do you know all this?” I asked.
“There’s this forum that follows every superhuman activity that gets reported around the world. I log in, like, ten times a day. Pretty cool, eh?”
The following competitor was Ayumi Ozaki, a twenty-five year old former baseball player from Japan; a pitcher with a killer fastball who was bestowed with the nickname ‘The Lioness’ by her fans. She was banned from league play when it was discovered that she was ‘pyrotactile’ (possessing the ability to ignite any object she touches.) She brought a wooden bat with her, and lit it on fire after her weigh-in to the delight of the crowd.
Next up was Winston Ramsley, a well-dressed fifty-seven-year-old man from London, with short, greying hair neatly parted to the side, and a very impressive moustache. I recognized him from the UK Swordfighting League. He was the only tournament winner to ever take home a championship using a fencing sword. His technique and accuracy were so precise that even the most skilled katana practitioners were unable to make contact with him. He was banned from the league for the same reasons: no superhumans permitted in sporting competitions.
“I’m seeing a pattern here,” I mentioned to Kenneth. “A lot of these people are former athletes.”
“Yeah, there’s some new research about that,” he explained. “Athletes have a higher level of mental focus than regular folks, and are more in tune with their bodies. Some scientists are saying it’s why they’re accessing their delta waves more easily and tapping into their potential.”
It made sense. When it was first announced that certain people possessed powers and abilities beyond those of normal humans, one of the first things to change, oddly, was sports. Every athletic commission in the country was testing athletes for urine, blood, DNA, and everything else they could think of. The concept of superhumans was so new that they didn’t even know what they were looking for at the time, but they were determined to ensure that no one was gaining an unfair competitive advantage. With their pro sports ambitions dashed, a number of athletes were turning to The Arena in an attempt to secure their financial futures.
Next on stage was Dwayne Lewis, a fan favorite due to his recent altercation in Arizona. Cheering fans held up signs inscribed with the word ‘Sledge’. The simulcast footage being circulated referred to him as having sledgehammer-like power in his fists after his now-infamous bar fight, and the moniker quickly stuck.
The crowd went wild as he stepped through the curtains, stooping to avoid colliding with a cross-beam. Making his first public appearance since the brawl, Lewis was also sporting a new look: three long scars that stretched down the length of his face, and a cybernetic ocular implant. The injury he sustained from his attacker’s trident left him blind in his right eye, so as a ‘signing bonus’ for entering The Arena, Frost had agreed to foot the bill for the expensive procedure, fully restoring his vision.
At well over nine feet tall, Lewis was a menacing sight on the simulcasts; in person, he was far more intimidating. The stage shook beneath his weight with every step, and when he stood on the scale it creaked from the pressure. He registered at nine hundred and thirty-two pounds.
“Now that is one big lad,” Daniel Tate laughed, dragging a chair across the stage with one hand. He positioned it next to Lewis and stood on it, raising the microphone as far as he could reach, just below his bearded chin. “Do you have anything to say to your fans out there, Sledge?”
“No,” he said solemnly. “But I want to say hello to Taylor. Daddy loves you, and he’ll be home soon. Take care of mommy for me while I’m gone.”
I was struck by his demeanor. It seemed like Lewis was resigned to the fact that he had to compete – like he didn’t want to be here. “He doesn’t exactly seem thrilled about the tournament,”
“There’s this forum that follows every superhuman activity that gets reported around the world. I log in, like, ten times a day. Pretty cool, eh?”
The following competitor was Ayumi Ozaki, a twenty-five year old former baseball player from Japan; a pitcher with a killer fastball who was bestowed with the nickname ‘The Lioness’ by her fans. She was banned from league play when it was discovered that she was ‘pyrotactile’ (possessing the ability to ignite any object she touches.) She brought a wooden bat with her, and lit it on fire after her weigh-in to the delight of the crowd.
Next up was Winston Ramsley, a well-dressed fifty-seven-year-old man from London, with short, greying hair neatly parted to the side, and a very impressive moustache. I recognized him from the UK Swordfighting League. He was the only tournament winner to ever take home a championship using a fencing sword. His technique and accuracy were so precise that even the most skilled katana practitioners were unable to make contact with him. He was banned from the league for the same reasons: no superhumans permitted in sporting competitions.
“I’m seeing a pattern here,” I mentioned to Kenneth. “A lot of these people are former athletes.”
“Yeah, there’s some new research about that,” he explained. “Athletes have a higher level of mental focus than regular folks, and are more in tune with their bodies. Some scientists are saying it’s why they’re accessing their delta waves more easily and tapping into their potential.”
It made sense. When it was first announced that certain people possessed powers and abilities beyond those of normal humans, one of the first things to change, oddly, was sports. Every athletic commission in the country was testing athletes for urine, blood, DNA, and everything else they could think of. The concept of superhumans was so new that they didn’t even know what they were looking for at the time, but they were determined to ensure that no one was gaining an unfair competitive advantage. With their pro sports ambitions dashed, a number of athletes were turning to The Arena in an attempt to secure their financial futures.
Next on stage was Dwayne Lewis, a fan favorite due to his recent altercation in Arizona. Cheering fans held up signs inscribed with the word ‘Sledge’. The simulcast footage being circulated referred to him as having sledgehammer-like power in his fists after his now-infamous bar fight, and the moniker quickly stuck.
The crowd went wild as he stepped through the curtains, stooping to avoid colliding with a cross-beam. Making his first public appearance since the brawl, Lewis was also sporting a new look: three long scars that stretched down the length of his face, and a cybernetic ocular implant. The injury he sustained from his attacker’s trident left him blind in his right eye, so as a ‘signing bonus’ for entering The Arena, Frost had agreed to foot the bill for the expensive procedure, fully restoring his vision.
At well over nine feet tall, Lewis was a menacing sight on the simulcasts; in person, he was far more intimidating. The stage shook beneath his weight with every step, and when he stood on the scale it creaked from the pressure. He registered at nine hundred and thirty-two pounds.
“Now that is one big lad,” Daniel Tate laughed, dragging a chair across the stage with one hand. He positioned it next to Lewis and stood on it, raising the microphone as far as he could reach, just below his bearded chin. “Do you have anything to say to your fans out there, Sledge?”
“No,” he said solemnly. “But I want to say hello to Taylor. Daddy loves you, and he’ll be home soon. Take care of mommy for me while I’m gone.”
I was struck by his demeanor. It seemed like Lewis was resigned to the fact that he had to compete – like he didn’t want to be here. “He doesn’t exactly seem thrilled about the tournament,”
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