Arena (6 page)

W
ith a pathetic grunt, my opponent collapsed to the ground, sending sheets of sand billowing out around him. Blood bubbled out of his mouth as he coughed and gurgled. With one arm, he clawed at the ground, pulling himself toward where the other lay several feet away. Red streams squirted from the stump of his shoulder. He gasped for air as he dragged himself along, breaths growing shallower with each pant.

Three feet from his severed arm, his body slumped against the sand, and his head slunk to the side. Blood pooled out of the holes in face and body, some natural and some I'd added myself. He seized, a final breath rattling through him. Then he stilled.

The crowd roared.

Bloodied sword in hand, I stretched my arms out toward the surrounding stands, closed my eyes, and smiled, basking in their praise like it was sunlight. The cheers of a thousand spectators blended together into a thunderous applause. The pulsing beat of their hands and feet rippled through the air and pounded against my skin. So what if none of it was real? Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Pride practically glowed from my skin. There were no cameras here. No feuding teammates.

Just glory.

My toes dug into the field of sand as I stood surrounded by stands on all sides. This was the original gladiatorial stadium before they developed
more complex arenas to entertain the masses. Capture the tower, my ass. I loved going back to the original. You know, to de-stress. Some people watched TV. Others went for a run.

I had this.

The sound of clinking chains pulled my eyes open. A black-masked undertaker dragged the hacked-up remnants of my opponent away, kiting streaks of blood across the sand. A breeze brushed against my skin, clean and untouched. Not one cut. Not one ache. Invincible. Here, no one could touch me.

Beneath the stands, a gate crawled open from the bottom up. Grinding steel squealed as the bars lifted, revealing my next opponent. Male. Six feet. Well built. Wearing full armor, including a helmet and shield. He wielded a longsword and swung it about, cutting through the air with such precision it whistled sharp little whimpers with each swing. A pro. A real gladiator.

Goody. A challenge.

As he walked forward and into the sunlight, the crowd booed. Standard programming.

I loved standard programming.

He stopped five feet away and took his position. An open stance, with too much space between his back and front feet. Powerful, yes. But that delicate spot between his legs? Not so guarded. I smiled. No, that was too easy. I'd take this one the old-fashioned way.

With a solid ass kicking.

The crowd quieted to a rumble.

I squared my feet, one slightly forward, sword pointed down, chin pointed high. The wind swirled through my hair. Here, it was my only teammate, and my greatest ally.

The gong clanged.

He charged, sword raised. Our weapons met with a sharp clang. I deflected him, sweeping him to the side. He circled back for me, attacking in short, choppy blows. I moved through the air like I was a part of it, like it flowed both within and around me.

The end of my sword nicked his arm, slicing a two-inch gash into his
skin. He flinched and grunted as his hand instinctively went for the wound. Momentary weakness. A fleeting distraction. I used it.

I spun my sword around his, tangling his arms together, and knocked him back. He stumbled and nearly fell.

Oh. Come. On.

He regained his footing and came at me again. We danced. Through his puffs of breath and the clangs of sword meeting sword, I could smell his sweat and traces of blood. It smelled like fear.

I grinned.

I dropped to the ground, spinning, foot out, and caught both of his. He hit the ground, back first. I pounced on him before he could recover, reeling my sword back to deliver the final blow.

Our eyes widened. His from fear. Mine from hunger.

The crowd screamed. Their feet pounded the stands, beating like a hailstorm. They chanted: Kill, kill, kill. Despite it all, a bubble of silence enveloped me as the wind murmured in my ear.

Night, night, sweetheart.

I stabbed my sword down, aiming for the break in his armor at his neck. An inch away, I halted.

Grinding steel echoed throughout the arena again as the stadium's gates opened. Two more gladiators emerged, ducking below the rising bars.

What the hell was this? The fight wasn't over. Standard programming was one-on-one, or sometimes two-on-one just for show. But no one was watching me now. What was my programmer doing? Why had she changed the code?

I stood tall, leaving my opponent cowering on the ground. As the newcomers grew close, my mouth went dry, and a knot formed in my stomach. They weren't men. They were giants, towering well over ten feet tall, with limbs as thick as my waist. The closest one bolted for me. His feet pounded the sand as the ground trembled beneath him. The sound echoed through the arena like the beat of a bass drum. But it dulled in comparison to the thunderous pounding of my own rapid heartbeat.

