Free Arena Mode by Blake Northcott

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.
    Officer Todd sat next to me and made a hand signal to the pilot in the cockpit. The craft ascended vertically, and we headed towards the most iconic building in The Big Apple’s skyline: Frost Tower.
    “Sorry about the theatrics,” the businessman said in a low grumble, finally averting his eyes from his reading material. “We’re necessarily cautious at the Frost Corporation. This is our first time dealing with superhumans in person, and as you can imagine, we have our reservations.”
    “Of course,” I replied. “I’m Matthew Moxon.”
    “Jerry Epstein,” the man said with a barely perceptible nod.
    I extended my hand in friendship, expecting him to shake it. He responded by peeling the top sheet of paper from his clipboard and pressing it into my palm.
    “Read this over before we arrive,” he said flatly. “Mister Frost likes people to be aware of his latest policies before meetings. It saves time and reduces unnecessary questions.”
    I switched on the small reading light over my head and examined the paper. It was a memo. I had no idea that companies still distributed physical messages to their employees anymore, but it definitely wasn’t the strangest thing I’d seen that day.
    “Mister Frost likes hard copies,” Epstein said in a low monotone, as if he’d already explained this countless times before and was tired of continuing to do so. “He feels that people take instructions more seriously if they’re printed out.”
     

He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and stuck it towards me without looking. “Sign the bottom when you’re finished reading it. Mister Frost also likes to know that people have read his memos.”
 

     
     

From: The Desk of Cameron Frost To: All Employees
Subject: Rules and Regulations for the Upcoming Tournament
Date: June 16, 2041
    There has been harsh public scrutiny surrounding the rules of the upcoming tournament, which the media has simply dubbed a ‘death match’. This term is derogatory, and ultimately misleading.
    As with all sports there are strict rules and regulations that the athletes must abide by when competing. To clarify this, I am instructing all employees, as well as the competitors, to make use of the following information when interacting with the press:
    1) Always refer to the rules as ‘Arena Mode’. This tournament is not a death match, street fight, or a no-holds-barred brawl. The term Arena Mode simply refers