Arena (3 page)

It's what they want.

The club's bouncer came forward and ushered us toward the club. Like the reporters in the pressroom, the cameramen shouted their protests. The bouncer shoved a few of them off the rails and started leading us toward the club.

“Fuck you, man,” one of the reporters shouted as he landed on his ass. “I'm suing.”

The bouncer whirled around and marched up to him. The man backpedaled away, eyes wide, as he clutched his camera.

“Kidding, kidding.”

The bouncer scowled and led us into the club without further protest from the crowd. Inside the lobby, he turned to us.

“IDs?” he asked. We all laughed, and he joined in. “What? Afraid I don't know who you are?”

“It's the date of birth you'd have a problem with,” Nathan said, nodding back at me, Lily, and Hannah. Derek and Nathan were both twenty-one, old enough to be in any club. The girls and I were all a year short.

The bouncer held up his hands. “Hear no evil, see no evil.”

“Good man.” Nathan patted his shoulder as he passed, but the bouncer grabbed his arm and pulled back.

“What the hell?” Nathan shook him off.

“You'd better let me take you straight to the VIP area,” the bouncer said. He paused, and his gaze flicked toward the club's interior. “The crowd's a little pissed.”

Of course they were. We were a heavily favored team because of how well we'd done so far in the preseason. Thousands, if not millions, had expected us to win tonight. After such a brutal slaughter, no one would be impressed.

Nathan's sharp expression softened into one of neutrality. “Yeah, fine.”

The bouncer led us down a hall and through a set of doors into the club. When I crossed through the threshold into the warehouse-sized room, the pulsing bass blasted my eardrums into my brain. Vibrations shook the floor and traveled up my legs. Bodies crammed wall-to-wall, all writhing and rolling against each other, moving like seaweed in an ocean of darkness and strobe lights. Maybe no one would even notice us here.

We weaved our way through, led by the bouncer, and neared a table of men dressed in matching outfits, as if they were some lame techno band. The one closest to us was particularly sleazy, in leather pants and way too many gold rings. When Nathan passed, his eyes went wide, and he slammed his drink down on the table. “Hey, Defiance. I had money on that match. Suck my dick.”

Nathan shot him the finger. “Suck mine first.”

So much for not being noticed.

The bouncer stepped between them, facing the men. “Maybe you should just enjoy your drink, sir.”

He sneered at the bouncer. One of his friends nudged him. “It's your fault. That's what you get for betting on girls.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Who let them into this sport anyways?”

They laughed.

Suddenly, my middle finger wanted its moment in the spotlight, too.

Nathan nodded toward me and my female teammates. “You wanna go against them? Be my guest.”

They laughed again until I moved forward. The bouncer glanced back at me and sidestepped out of my path. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though I doubted it was only from the heat in the club.

Most of the men peered up at me with smug grins, but a twitchy one at the back swiped the silverware off the table and hid it in his lap. I smiled and narrowed my eyes at him.

“The first man I ever took down in the virtual world looked a lot like you.” I splayed a hand on the table and leaned toward him. “And I certainly didn't need a knife like the ones tucked under your balls to make him cry.” His eyes darted about, and he shrunk down in his seat. My smile widened. “Did you want a demonstration? Why don't you stand up? In fact, why don't you all stand up?”

No one moved.

Silence settled around us, despite the pounding beat pulsing off the club's walls. Most of them swallowed and looked away. Finally, their leader found his voice and cleared his throat.

“Whatever. Enjoy your evening.”

All eyes lowered to the table and never met mine again. Egos aside, I left the boys intact and followed my teammates through the club.

We emerged from the depths of the dance floor, climbing a single staircase to the VIP lounge that overlooked the rest of the club. From the view on high, I spotted the bar lining the back wall. Four bartenders raced to fill drinks as customers shouted and flailed, pressing themselves against the bar. One tender loaded glasses onto a minidrone and whisked it down the bar to a group of rowdy students. They blitz-attacked the machine and poured the alcohol into their mouths faster than they could swallow.

Above their heads, a sign flashed in green neon.

