Arena Mode (9 page)

“You’re already on iTube,”
Peyton shouted from the backseat. “two thousand hits, and it’s only been online for a minute. Not bad.”

Gavin weaved our getaway van in and out of traffic, tilting us from side to side with each rapid lane change. He turned down an alley and screeched to a halt next to a dumpster. Gavin parked the van, jumped out and used a screwdriver to pry off the out-of-state licence plates, revealing the fresh ones underneath. He tossed the old plates into the trash and got back into the driver’s seat, pulling away as quickly as we’d arrived. He certainly had a knack for criminal activity.

As we sped off, I felt a tightening in my chest. My head was spinning, and I couldn’t tell whether I was having a panic attack, if my tumor was going to cause another blackout, or a combination of the two. I popped open my small prescription bottle and shook two pills into my palm, forcing them down my throat with an uncomfortable dry swallow.

“You okay?” Gavin asked as he merged into traffic. “I think that went pretty well back there. Aside from the dialogue issues, I mean.”

Peyton reached into the front seat and massaged the back of my neck. “You were
amazing
, Matty. That couldn’t have gone better.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded. Everything went according to plan, and our gambles paid off. The Petrovic brothers took the car that Gavin had supplied them with, and more importantly, they used his ammunition.

The low velocity round did very little damage when it bounced off of my chest plate, so there wasn’t much risk of injury, but there was no guarantee that one of them wouldn’t swap out Gavin’s bullets with something more powerful prior to the heist. Military-grade bullets were expensive and difficult to come by, but they were all the rage in the Dark Zone; a week didn’t go by when there wasn’t a report of some exotic designer bullet being introduced to the black market. The names for the exciting new killing tools were as impressive as the destruction they caused: the Dragon Slayer, a nasty red slug that burst into flames when it made impact, the Green Scorpion, a long silver bullet filled with acid that was capable of searing through armor, and Thor’s Hammer, a bright blue projectile that zapped its target with a million volts of electricity. If I’d been on the receiving end of one of those, there’s no telling if my chest plate would have held up.

Having my face scanned by a security camera was a necessity – I had to go public. The state of New York was one of the more progressive when it came to superhumans, but that was little consolation at the time. I didn’t know if the local police would see a vigilante with powers as a threat, or if they’d simply shrug it off as one of the hundreds of violent crimes committed every day in and around the Dark Zone – most of which weren’t even investigated. I couldn’t imagine the cops getting emotional about a trio of career criminals being beaten and tied up outside of a liquor store, but public reaction to superhumans wasn’t always rational.

The one assurance I had was that no bomb fragments would be found at the crime scene. According to Gavin’s supplier, the state-of-the-art explosive he purchased was designed to disintegrate; made of a new synthetic polymer, every part of the device would turn to dust during detonation.

Gavin pulled the van up to my apartment block, and I finished packing my armor into a protective suitcase, snapping it shut. Peyton hugged me from the backseat and gently kissed my cheek, assuring me that everything would be fine. I nodded and smiled, but didn’t know what to say. Gavin patted my shoulder and told me he’d call later, and I thanked him for everything; I never imagined anyone would risk this much for me, and go to such lengths to save my life. I felt like he wanted me to live more than
I
did, and I couldn’t figure out why. Whatever Gavin and Peyton saw in me, they felt it was worth saving – and it made me want to prove them right.

The next few hours in my apartment were the most tension-filled of my life. I paced, hyperventilated, and consumed so many cans of Red Bull that I was practically vibrating. I couldn’t relax, knowing that this part of the plan was completely out of my control. I had to simply wait and see if Cameron Frost took notice of the incredibly dangerous publicity stunt that we pulled off, less than ten miles from his megatower in The City.

Night fell, and my anxiety only worsened. I checked the internet incessantly, and news reports continued to spread about the incident. I had been identified, and my name was all over the web: Matthew Moxon, age twenty-nine, a resident of The Fringe. Average height, short brown hair, presumed dangerous. No one mentioned Hoboken or my specific apartment block, so I had to assume they didn’t know where I lived.

Aside from a handful of my close friends (two, to be exact) and a landlord who didn’t know my real name, no one knew my location, which is why the blood in my veins froze solid when I heard a series of loud thumps resonating along my concrete walls. Someone had bypassed multiple security measures and was now knocking impatiently on my steel door.

I rushed to my laptop and accessed the security camera installed in the hallway, and when it blinked into focus my heart stopped. Six police officers armed with assault rifles.

And as the knocking persisted, one of them shouted my name.

In the comics, Batman made it look easy.
When his back was up against the wall, he’d just reach into his utility belt and pull out one of his toys: a smoke grenade, a grappling hook, a laser, or any one of a hundred other gadgets that would assist him with a life-or-death situation. Not to mention he was a bad-ass ninja. Unfortunately, the deadliest weapons I had in my apartment were the contents of my kitchen, and I sure as hell wasn’t rushing into combat against a half-dozen cops, armed with no more than a frying pan and two weeks’ worth of kickboxing lessons.

