Arena Mode (32 page)

Please help,
I thought.
Anyone. Whoever is listening, someone please save her.
All I could do was plead – shout out in my mind while I hoped for a response. I didn’t believe in any unseen, all-powerful force before today, but in the chance that one did exist, I was begging for it to intervene.

Footsteps clacked rapidly down the street. I glanced over my shoulder to see Ramsley sprinting in the opposite direction, with our manticore hot on his trail.

Brynja’s eyes fluttered open and she breathed out a single word. “Ouch.”

“Why did you run
towards
me instead of making your way to the bridge?” I asked, gently stroking her hair.

“Because,” she said softly, “you fight like a girl. I was worried you’d get your ass kicked if I didn’t stick around and help.”

I had no idea what to do. There were no broken bones or bleeding wounds – at least nothing external. Even if there
was
an injury that I could identify, I would probably have been unable to treat it, but at least I’d know
why
. Watching the life drain from Brynja’s body was a completely different type of helplessness than the kind I usually felt.

“I wish I had one of these,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the rings that dangled from the chain around my neck. “If I had a lucky charm maybe the lightning would have missed me.”

“You never know,” I whispered back. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Tell her.” She said, in a louder, more authoritative voice.

“Tell who?”

She coughed, and her eyelids fell. I could hear her fading voice straining to be heard in my mind.
You know who. Tell her how you’re feeling and stop being a douchebag.

It’s not that simple,
I thought.

It totally is. And this is my dying wish so you kinda have to. Do it or I’ll come back and haunt you.

I smiled weakly and kissed her forehead. “Can’t have that.”

She flickered again, and rolled to her side.

And she disappeared.

The final rays of daylight were receding into the distance.
When night fell, The City came alive. Holo-screens brightened, dancing and sparkling, generating more light than the sun on New York’s brightest summer afternoon. The government should have saved some taxpayer money by turning off the streetlights – in most areas they weren’t even necessary.

I was ambling towards the North Bridge, and there was nothing left to stop me. It was a clear path, and I’d cruise to an easy third place finish. Ten million dollars was more than I needed, and more money that I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. And all I had to do was stroll up to the Lincoln Skyway, flag down someone with medical clearance, and tap out. Wave the proverbial white flag and I was a winner.

I didn’t feel particularly victorious. Playing dress-up and pretending to be a superhero had landed one friend in a coma, and a second one ... I didn’t know. I was still numb. I couldn’t allow myself the option of falling apart. I’d probably do that back in The Fringe, once I was safe, but out here a breakdown could still get me killed.

Aside from being an emotional wreck, I certainly didn’t look the part of a winner. Armor stripped away, my tank top stained with blood, limping from a damaged knee – I resembled the Dark Zone-dwelling vagrants that Manhattan security guards regularly detained simply for committing the crime of being in close proximity with the upper-class.

The rotating red and blue lights were visible from several blocks out. The police cruisers and ambulances barricading the bridge were coming into focus. I was just minutes away.

Shuffling west down 39th Street, I was entering a construction zone, where the omnipresent screens began to relent. A fresh migraine set in, and I was sure – I was
positive
– that someone was calling my name. It had been a while, and I was probably due for a blackout or a mind-bending hallucination. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Rapidly blinking and shaking my head did nothing to clear the voice. It persisted. I looked up and saw a nearby bus shelter, where Cameron Frost appeared on a holo-screen, replacing the advertisement that was running on a loop. He was calling out, addressing me personally.

“Congratulations, Moxon. You did it. Some spectacular eliminations, and you’re about to become famous. Not to mention ten million dollars richer.”

I collapsed onto a metal bench and stared blankly at the screen. “Thanks.”

Frost was a busy man; if he took the time to address me in a private feed, it was likely for a good reason. He could have congratulated me after the tournament.

“Let me ask you something before you make your way to the bridge: aren’t you just a little disappointed that you didn’t try for first? Sure, ten million dollars might
sound
like a lot of money to someone in your position, but could you imagine having ten
billion?
”

I would have shrugged if I had the energy. As it was, I barely had enough left in me to form coherent sentences. “What can I do with ten billion dollars that I can’t do with ten million?”

“You wouldn’t just be wealthy,” Frost said brightly, “When you join the billionaire’s club, you’re
elite.
Trust me, it’s like living in a completely different world. It’s the kind of money that gives you influence. The kind of power that a select few ever get a taste of.”

I paused for a moment, carefully considering my response. “Power is just another word for ‘control’. I don’t want to control anyone’s life except for my own.”

His brightness quickly faded, lips pressing into a thin line. “So you’re content, then.”

“Content?”
I asked, exhaling loudly.

“To just take the cash and run. No epic finale, no heroic end to your journey inside The Arena. Just a broken man, hobbling towards a paycheck.”

