Arena Mode (17 page)

The early morning sunlight poured into Excelsior as I retracted the shutters
, sliding them to the side with both hands.
I raised the security bars and pushed open the glass doors, stepping into the street. The crowd was overwhelming. I fastened on my helmet and flipped down the visor, blocking the harsh glare of the flashbulbs as photographers swarmed around me.

The limo driver was much stronger than he looked. He used his elbow to plow the paparazzi aside, ushering me to the limo before shoving me into the backseat, throwing the door closed behind me. Clearly he’d done this before.

I stared out the back window as we pulled away, thinking about how many times I’d walked through the front door of the Retro Comic Book Store. About how many times Gavin had greeted me at the entrance with his beaming grin, and how often Peyton had embraced me before I even got a foot past the threshold. Every experience I’d taken for granted began to feel more finite.

Police had blocked off a number of streets, and of course no one was permitted into the city on game day for their own safety. It made the morning commute a breeze. Normally an endless flood of vehicles would be pouring into The City at this hour; most from The Fringe, and some from the Dark Zone – nearly all of them construction workers.

Manhattan was perpetually under construction, and labor had never been cheaper. With unemployment at an all-time high, people applied by the thousands to help construct megatowers – whether they had any previous experience or not. There were few other options to earn a legitimate wage, as meager as it was; the wealthy were never fond of signing large checks, and with labor laws being the loosest they’ve been since the 1800s, there was no need to.

The old towers were renovated, and the new were improved. Buildings were built on top of buildings, soaring higher into the sky with each passing day.

With the exception of a few ambulances, my limo was the lone vehicle crossing the Holland Bridge (one of the two remaining bridges that connects The Fringe to Manhattan; constructed shortly after the tsunami of 2031 destroyed the Holland Tunnel.)

The checkpoint midway across the bridge consisted of a small army; police cars, motorcycles, and a tank were encircled by more than twenty heavily-armed officers. The limo driver was asked to present a coded ID badge and handful of documents, as well as submit to a retinal scan before we were permitted to cross. As we slowly proceeded through the checkpoint, a number of officers ran hand-held scanners over the vehicle, likely searching for any explosives. Frost’s lawyer wasn’t kidding when he said they were taking every precaution.

We cruised down the abandoned streets and arrived at Frost Tower in no time, and I was rushed into an elevator and up to the fiftieth floor. I was directed to a dressing room, surrounded by assistants. A number of specialists were assigned to every one of my pre-game details, most of which were cosmetic. An endless supply of people worked in rapid succession; a dental hygienist performed a laser tooth whitening, a hair stylist gave me a trim, and an aesthetician plucked my eyebrows before applying an all-important layer of foundation. Guess they didn’t want the cameras to pick up any unsightly glares before someone stabbed or shot me. Imagine the scandal.

After my unpleasant appearance had been rectified, I was prepared for the final examination. Two members of the athletic commission were tasked with searching me. I was thoroughly checked for weapons and other banned substances, having my boots, gloves and helmet scanned. When I removed my breastplate they noticed the rings hanging from the chain around my neck.

They allowed the jewelry.

What they didn’t allow was the prescription bottle fastened into my belt. For obvious reasons I couldn’t reveal what the pills were, and I had torn off the label to conceal the nature of the medication, but ultimately it didn’t matter – no drugs, legal or otherwise, were permitted inside The Arena. I required four doses a day to keep my tumor in check, and would now have to go the entire duration of the tournament without any additional medication.

Suddenly my timeline was even shorter. The longer the game went on, the better my chances were of a blackout – or worse.

A producer burst through the door wearing a headset, clutching a digital clipboard. With her blond ponytail, bright yellow dress and matching shoes, she didn’t look a day over twenty. “It’s time!” she shouted, pumping her fist in the air. She was bursting at the seams with more rampant enthusiasm than I thought humanly possible at that hour of the morning. “I’m Bethany, and I’ll be accompanying you to your drop point, mister ...” she glanced down and scanned her clipboard. “Moxon!” she shouted, tapping the surface with her polished nail. “Very, very pleased to meet you. And
nice
eyebrows, if you don’t mind my saying. They do wonders around here, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a nod. “They did a bang-up job.”

Without another word, she turned, motioning for me to follow. We made our way to the high-speed elevator, where we shot to the rooftop. A small craft awaited us on the sun-drenched hover-pad, engines humming in preparation for takeoff. The wind was powerful, making it difficult to hear.

“So I’m going to be dropped somewhere in The Arena,” I shouted, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Has my location been decided yet?”

She wagged her finger and shouted back. “No, Mister Frost made a last-minute decision about the starting points for the competitors. And it’s going to be
exciting
!”