I turned and took two steps when he grabbed the back of my armor
and slammed me into the ground. A deafening crack ripped through the arena. I cried out. My back. Was it broken?

Get up. Now.

My legs wouldn't move. I flailed my arms, trying to hit anything I could with my sword. The giants closed in, weapons raised. Bile burned at the back of my throat. No.

No.

They plunged their swords into my stomach, stabbing and skewering me like meat. Blinding pain ripped through my entire body so hard, the back I was sure was broken bowed to the onslaught. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from my mouth.

Oh, God. Just let me die.

Let.

Me.

Die.

With a gasp, I slammed back into reality, like jerking awake from a falling dream. Sweat beaded across my forehead as breaths panted through my lips. I ripped the wires from my skin and clawed at the pod's inner lid. Let me out. Now.

Now.

The pod hissed and opened. I collapsed to the floor on my hands and knees, gasping, trembling. My vision faded in and out of reality. Or focus. Whatever.

Clacking footsteps approached, and a pair of shoes came into view. I narrowed my sights on them, trying to ground myself in this world. Perfect designer shoes. Not a mark on them, as if right out of the box.

Clarence.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

God, he sounded like my mom whenever she'd catch me sneaking out the back door for the arcade.

I stared at the floor, still trembling. “I needed—”

“Do you know what I had to do to pull you out of there?”

It was dangerous to pull anyone out before they died, or before the
simulation ended. Sometimes it seemed like there was a trap between reality and the virtual world. Yank someone out, and they might not make it all the way back.

Images of giants flashed through my head, and my teeth ground together.

“Did you change the programming?” I asked, finally looking up at him. He stared down, fierce and unyielding, and nodded once. My trembling hands morphed into clenched fists. How could he do that to me?

I glanced back at the workstation behind my pod. No one sat at the chair behind the screen. “Where's my programmer?”

What was her name again?

“I fired her.”

“You fired her? She was
my
programmer.”

“On
my
payroll. She was irresponsible, letting you plug in like that off schedule and in this state.” He motioned at me with a flick of his hand.

I frowned at the floor, unable to find an argument.

“You need to go see the doctor,” he told me.

I scoffed. “I just had a complete physical three weeks ago. He said I was an Olympian.”

“Not that doctor. The therapist.”

Pffft. I erupted with laughter before I could slap a hand over my mouth. Clarence frowned.

“I'm not kidding, Kali. I can't have you leading the team with this kind of mind-set.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” I pushed myself off my knees to sit on my butt. “With Nathan gone, you'll make Derek the leader.”

“No. You will lead this team.”

What? That didn't make any sense. “But you put me in command so Nathan and Derek wouldn't rip each other's throats out.”

“No. I didn't.”

Then why had he? There was no reason to assign me as the team's leader other than to create a wedge between my feuding teammates. A wedge that was no longer necessary.

Then the realization hit me so hard, I nearly smacked myself in the forehead. I was marketable. A female gamer. The first in history to lead a
pro gaming team. I brought men to their knees. I was a powerhouse for the sponsors. They'd eat this up.

Maybe they'd make little Kali action figures.

Sarcasm aside, the thought tightened my chest. This was the chance of a lifetime. A career-defining moment. And it was still within my grasp.

“So, I still have a chance to do this?” I asked. “To be the first female captain in history?”

“Only if you go see the therapist.” He knelt close to me, as if he was actually trying to generate a bond between us. “I understand that Nathan's untimely demise is disappointing.” Untimely? Disappointing? Looks like the Ken doll was made of plastic on the inside as well. He continued, “But that doesn't mean the world stops because of it.”

The world keeps going, sure. But some people's lives would grind to a halt. What about Nathan's family? What about his fans? Not everyone was as phony as the man in front of me. And now he expected me to go see some dumb-ass therapist just so I could lead the team. This was stupid. I was twenty now. An adult. I'd kissed my mom and dad good-bye two years ago for a life in L.A., the West Coast equivalent of New York. I could do whatever I wanted.

“You know what?” I said, raising my voice. “I'll lead the team, but I'm sure as hell not going to any therapist.”