GO VIRTUAL OR GO HOME.

A cluster of tables and a few couches punctuated the lounge. The five of us slipped into a U-shaped couch. The lounge was empty, save for a trio of men I didn't recognize, until the one with his back to us turned around.

“Oh shit.”

The words slipped past my lips as I watched Mr. Gibson storm toward us. Nathan nudged me.

“What?”

I nodded to the distance. Nathan glanced behind him to see the potbellied man stalking across the floor. He turned back and lowered his voice.

“What the hell is the CEO of a sports-apparel company doing at a club like this?”

“Looking for us,” I said between my teeth. “What else?”

The bouncer caught Mr. Gibson just as he descended on us, fisting his hands in his suit jacket.

“Hey, hey. Back off.”

Gibson wrestled with him. “I sponsor these jerks. You back off.”

The bouncer peered down at us, his cocked eyebrow seeking confirmation. Nathan sighed and nodded. The bouncer released his grip.

Nathan cleared his throat and turned toward the CEO. “Hey, Mr. Gibson. How's it—”

“You think I support a team of losers?” Gibson spat, looming over Nathan. “This is fucking ridiculous. The athletes wearing my brand of training gear can't even make it through the Death Match without losing. How do you think that looks for me?”

Nathan's fists clenched. He drew a shaky breath and swallowed. “We're not out of the tournament. We still have a shot at the championship.”

“Maybe not, but now you're on the losing side of the elimination bracket.”

“Which will make it an easy ride to the top.” Nathan stared directly into his eyes, not backing down. The knuckles of his fists turned white.

Gibson folded his arms over his chest. “You went weeks undefeated in the preseason. And now, in the most important matchup, you lose. This is not what I wanted my brand associated with. There are dozens of other teams I could sponsor.”

“Okay,” Nathan said with a shrug, trying to be casual. “You could drop us. But how's
that
gonna look when we take the tournament?”

Gibson's jaw muscles moved beneath his skin as if he were chewing on
his tongue. “Fine.” He pointed a finger an inch away from Nathan's nose. “But you'd better hope you win.”

With a huff, he left. When he rejoined his party on the other side of the lounge, the bouncer turned to us.

“You okay, then?”

We all nodded, and he descended the stairs to the club. A waiter took his place at our sides.

“Rough match, huh?” he asked as he lowered a tray to the table filled with several dozen shot glasses brimming with liquor.

Nathan chuckled. “No drone to serve our drinks?”

“No, no. You deserve the human touch.”

In the center of the liquor tray was a yellow-tinted cut-glass bowl in the shape of a Pac-Man. It faced up, so its mouth was the bowl's opening. Inside the bowl was brimming with HP, the latest designer drug.

A few years ago, some biochemistry student—who spent a little too much time in his basement lab—ended up developing a designer drug that instantly found a market in the gamer community. It had a thousand street names, all based on gamer terminology. Power-up, 1-up, mana potion, auto-aim, cooldown, critical hit. Most people called it HP, which in gamer speak stood for health points. Its effects were . . . familiar. It turned colors more vibrant, tastes more pleasurable. All senses were enhanced. It didn't just make you feel good. One hit, and you were invincible. With every minute of our lives under strict control, HP was the only way to escape back into the one place we ever cared to be.

The virtual world.

“It's like I never left the pod,” Nathan had said to me once, as we lay on his bed together. It was the first time we'd ever tried a hit. He turned to me and trailed his fingers along my forearm. “You feel like warm cashmere.”

I hadn't moisturized in days. Cashmere. Yeah, right. I knew it wasn't true, but I didn't care. His fingertips were feathers grazing the inside of my arm, soft and ticklish. I giggled, and laughter rippled all the way down to my toes. When his tongue brushed mine, it tasted like honeydew. Every sensation was ripe, pleasurable, and perfect.

Only the virtual world felt like that.

HP came in capsules of mismatched halves consisting of three different color combinations. Yellow-blue, yellow-red, and red-blue. They were dead ringers for the pills from the old Dr. Mario game. The game might have been more than half a century old, but every gamer knew it, even those born forty years after its debut. We were all suckers for the classics.

