourists permitted to cross the bridges.

When my funds started dwindling, it forced me to search for some action a little closer to home. I played the underground clubs in the north end of The Fringe, which, to put it delicately, were somewhat less elegant than the marble-floored palaces across the Hudson. The dank basement casinos were filled with criminals from the Dark Zone, and run by the type of people I didn’t want as enemies.

I had to tread lightly; tensions ran high when the house started to lose. Sensing that my lucky streak at the blackjack table was raising a little too much suspicion, I cashed early. All it took was an overzealous pit boss to snap his fingers and alert security, and a suspected cheater would be playing cards with one hand for the rest of their life.

I prefer to gamble only when I’m sure I can win; overstaying my welcome at the local dives was not a bet I was willing to take when my extremities were on the line.

I transferred the wads of cash from my bag into a hidden wall safe, but kept four one-hundred dollar bills, sliding them into my back pocket.

I was still wearing the tattered jeans and red hoodie from the night before, but I didn’t have time to change. I stepped into the featureless grey corridor and slammed the door behind me, listening for the heavy titanium deadbolts to latch into place before proceeding to the elevator. The high-speed lift dropped me forty-seven stories to the lobby in a matter of seconds, and I checked my wrist again: twenty-one minutes. If I hurried, I’d make it to Excelsior on time.

I knew Gavin was joking, but if there’s a day that he
was
going to end our friendship over a seemingly trivial event, it was today. There was no way he’d forgive me if I was late for Cameron Frost’s Reveal.

Excelsior Retro Comics was like
taking a time machine back to the early 1990s.
The reception area looked more like a living room than a store, complete with wood-paneled walls, burnt orange carpeting and an assortment of mahogany furniture, all arranged around a thirty-two inch Sony Trinitron. I understood the appeal of the décor. It tapped into the nostalgia of a simpler, more romantic time in comic book history: the pre-digital era.

Just beyond the faux living room was the actual store, which consisted of towering wooden stacks like the old libraries used to have. But instead of books, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were outfitted with narrow plastic drawers containing comics that dated back as far as the ‘Golden Age’. If a title existed in print at some point during the last hundred years, Excelsior probably had a copy of it. If it didn’t, Gavin would find a way to get it. None of the major companies were printing physical copies of their monthly issues anymore, so for those with money to burn it became fashionable to collect the analog relics of the previous century.