“Yes. You will.”

“I don't have to do what you say.”

Clarence stood and folded his arms. “I have a contract that says you do.”

Replaceable. It echoed in my mind on an endless loop. Was there really nothing I could do to lead the team other than go into therapy?

“Go take a shower. You're a mess,” Clarence said. “Then report to the medical wing. I'll tell the therapist to be ready for you.”

He left me on the floor as he walked toward the exit. I watched him leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I have things to arrange.”

My stomach twisted. “You mean Nathan's funeral?”

Clarence paused at the door before walking out. “No,” he said. “His replacement.”

T
he shower helped. Therapy didn't.

I tilted and balanced my chair on one leg as I glanced around the office. The walls and carpet were a familiar stark green, with white edging throughout. The stench of antibacterial cleaner lingered in the air. Either Clarence had puked all over this room, too, or the therapist was just like him.

Dr. Renner sat across from me, with her weight resting on one hip. Chocolate-brown hair, perfectly styled, fell in extravagant waves to her shoulders. Her face was an artist's rendering of symmetry and balance. Big eyes and full lips with a small nose and chin. A former model turned medical professional? Did Clarence hire everyone based on their appearance?

She shifted her glasses where they rested on her nose as she looked over the tablet in her hand. Why do shrinks always wear glasses? No one needed them anymore. One quick trip to the optometrist, a zap in each eye, and bam: perfect vision. Fashion, I guess. Glasses conveyed a sense of intelligence and professionalism. Looks like it wasn't just the gamers who played their parts.

“Kali Ling,” she finally said, drawing out my name as if it stuck to her lips. Must be injections. “You have quite the reputation.”

She didn't sound impressed as she flicked through her tablet with a few swipes of her finger. I smiled anyway.

“Quite the reputation,” I repeated. “Do you mean in or out of the arena?”

“Pick one.”

She looked up and stared straight into my eyes, as if trying to bore through to the back of my skull. Then she shifted her head, trying to appear innocent. She didn't.

“You look uncomfortable.”

I shifted in my chair. “That's because I feel uncomfortable.”

“There's no need. Most gamers are in therapy. They're prone to an unusually high likelihood for psychological instability.” The woman spoke like a computer: matter-of-fact and little variation to her tone of voice.

“Psychological instability,” I repeated. “What does that mean?”

“They lose their grip on reality.”

My stomach twisted as thoughts drifted through my mind, a juxtaposition of both worlds: the swaying wheat fields and mountain air of the virtual against the plastic and metal of this one. One of warmth and light against one sterile and barren. And fake. No wonder gamers got lost in what was real. But not me. I was in control. I practically owned the virtual world.

Whenever a gamer did lose it, an official statement was immediately released to the press to squash any rumors. Retired early to spend time with family. Left the tournaments to pursue other interests. Hospitalized for exhaustion. Really, who ever buys that one? That old saying
There's no such thing as bad press
is bullshit.

The doctor toyed with her glasses again.

“Tell me, what do you feel when you look at yourself in the mirror?”

“Like I'm looking at myself in the mirror.” I forced my tone serious, but it wavered toward sarcasm by the end. This was so stupid.

“Did you know that the first wave of participants in the VGL were athletes turned gamers? It was—”

“A disaster,” I finished for her. “Athletes don't understand the virtual world. How could they? A fish can't swim in honey just because it's liquid.”

“That's”—she paused as she processed my words—“an interesting analogy.”

“Most of them lost their minds. Or, excuse me, were subject to psychological instabilities.” I forced my lips into a smile. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Guess she figured out my sarcasm. She wasn't wrong, though. When virtual gaming went fully immersive, they'd first pulled in athletes to play the games. In most video games, a character is assigned to you. On occasion, the game allows you to create one of your own, most commonly in RPGs and MMOs. But in pro gaming, you are your avatar, and what you were capable of in reality was parallel to the digital domain.

Gaming evolves quickly. Every few years, a new system comes out capable of ten times what it did before. In only a few decades, VR went from basic headsets to full immersion. But when it hit, almost no pro gamers were already in top physical condition. So, they pulled in athletes, who had already trained their entire lives to play a pro sport, and tried to teach them gaming.

