Arena Mode (35 page)

Sunlight poured through the drab orange curtains
, waking me from a sleep that felt more like hibernation. I blinked rapidly and craned my neck in every direction. I was in a hospital, bandaged and stitched and hooked up to an IV. At first I panicked, wondering how I was going to pay the astronomical bill that would accompany this visit, but breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that Arena Mode was over, and I’d won – I was a billionaire. Getting basic medical care was one of the fancy luxuries I could enjoy since I was now one of ‘the elite’.

Shortly after waking, I received a visit from Peyton and Gavin, who had been camped outside in the waiting room for the better part of twenty hours. They cried, we hugged. All the things that people usually do when they thought they were never going to see you again. As traumatic as Arena Mode was to experience, it must have been equally hard to watch it unfold on a screen, knowing someone you care about is going through it, and being powerless to help.

While Gavin was within earshot (and unaware of our ‘situation’, whatever that was) Peyton and I were unable to speak privately. That would have to wait for a more intimate setting. Instead, they filled me in on the events that transpired over the last day. I had slept through a
lot
.

I missed the post-game press conference and the ceremony to claim my prize, but the cash had been automatically wired into my bank account, regardless. I guess they would have to mail me the trophy, or medal, or whatever I was going to receive in commemoration of my victory. I know they were planning to hand me some type of gold-plated trinket, but the idea seemed morbid. The thought of openly celebrating the fact that I’d been responsible for the death of several people was just absurd, even by Cameron Frost’s loose moral standards.

There were only two survivors out of thirteen participants: myself and Kenneth. He was still in a coma, but as the second place winner by default, he was entitled to twenty million dollars. Technically he’d been eliminated, but according to the rules, the second, third and fourth place prizes had to be awarded to anyone who was still alive. He’d been flown back to Thunder Bay, Ontario, where he could receive care close to his family. As soon as I was mobile, his bedside would be my first visit.

With the exception of Frost entering the tournament concealed inside his Fudō armor, the most discussed event of Arena Mode was Brynja’s sudden appearance and her literal disappearance.

Some of the more popular theories suggested Brynja had never existed in the first place – that she was simply an elaborate creation The Living Eye had conjured, or that I had blinked her into existence, possibly as a result of latent superpowers combined with my brain tumor.

Adding fuel to the fire was the reaction from Iceland’s government. Their official position was that Brynja Guðmundsdóttir had never been a citizen of the country, and they denied having any knowledge of her existence. Representatives from the United States – where she claimed to have resided since the age of four – refused to comment.

The conjecture made for fun reading, and incited some heated holo-session debates. I wanted to debunk them, but instead let the conspiracy theorists have their fun.

Melvin was never located after the tournament, but his unlikely involvement in Arena Mode began a new craze: manticore-mania. The national pastime of sharing housecat photos continued, but now, pet-owners would Photoshop wings and a scorpion tail into their pictures before posting them. Plush toys, collectible figures and t-shirts depicting manticores became omnipresent, replacing dragons as the mythical creature of choice.

A Taiwan-based laboratory even began testing for a genetically altered manticore pet; cats were being artificially bred to include wings and a tail, complete with altered pigmentation to mimic Melvin’s blue fur and white mane. Combined with a lion’s DNA, it would make a near-perfect replica. The concept was baffling. I had no idea why anyone would want a predatory cat with a venomous tail flying around their home (or how many years it would be before it became a reality) but even with a multi-million dollar price tag, they’d already sold hundreds of them in advance.

Paul ‘Dozer’ Glendinning’s body was discovered at the bottom of the Hudson. Weighing in at over two thousand pounds, they hadn’t figured out a way to dislodge it from the river’s floor. A tour group was already renting submarines; the two-person units allowed visitors to navigate their way underwater, where they could see the bronze strongman, who was still very much intact, embedded waist-deep in the seabed.

Dozer’s close friend and teammate, Dwayne Lewis, also failed to escape The Arena with his life. Lewis left his wife Theresa and daughter Taylor behind – a daughter who required expensive treatment for a disease their insurance company refused to subsidise. Shortly after the tournament ended, however, his wife was surprised when an anonymous donor offered to pay for all of the medical expenses, as well as her daughter’s college education. Lewis gave me the benefit of the doubt inside The Arena when he had no reason to trust me, and it ultimately saved my life. It was the least I could do.

Theresa Lewis eventually went into politics, successfully changing laws in the state of Arizona surrounding the treatment of superhumans. Before long, they had the same rights and privileges that are afforded to all American citizens, and thankfully, several other states followed suit.

The shockwaves triggered by Sergei Taktarov’s death were still being felt as his followers mourned their saviour’s death. The ‘Red Army’ continued to protest across much of Eurasia, and their numbers were increasing exponentially. It seems that as a martyr, Russia’s Son had become more powerful than ever, and his well-publicized manifesto was quickly becoming a reality.

Cameron Frost claimed his tournament would be remembered as the event that changed sports forever. What really changed was people’s perception.