“Sure,” I said simply. “Why the hell not.” My words were now spilling out with a sense of purpose, each more forceful than the last.

“What will your friends think of your performance?” he asked, lowering his voice. He leaned closer to the camera as if to add weight to his argument. “And what about the people watching around the world? You have these extraordinary abilities – why not
use
them?”

I laughed under my breath. I couldn’t believe we were actually having this conversation, just minutes before I was about to reach the finish line. “Are you trying to get me to stay in The Arena by calling me chicken? This isn’t the sixth grade, Cameron. I don’t care if it’s bad for ratings, I’ve seen horrible things, I’ve possibly lost two friends, I’m
done
.”

He furrowed his brow, shaking his head slowly. “Well
that’s
disappointing.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I disappointed someone today.”

“Everyone has a motivator, Moxon. I asked you to find something to fight for, and judging by your actions in The Arena today, you did exactly that. Money and fame don’t bring the best out of you ... but friendship, family – that’s the key, isn’t it?”

I pushed myself off the bench with a small groan. “I don’t need a psychologist right now, I need a doctor. I have a bad knee, cracked ribs, and I’ve had at least two concussions today. So sit back, and enjoy being one of ‘the elite’ ... I’m going to an emergency room.”

“Don’t take another step,” Frost commanded. His booming voice reverberated through the construction zone like a thunderclap. “Don’t talk, don’t even
move
. I’m going to show you something.” He reached out of view and tapped a keyboard, and a video feed filled the screen. “Excelsior Retro Comics in The Fringe. Recognize it?”

I could see directly through the front window: Peyton and Gavin sitting on a couch, watching the Trinitron. The security bars had been locked into place, but the grates were still open – they were clearly visible.

“When was this taken?” I asked. As my sentence ended I realized that I already knew the answer, and I knew his reason for showing me. But I needed to hear it directly from Frost.

“It’s live, of course,” he said earnestly. “It’s being filmed from a black van parked across the street.”

“You son of a
bitch
.” My pulse quickened, and my first instinct was to stomp a hole in the screen, smashing the monitor into a million pieces. For my friends’ sakes, I tried to let the rational part of my brain do the talking.

“If I tap out, you’re going to execute them? This is bullshit – even
you
can’t pull something like this off.” He knew as well as I did that Excelsior was in the nicer part of The Fringe; there were a dozen cameras on every corner.

Frost’s face returned to the screen. His expression had shifted; he was grinning, wide and mischievous. “Get away with it? That’s not part of the plan, Moxon. Do you know the Petrovic brothers?”

Of course I did. Gavin had set them up to rob a liquor store not long ago, and I stopped them, cheating my way into Arena Mode. Gavin had always used fake identities and rented vehicles when traveling through The Dark Zone, so the Petrovic’s would have no way of locating him. That is, unless they had some considerable help from a very connected benefactor.

“Three of the brothers landed in prison because of you. I had my lawyer, Mister Epstein, bail them out last week. We had a brief conversation ... nice group of guys once you get to know them.” He leaned close to the camera once more, lowering his voice as if he were sharing a secret. “They are
not
big fans of yours, by the way. Or of your friend, Mister Lockridge. So I gave them an address, some state-of-the-art firepower, and an untraceable van. Now all they need is the green light. I don’t imagine they have anything against the young lady, but I doubt they would want witnesses. I’m sure you understand.”

I clenched my fists so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. “You wouldn’t,” I said hoarsely, my heart pounding so hard that I felt like my ribcage would break.

“I can, and I
would
. One call, one phrase. I say the magic words and they open fire. Your best friend and the pretty girl with the pink hair get blown to tiny little bits.” He paused for just a moment, cocking his head slightly. “I know you’re a fan of acid-filled bullets. Maybe I’ll tell them to swap in some Green Scorpions and avoid the kill-shots for now. How would you like to see Peyton’s arms melt off in high-definition?” His grin widened.

I turned without another word and headed east, stomping back into the heart of The Arena.

Frost continued to shout as I walked away. “Look at the bright side, Moxon: I’m giving you the chance at
honor.
And if you finish in first place, I’ll be at the post-game press conference, handing you a check with more zeroes on it than you can count. You’ll
thank
me for this.”

As I put more distance between myself and the screen, it occurred to me that I’ve never met anyone who spouted so much pure, unadulterated bullshit, and had it go completely unquestioned by the masses. Even I’d bought into it on occasion. All his bluster about honor and valor and achieving personal greatness, it felt like a throwback to a forgotten era. Frost wasn’t a samurai or someone looking for enlightenment. He was a businessman. And keeping me in the tournament would mean a small fortune in additional advertising revenue – well worth the trade-off for the lives of two kids from The Fringe.