But going virtual required something more. Something only gamers understood. As much as skill sets depended on physical ability in reality, they were only valuable if you knew what you were doing inside a game. All their lives, gamers had learned how to manipulate the virtual, how one action or choice could change the outcome of the entire game. We'd learned to read the lines of digital fate. We'd learned how to make the games do what we wanted.

We'd learned that death was nothing more than a do-over.

Athletes didn't. They couldn't. So once the attempts to turn them into gamers had failed, they started turning gamers into athletes. Required to train in everything from weight lifting to weapons, gamers had become the greatest competitors the world had ever seen.

“Gamers are the only ones who can handle fully immersive VR,” I told the doc. “We grow up wrapped in a virtual world. We die every day on the screen in console and arcade games. It's no different when we plug in and go virtual.”

“Is it?”

My gut twisted again. I shrugged it off. “Well, sure, the pro level is something else. With the safeguards off, we feel pain. Things seem real, sometimes realer than this place.” I waved a hand at the office. “But it's
just like a dream. You can feel pain or fear in a dream, but once you wake up, you realize it was no big deal.”

The doctor scoffed. “People don't go crazy from dreaming.” She looked down and mumbled the words, as if they weren't really for me to hear. Silence fell over the room while she made a note in her tablet. “Speaking of dreams, how are you sleeping?”

“Fine . . . until today.”

“Clarence told me what happened with Nathan. Did you want to talk about that?”

“No.”

She rested the tablet against the desk and leaned toward me. “I'm not going to force you on the topic. Not during our first meeting.”

Our only meeting.

“But in time,” she continued, “it might be good for you to open up about that. Keep it in mind.”

I nodded. Yeah, right.

She stood and walked over to a cabinet on the far side of the room. “Just in case you have trouble sleeping,” she said as she unlocked the door and reached inside, “I'm going to give you some pills to help. Don't be afraid to take them, but only if you have to. Use discretion.”

She handed me a small, silver package, like the kind gum comes in. Sample pills. I took it in my hand.

“I won't give you any additional pills for a while,” she said. “Not until those should be gone. I trust you can manage it.” She motioned toward the exit. Guess it was time to leave. “My door is always open.”

I offered a smile as fake as her lips and left. Open door, my ass. A degree in psychiatry hadn't taught her much. Like I'd ever come back here. Instead, I headed right for the one place I could really work out my issues.

The training room. My teammates were already there.

Hannah stood in the warm-up area. A trainer clamped his hands on her stomach, keeping her abdomen rigid, as she leaned into a stretching lunge. She grimaced and grasped her knee. Must have overdone it this morning. The trainer shook his head and dropped down to examine it.

Across the room, Lily ran on a treadmill. Another trainer tracked her time and heartbeat. Running wasn't just cardio for us. In the arena, speed could mean life or death, and a second faster in this world meant a second faster in the virtual.

The trainer barked something, and Lily's legs pumped faster.

Derek stood on the side of the floor mats, where we practiced fighting. He saw me and flashed a grin.

“Care to join,” he called, holding up two wooden swords. “I need someone who'll give me a challenge.”

Therapy. Pffft.

This was therapy.

He handed me a sword, and we took our stances on the mat. Derek squared his feet and raised the sword until it was parallel to his head and pointing right at me. My breath caught in my throat. It was the same pose Nathan had struck the last time we fought, just two days before. I shook my head and charged him. He swiped my thrust down and slammed his shoulder into mine, knocking me to the side. I grunted and circled the mat. Derek took the same pose. I cringed, charged again, and swung, missing him by a good six inches. He grabbed my wrist and pointed my sword down.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. Most days, you're so smooth, you move like a freaking ballerina with a sword. Today, you're a mechanical wind-up toy.”

I looked up at him, blinking. My jaw was clenched. Breaths wheezed through my lungs. Every muscle was taut and tense.

I sighed.

My shoulders dropped, and my sword tumbled to the mat with a dull thud. I plopped down and buried my face in my hands.

No, I was not okay.

The whole world was inside out and backwards. Nathan was gone. Our team was on the edge of forfeit and one loss away from defeat. This was not how things were supposed to go. Why couldn't I just jam my fingers inside the path of my life and make it go straight again? This was
not the way I pictured my career as a pro gamer would go when I'd made it into the amateur league only the year before.