“Well,” the waiter began, “if there's anything else you need—”

“We'll let you know,” Nathan finished. The waiter faltered but took the hint and left.

Nathan reached for a shot glass.

“Are you sure you can handle that?” Derek asked.

“Fuck you.” Nathan held up the glass. We mirrored him. “A toast. To all things virtual. Where would we be without it?”

“Well,” Hannah said, grinning, “we could always go to college.”

We all laughed and slammed the shots back. The bitter taste of the liquor burned down my throat, forging the same path it did after every match. A shot for the team.

Nathan reached for the bowl of HP. I grabbed his arm. “Take it slow.”

He shook me off and reached away. He split one of the capsules in half, cut the powder inside into a line, and snorted it right off the table. Hannah popped one in her mouth and downed it with another shot.

“You're not having anything, Kali?” Hannah asked. “Seriously?”

I shook my head. While my teammates dove into the tray like frat boys at a buffet, the night's matchup replayed in my mind. The four men bursting through the tower's door. Their leader taking me down on his own with that wicked grin on his face. The feel of my own dagger ripping through my neck. I flinched and shook my head again.

“Anyone know where that team came from tonight?”

“No,” Derek answered. “They must have held back until now. Kept themselves midlevel. Otherwise, everyone would have known about them. Interesting strategy.”

Cunning, yes. Interesting? Shit, no. Especially if we'd have to face them again in the tournament.

“Well, we might have our answer,” Hannah said, nodding at the far wall of the club. “Highlights. Check it out.”

Above the bar, a gigantic screen spread the length of the entire wall. Along the bottom edge, the tournament's acronym was spelled out in faint lettering against the black background:
REALITY-ALTERNATE GLADIATORIAL EVENTS
.

Two fighters filled the screen, one wielding a battle-axe and the other a machete. The sound of metal clashing against metal mixed with the techno beat of the club as the pair parried and punched their way through the fight. The machete-wielding warrior slammed his weapon down, slicing his opponent's hand off. He screamed.

Nathan turned away from the screen, wincing. “Christ, that's gotta hurt.”

Derek grinned. “Can't handle it, Nancy?”

Nathan slammed a fist on the table. “Call me that again, and I'll cut off your hand right here.”

I held my breath and moved to the edge of my seat, primed to wedge myself between them again. But Derek shook his head and pulled back, and Nathan unflexed his hand. With everyone else relaxed, I released my breath. For now.

“It'll be awhile before they get to our matchup,” Hannah said, waving a hand at the screen. She turned back to the table. “Let's party.”

While my teammates tried to figure out which combinations between the shots and pills would make them forget their own names, I kept my eyes on the screen as the matches slid by.

An hour later, when the crowd had begun to dwindle, I ventured into the lower level of the club and pressed a hip against the bar. Between fights, the screen above the bar phased in and out of candid shots of the gamers from the RAGE tournaments. Fierce-looking warriors wielded battle-axes, longswords, and other blades. Pick your favorite. Root for them. Bet on them. Don't worry if they die. They'll be back next week.

The bartender appeared in front of me, splayed his hands on the bar, and leaned toward me. “What can I get you?”

“Do you have anything with coffee in it?” I asked, raising my voice over the music and pulsing bass around us.

He laughed. “Are you trying to sober up, or do you just really like coffee?”

I smiled. “Well, I don't like being sober.”

He laughed again and scanned behind the bar. “Sorry. Nothing with coffee. Can I get you something else? How about . . .” He ran a finger across the bottles. “We have some Kubota Sake. That's Japanese, isn't it?”

With his back turned, I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath. “Yeah, except I'm half-Chinese and was born here.”

“What?”

“That sounds great.”

He snatched the bottle off the wall and poured a glass. When he handed it to me, I smiled. Practiced. Perfect.

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice. “You need anything else?” He nodded inside the bar. I leaned forward, following his gaze, and spotted three more Pac-Man bowls filled with HP. Had they replaced peanuts and pretzels with these things or what?