The rules all but ensured Arena Mode would elicit chaos and carnage – and on that front, it certainly delivered. Spectators witnessed the impossible: feats of strength, and speed, and battles that defied physics – yet the most memorable moments weren’t otherworldly. They were acts of compassion.

A father who sacrificed everything for the love of his daughter.

A martial artist who refused to compromise mercy for victory.

And complete strangers putting their lives in each other’s hands, exemplifying loyalty to the very end.

As the competitors battled, we learned which powers were the most effective in actual combat. Questions were answered, debates were settled. But the real revelation was that superhumans – despite their genetic gifts and amazing abilities – were simply
humans.

In the end, a tournament designed to satisfy Frost’s selfish ambitions
did
alter the course of history ... just not in the way he intended.

A nurse rudely interrupted our conversation by barging into my private room, and curtly let my friends know that visiting hours were over. She then insisted I try to eat and get some rest before shooing them out the door.

While they were preparing to leave, Peyton leaned in and gave me a quick hug, whispering that she’d return shortly.

Once again, I was alone. Sleep came quickly thanks to the morphine coursing through my veins, and I drifted into a dreamless void.

It was the big day, and my lawyers had made all of the arrangements.
Dr. Ray Anderson, the world’s leading neurosurgeon, was being flown in from Holland that evening. Coupled with technology from the French nanotech corporation Cerveau-N, I was finally going to have my tumor removed. At least that was the plan.

The waiting list for their services was several years long, but it was amazing how fast the paltry sum of twenty million Euros could push you to the front of the line.

Still drowning in a morphine-induced stupor, the day was a blur of check-ups, business meetings, and pre-approved visits from the press. My PR manager (I honestly wasn’t sure who hired her) advised me to speak with some of the more reputable news outlets during the times when I was feeling lucid.

It was an hour before my surgery. A reporter from the New York Chronicle was leaving my room and passed Peyton on the way out with a cordial nod.

She approached quietly, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. Brushing the pink locks from her face, she stared at me expectantly and began fidgeting with the small purse in her lap.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. I had no other way to phrase it.

Peyton raised her eyebrows, feigning a look of surprise. “An actual, real-life apology – from
Matthew Moxon
. Is your tumor acting up again, or did they just finish dosing you with some heavy meds?”

“
No,
I’m just ... I want you to know why I pulled away from you before Arena Mode. And the way I spoke to you ...”

“You have nothing to explain,” she said sweetly, gently running her hand along my cheek. “I get it.”

I shook my head, reaching up to touch her wrist. “No, you don’t. I didn’t want you to get too close in case I didn’t make it out of The Arena.”

“Matty,
I get it
.”

”And now, if I make it out of surgery...”

“
When
you make it out,” she said with confidence.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re always so positive, and thinking like that can be dangerous.”

“Are you really still giving me this ‘don’t get your hopes up’ crap? I
know
you’re going to make it out of surgery, and this is why.” She reached into her purse and extracted a small plastic bag, dropping it on my lap with a knowing smile. It was an evidence bag, with the name ‘Todd Dziobak’ scrawled on the side in black marker. And inside was a ring.

“I ran into a police officer downstairs when I was being checked through security,” she explained. “He stopped me and said you might want this.”

I pulled it out, studying it closely. It was one of the three portions of the ring Peyton had given me before the tournament, and surprisingly (aside from a few dents) it was completely intact. I rotated the silver band for a moment, and Peyton plucked it from my fingers.

“Look at it
now
.” She turned it upside down and tilted it towards the light. The angular pattern resembled a capital ‘F’. “
This
is the one that got saved: the ring representing your future.”

“Huh.” I nodded slowly. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

She leaned forward and punched me in the shoulder. Hard.

“What the hell?” I shouted, massaging my upper arm. “I’m a patient ... in a
hospital bed.
”

“You’re a stupid jerk in a hospital bed. You survived a car crash, fell off a building, were saved by a manticore,
and
you figured out how to kill a god. And
this
is where you draw the line: my lucky ring? After all that, what
do
you believe in?”

“That you’re a superhero,” I said, taking her hands in mine.

Her lips curled slightly at the edges. “I don’t have any powers.”

“Superhumans can fly and lift cars, but none of that matters. I think Super
heroes
are people who make a difference, whether they have powers or not.”

“So I made a difference?” she whispered.

She had. Every second of every minute I spent in Arena Mode. I just didn’t realize it until now. “More than you know.”

“Me ... or my lucky ring?” She held it up and grinned, pointing at it with her other hand. “You know, I did some reading, and there
are
magical rings in comics. Like the Green Lantern’s ring. Thor has a hammer that’s magical, even though it’s not jewelry, but still ...”

I reached up and pulled her towards me, pressing my lips against hers. It was spontaneous and romantic, and it was the moment I wanted to share with her since we first met. And I hoped it would get her to shut up.

When she drew back, she lifted the ring once again without missing a beat. Her silly grin returned, wider than before. “So are you gonna admit it?”

I let out a small laugh, falling back into my pillows. “Don’t make me break up with you before I go into surgery.”

She raised her eyebrows once more, this time genuinely surprised. “Wait ... when did we start dating?”

I shrugged. “Well you
did
give me a ring.”