They say you'll always remember the firsts. First kiss. First car. First time away from home. None compare to the first time you go virtual.

The first time I'd climbed into the pod, eyes wide, and watched as the doors closed around me and the wires attached to my skin. Their soft, pulsing jolts flooded my skin with chills. I exhaled slowly, pushing out the giddy nervousness with my breath. Then I felt the pull, and disappeared into a world where the strength and speed of the body and the focus and discipline of the mind became one. I'd never gone virtual. Not like this. Where I closed my eyes on reality and opened them to something more.

Inside the tower, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. The scents of lilac and wheatgrass filled my lungs as the wind breezed across my face. I knelt and sieved my fingers through the sand. It was warm and grainy, and golden like the sunlight streaming in through the tower walls.

Footsteps pounded up the path to the tower. A simulated opponent appeared in the doorway and lunged for me. I scrambled for my sword and pushed to my feet just as he attacked.

When his sword sliced through my skin, I froze.

Pain ripped through my abdomen with a sharp, stinging heat, like I'd been lashed by a whip. Thick gobbets of blood oozed from my stomach. I touched it tentatively and came away with soaked fingers. Something pink and shiny prodded through the opening. I gagged.

He drove his sword through my chest and ripped it out again.

I dropped to my knees. My fingers went numb and ice-cold. Death was an animated thing, slithering up my arms and chest until it wrapped around my throat and crushed my last, gasping breath.

I woke with a jolt, slamming back to this world. Slick with sweat, trembling uncontrollably, I breathed through my hand and forced my stomach calm, thankful that the pod's solid doors kept my reaction concealed from everyone else. I coughed and sputtered until tears stung my eyes and dribbled down my face. As my body slowly recovered, I started to laugh, and kept laughing until there were new tears in my eyes. Nothing like seeing your own insides to make you feel mortal.

Nothing like coming back to life to make you feel like a god.

Something happened to me then. I'd passed enough milestones in life to recognize that paradoxical sensation: a dose of fulfillment that leaves you feeling just a little bit empty. High-school graduation. Loss of virginity. Right then, in that moment, I knew without a sliver of a doubt: Another piece of my innocence was gone.

When I exited the pod, my teammates scoffed at me.

“Nice going, Ling. My grandmother could fight better than that.”

Even in the amateurs, expectations ran high. Everyone here was trying to make it to the pros. I scowled at myself. I could do better than that. I had to do better.

The next simulation, I dropped my sword on the stone floor and drew my dagger instead. They'd put two of us on defense this time, and my teammate surveyed my dropped weapon with a furrowed brow.

“What are you doing?”

Footsteps beat up the path to the tower. I bolted. Just when a simulated warrior appeared, I jumped up and pushed off the entrance's edge. I flew. My blade sliced through his throat in a single swipe. When he collapsed to the stone floor, I ran down the path from the tower. Behind me, my teammate's footsteps followed and stopped at the tower's entrance, knowing he couldn't leave and still hold the tower.

“Kali!”

I pumped my legs, ignoring the clawing fingers of virtual delicacies. The sights and smells, and overwhelming sensations. I slipped through the fields, weaving like a serpent through bamboo. From tower to tower, I became an assassin, pouncing on backs and ripping my dagger through the throats of every virtual opponent—much to my teammates' openmouthed reactions. I slid into their in-progress fights and took out every enemy with nothing but a single blade. On the final opponent inside the enemy's team, I hooked a leg around his knee and followed him down, jamming my dagger through his heart. A last, heaving breath escaped his lungs, and, his eyes glazed over.

Victory.

I closed my eyes, and gave myself to the virtual world. To the white-
noise whispers of the wind through the stocks. To the wheatgrass and lilac, and the golden rays of light. I stood and raised my arms in the air. There were no cheers, no applause. But honor, greatness, and pride were all mine, filling my chest until I thought it would explode.

I was born to do this, and only this.

I woke without a gasp, as if I'd simply opened my eyes from sleep. But as I stared into darkness inside the pod, nothing but emptiness thrummed within me, as if the greatness I'd felt had been just another construct of the digital world. Of all the competitions I'd won, everything I'd accomplished in my life, nothing had compared. That was true glory, and it only ever manifested itself in one place.