Arena Mode (20 page)

The only time I’d ever driven so fast and recklessly was when I was playing a video game.
I twisted the steering wheel from side to side while I raced down the street, knocking over garbage cans and crushing hot dog stands. Fudō sliced through the roof like he was opening a tin can, using the blade to anchor himself to the speeding vehicle.

He punched downward and tore a hole directly above me. The giant cybernetic hand reached through the opening and took a swipe, narrowly missing my head as I ducked beneath the steering wheel.

I considered slamming the brakes to send Fudō flying forward, but I was worried that, at this speed, the entire ambulance could tip over from the momentum. I didn’t want to risk landing in an even worse position than I was already in.

Before I could make a decision, I felt a strange movement, as if I was being picked up. The ambulance was still in motion, and the tires were spinning, but I no longer felt the road beneath me. Fudō had scooped up the ambulance, I was sure of it. As I tilted forward, I buckled my seatbelt, and I was suddenly facing downward, staring directly at the pavement. And then I was thrown. Not dropped, not slammed into the ground, but
tossed
. My vehicle was lobbed through the air, crashing through the elaborate two-story window display of a nearby toy store.

The ambulance rolled several times while shards of glass rained down around me, both from the storefront and the shattered windshield. When the vehicle finally slid to a stop, I was upside down. Unbuckling my seatbelt sent me crashing into the crumpled roof with a painful thud. Bleeding from several places on my forehead, I frantically wiped the blood from my eyes and searched the front seat. I couldn’t locate my helmet. When I crawled from the driver’s side window I spotted him – it was The Living Eye.

Kenneth had conjured a hand; a grotesque, glowing blue hand that loomed behind him, as if a giant was reaching up from the pavement below. But this wasn’t just an ordinary hand: in its palm was a snarling, cavernous mouth filled with jagged teeth, and an ominous eyeball peered at me from each fingertip. It was a chilling vision from a nightmare that I hoped I’d never experience.

Kenneth’s concentration must have broken, because his latest creation burst apart and dissipated when he spotted me crawling from the wreckage. “Mox, I’m
so
sorry, buddy! I didn’t know
you
were driving the ambulance!” He rushed to my side and helped me to my feet. “What happened? Did you get stabbed through the roof?”

I touched my forehead and brought my hand down, watching the blood drip from my fingertips. “No, these are just surface wounds from the broken glass. It probably looks worse than it is.”

“Well you
look
like shit,” Kenneth said bluntly, but with genuine concern.

I cocked an eyebrow and pretended to fuss over my face. “Did I smudge my make-up?”

Kenneth threw his head back and laughed boisterously – his exuberant laugh that was so ridiculously infectious it was nearly impossible to avoid joining in. “I know, eh? What was with that guy applying the foundation? Could he have taken his job
any
more seriously?”

“Don’t get me started,” I chuckled before letting out a hacking cough. I winced and held my aching ribcage, bruised and battered from the crash. My breastplate cushioned the impact from the roll, but I was still in a considerable amount of pain.

“So,” Kenneth said as he patted me gently on the back, “what do we do now?”

As if on cue, a loud rumble echoed from the remains of the toy store. Fudō burst from the rubble and stood upright with one smooth motion, brandishing his katana. The red braided handle and ornate metalwork was an exact replica of Cameron Frost’s showpiece – I’d recognize the design anywhere. He’d undoubtedly discovered one of the more sought-after weapons hidden within The Arena. Fudō’s exoskeleton was scratched and dented, but aside from cosmetic damage, it seemed to be perfectly functional, and prepared for combat.

“What we do
now
,” I replied, “is get the hell out of here.”

Kenneth laughed again. “Nah, I got this, buddy. I think I can handle an oversized GoBot.”

I had a feeling that Fudō might present a greater challenge than a poorly-designed Japanese children’s toy, but we were about to find out.

The Living Eye calmly waved me aside without a second thought. Wearing a confident grin, he cracked his knuckles, and adjusted the strap on the back of his homemade mask. He extended his right hand and conjured a swirling cloud of blue dust, creating a manticore: a ferocious blue lion with expansive dragon wings, and the venomous tail of a scorpion. The mythical creature continued to expand, growing to the size of an SUV. Strangely, it was only the second most terrifying thing I’d seen in the last five minutes.

I knew that Kenneth was controlling this creation with the power of his mind, and that I was in no real danger. Regardless, I continued to backpedal as the creature bared its incisors and bellowed out a thunderous roar.

Fudō wasn’t nearly as intimidated. He marched forward with his hand outstretched, illuminating the bright red light embedded into his palm.

Kenneth’s face shifted. The calm, cocky expression melted away, and was replaced with something else. Not fear, but confusion. He rubbed his temples and blinked feverishly.

When Fudō came within striking distance, the manticore vanished into a pile of glittering dust, leaving The Living Eye staggering and dizzy – and completely defenseless.

Then it was over.

With a powerful thrust, Fudō pushed the three-foot blade through the soft tissue of Kenneth’s midsection. The tip of the curved sword protruded from his back, and a spatter of blood dotted the pavement behind him.

I imagined his final thoughts as he dropped to his knees. Looking around helplessly, clawing at the air while he wondered why Mox, his partner, didn’t stop Fudō’s attack. Not realizing that I
couldn’t
.