“I’m coming out,” I shouted. With a few swift taps on the touchpad, I initiated my computer’s kill-switch sequence, erasing the hard drive. There was nowhere to hide my armor, so I slid it under my bed for lack of a better option – as if anyone searching my tiny unit wouldn’t think to flip over a mattress.

As the rapping continued I slipped on my shoes and hoodie, thinking that if I was going to get tossed into a prison cell at least I wouldn’t be in bare feet. After unlatching a number of security bolts I swung open my door, and looked up at the officers.

The one doing the knocking was a broad, dark-skinned man who towered nearly a foot above me. I came face-to-face (so to speak) with the silver name plate on his chest: ‘T. Dziobak.’ He studied my face for a moment before looking back over his shoulder. “This is the guy,” he announced to the other officers. “He’s the one from the video.”

An equally imposing man in a dark blue police uniform stepped forward. “Moxon, I need to tell you something. That shit you pulled uptown this morning,” he said, pointing his finger in my direction, “that was
awesome.
” A few of the cops began to smile, and others stared at me with a look that I could only assume was admiration. The officer extended his hand and I nervously shook it. “I ... um ... thanks?”

I wiped the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my sleeve and tried to steady my voice, wondering if this was some kind of a set-up – possibly to get a confession before they had to read me my rights. “So just to be clear, I’m
not
under arrest?”

“Arrest?” Officer Dziobak said with a hearty laugh. “No, nothing like that. We’d never arrest someone for blowing up trash from the Zone, especially members of the Petrovic family. Those bastards had it coming.” Everyone either chuckled or nodded in agreement. “Believe me, if I had
your
powers, I would have done a lot more than just blow up their shitty car.”

A female officer asked if she could take a picture with me. She explained that her son had watched my video on repeat all afternoon, and was already asking if he could dress as ‘the armored blue superhero’ for Halloween. I posed with her, as well as several of the others. Two of them asked me to record outgoing messages on their voicemail, shouting, “That’s what happens when someone commits a crime in
my
town.” Apparently that line was a big hit down at the station, and elicited cheers when they first saw it on the simulcast. I couldn’t wait to rub it in Gavin’s face.

When everyone had met me and thanked me for my service, I asked the obvious question. “I’m assuming you didn’t all come here just for a meet and greet.”

“Believe it or not, these slackers
did
,” Dziobak said with a broad smile, pointing his thumb behind him. “But
I’m
here to escort you upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” I asked, curiously arching an eyebrow. “Officer ...” I squinted at his name tag, afraid to attempt the pronunciation.

He grinned. “I know, it’s a mouthful. You can call me Todd.”

“Officer Todd,” I repeated. “The only thing upstairs is the hover-pad on the roof.”

“Mister Frost sent a ship for you, and until you’re safely in his office, I’m your shadow. Right this way, sir – it’s time to get moving.”
 

Inside the elevator, the officer slid his gold card into the horizontal slot below the control panel.
The all-access key card, possessed by police, fire and emergency medical teams, allowed them to override locks and security systems if they required access to a restricted area. Years ago, the government implemented fingerprint scanning technology to give authorized users the same access, but anyone who’s seen a science fiction movie in the last century knows what a terrible idea
that
was. If a criminal wanted to gain entry into a building, few of them had moral qualms about slicing off someone’s finger to use as a portable key. The card system was recently put back into place by popular demand; if a public sector employee was going to get mugged for their security clearance, they preferred to have their gold card stolen than one of their digits.

“Rooftop,” Officer Dziobak commanded after extracting his card. The lift obediently shot upwards.

A moment later, we stepped outside into the warm night air, seventy stories above the ground. The flat, rectangular hovercraft was humming gently in the distance, with a small metal ramp inviting us to step aboard.

The officer placed his hand on my shoulder and stopped me from proceeding forward, and he cautiously levelled his weapon. Peering through the telescopic lens, he pivoted in every direction, scanning the surrounding area. Satisfied, he lifted his wrist and spoke into a com. “We’re clear, red team. I have the package.”

< Copy that, > a voice crackled back. < The bird is ready for flight, blue leader. Bring him in. > He walked me to the craft and motioned for me to step aboard. I had no idea why I was being treated with the same level of security as the President, but at the time I didn’t question it. I ducked inside the dark passenger bay and buckled myself into a seat, directly across from a short balding man in a drab suit and tie. His small, deep-set eyes were focused on his clipboard. I sat, and he didn’t even acknowledge my presence; he adjusted his reading glasses and kept flipping through paperwork as we buckled in and prepared for lift-off.