The way Bethany said ‘exciting’ troubled me. The glint in her eye led me to believe that our definitions of the word differed greatly.

We were sailing far above the city before she broke the news about my impending skydive. I’d never taken a lesson, and aside from pulling a ripcord I had no idea what was involved. When the craft hovered to a stop, the pilot offered a quick tutorial, explaining that a pair of toggles would deploy once the canopy had been opened. I could use the handles to guide myself from side to side, avoiding the buildings and other obstructions on the way down. At least my landing wasn’t totally left to chance, but it did little to calm my nerves considering the high winds, and my complete lack of experience.

Since we were close to the west end of The Arena, I asked if the Hudson might be a suitable drop zone. Landing on water sounded more appealing than concrete.

“No no no,” the producer shouted, wedging herself into our conversation with an exaggerated two-handed wave. “Landing in the river is
not
an option, Mister Moxon. You’ll be disqualified
immediately
if you leave Manhattan. And security measures have been put in place that will ... well, let’s just say that it’s not in anyone’s best interest to take a dip until the tournament it over.” She explained that anyone could tap out, officially exiting the competition at a medical station or at one of the bridges, but simply leaving The Arena unannounced would result in a forfeit – meaning no prize money.

I gazed out the wraparound window at the hovercrafts scattering the skies. It was about to happen. My basic, run-of-the-mill anxiety swelled to a chest-tightening panic. I attempted to wipe the perspiration from my forehead, but instead dragged the back of my metal gauntlet along my face, causing me to wince and curse. Bethany frowned and gave me a quick reminder about foul language during the competition. Thankfully the pre-show hadn’t begun, so my outburst wasn’t captured on film, but in the moment I wasn’t overly concerned with etiquette. There was a very real chance that I could bounce head-first off the side of a building during my skydive, and if that was about to happen, chances are I was going to drop a couple F-bombs whether the cameras were rolling or not.

The producer received a notification from the pilot and extended her finger towards me. One minute left. I nodded and moved into position. I pulled on my helmet, flipped down the visor and continued to make adjustments: yanking my parachute straps tighter and fidgeting with my gloves. Of course I was just passing time until the doors opened – a way to keep my trembling hands occupied until the clock ran down. But I kept telling myself that it was preparation. As if any amount of preparation would ready me for what I was going to encounter when I landed.

Then my mind wandered to the other competitors, and what they must have been contemplating at that exact moment. Nervous anticipation, quiet reflection, or maybe even prayer. If I thought it was worth the effort I would have asked a higher power for something –
anything
– that would help me survive what I was about to endure. I figured it was a waste of mental energy. Even if an omniscient deity was sitting on a cloud watching Arena Mode, I doubt he would have intervened. He wasn’t going to divinely bestow any of the competitors with the strength and ability to win the tournament just because they asked – no more than he decided the outcome of the Superbowl based on the quarterback’s faith, or granted a music award to the rapper who wore the most impressive gold cross on their necklace.

If He
was
listening, I wasn’t in the mood for a deep spiritual conversation anyway. And even if I was, the first question I had would revolve around the tennis ball-sized tumor he put into my head.

Besides, I had three rings dangling around my neck that were supposed to bring me luck ... it was all the superstitious nonsense I required.

“We’re live!” Bethany shouted. Tiny red lights blinked to life all around me, and I was suddenly being filmed from every angle by the miniature cameras installed in the hovercraft walls. “Well go ahead, Mox,” she urged me with a beaming smile. “Say something before you jump into The Arena. The world is watching!”

I looked over my shoulder at no camera in particular and raised my visor, patting my armored chest plate near my heart where the rings were located. “I’d ask everyone out there to wish me luck,” I said with a wink. “But I have everything I need right here.”

As I plummeted towards the ground, I pictured Peyton curled up on the old battered couch in Excelsior, wrapped in her favorite red blanket, watching the simulcast with tears in her eyes; hands wringing, heart pounding. I hoped that I gave her just a moment of relief – even a tiny smile to ease her pain.

When I saw the competitors drop into the distance, and Russia’s Son soaring through the clouds above, the gravity of the situation hit me like a head-on collision.

There was no time for emotion.

No time for pity.

And certainly no time to focus on the feelings of others, and what they might be thinking as they watched me compete. The only weapon I had to fight with was my mind, and if I didn’t keep it clear and focused, I wouldn’t last an hour.

I reached for my ripcord ... it was game time.

That’s the problem with raising the bar in sports, you know? Once you’ve pushed it up, it’s almost impossible to lower it back down.

“After mixed martial arts, there was the revival of jousting, followed by full contact swordfighting. Violence, danger, even death – it gradually became acceptable as part of mainstream entertainment.