I had fooled everyone, Kenneth included, into thinking I was a superhuman. With the abilities he thought I possessed, he took me on as a partner and put his faith in me; I’m sure he believed that I’d cover his back as much as he promised to cover mine. It was agonizing. A gut-wrenching sensation twisted inside me when I realized that Kenneth’s final vision was the sight of me sprinting in the opposite direction as the life drained from his body.

At best, he thought I was a coward, and that possibility made me sick. At worst – and far more likely – he died believing that I had betrayed him. And he wouldn’t be completely wrong.

At least Fudō had the decency to stab him in the front.

It took a couple of hours to memorize the city.
The night before the competition, I’d committed the entire borough of Manhattan to memory in painstaking detail: street names, addresses, hidden alleys, fire escapes – not to mention the precise location of every casket in The Arena. Sitting on the corner of 47th and 5th Avenue, I knew it was exactly fourteen thousand, two hundred and fifty-six feet to Tomkins Square Park. I could walk it in thirty-three minutes. I knew this place inside and out, and along with my martial arts and weapon training, I had it all covered – knew everything I needed to know. Except how to deal with letting someone die.

My strategy was to avoid confrontation unless it was absolutely necessary, but I wasn’t naive. The odds were that I couldn’t last until the final four without having to take
someone’s
life, or at the very least seriously injure them.

I played the scenario out in my mind a thousand times: a superhuman coming at me with evil intentions, my adrenaline pumping. They want me dead, and I have to defend myself. I have no choice in the matter: it’s fight or flight, and flight is no longer an option. Then, the most basic human instincts kick in, and I do what people have been doing since the first caveman picked up a heavy stick and bludgeoned his attacker to a bloody pulp. In the end, I’d experience something
that resembled remorse,
but I’d feel justified in my actions.

I wish my situation had been that simple.

It wasn’t Fudō Myōō’s blade that ended Kenneth Livitski’s life back in Times Square – it was my lie. I couldn’t rationalize it any other way. As I wandered along the empty sidewalks it was the only consistent thought that ran through my head for more than an hour. I wanted to place in the final four and walk away from the competition, but in that moment, I wasn’t even sure that I deserved to.

I’d travelled to the east end of the island, and it occurred to me that a weapon chest was practically right next to me. A four-story building with a deli on the ground floor was directly across the street, and the casket was hidden on the rooftop. I scaled the rickety fire escape and spotted it immediately. It hadn’t been opened, but possibly for good reason – it was one of the thirteen boxes adorned with a silver emblem, not gold. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take this chance.

Approaching with caution, I ran my fingers along the seam of the lid, and closely inspected every last detail. When I reached under the flap of metal where the lock would normally be located, I felt something strange. It was a thin, coiled wire, inconspicuously hidden from view – it would no doubt function as a trigger should someone attempt to flip open the lid. It was wired to explode.

I wasn’t positive how many people were left in the tournament. As far as I knew there were now ten, myself included, but at the moment there was no way to confirm it. As soon as competitors started flipping the lids on the caskets with silver emblems, it would undoubtedly thin out the ranks. It was classic Darwinism: survival of the fittest. The players too preoccupied (or too stupid) to thoroughly check a case before opening it had a fifty percent chance of being blown to bits.

An IQ test wasn’t required to gain entry into The Arena, but this was the next best thing.

Leaving the deathtrap untouched, I made my way back to the fire escape. And then I heard footsteps clanging. Someone was making their way up to the roof with me, and not just the one person, judging by the echo. It was at least two.

There were no other ladders down, no rooftop access door, and nowhere to hide; just a flat, wide open space with the casket sitting conspicuously in plain view – and an unarmed guy without any superpowers.

When a pair of young women emerged from the fire escape, I became as tongue-tied as I usually do when faced with a similar situation.
I hadn’t brushed up on my conversational skills in quite a while; spending my time alone reading comics and playing video games in a windowless apartment didn’t afford many opportunities for banter. This encounter was particularly stressful, though. Normally, when chatting with a member of the opposite sex, there’s rarely a chance that it could end in a fight to the death.

Serafina appeared first, even more aloof than she was on-stage the day before. Shrink-wrapped into black leather pants and a matching jacket, she looked more prepared to strut down a runway than compete in a violent fighting tournament. She locked her boots in place and folded her arms. If she felt I was a threat, she wasn’t letting me know it.

Equally unconcerned with my presence, Arirose strolled past her, hands clasped behind her back. She looked more or less like the pictures I saw online: copper locks cascading over her shoulders in loose curls, the trademark rose tied into her hair – but her attire caught me off-guard. She’d abandoned her modest floral dresses for a form-fitting denim skirt, plaid top and knee-high cowboy boots. She approached until she was within arm’s reach and flashed a playful smile. “So you’re the bloke with the great big brain, are you?” Her broad Australian accent was just as I’d imagined it.

“What gives you that impression?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow. I was a little taken aback.

“At the weigh-ins they played a video package when you were absent,” she explained. “Frost did the voice-over himself. ‘Matthew Moxon, from New York City’. You got some nice applause when they said you were a hometown player. He didn’t reveal too many details, mind you, aside from the fact that you were a brilliant college boy.” She placed her hands on her hips and studied me from head to toe. Arirose’s confidence was unnerving. “Looking back though,” she continued, “I think painting you as some kind of a genius might have been a bit ...
misleading
to the audience.”