The Gender Game Page 12

  "Okay," I said. "Where exactly will I meet you?"

  "Where I've left my motorcycle now," he replied. "I'll be hovering somewhere in that area and watching for you."

  I nodded again, my palms and forehead breaking out in a sweat.

  “What happens if I get caught?” I asked.

  “You've just got to make sure you don't.”

  Great.

  Lee lingered for a minute longer, readjusting my fake hair, which had gotten disheveled after the motorcycle ride. My eyes still felt irritated, but since he didn't remark on them, I assumed they didn't look too odd. I doubted teary eyes was a great look for a Patrian man.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Lee took half a step back and gave my left shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then turned and headed back to the main road. I didn't wait to watch him disappear from view. I hurried through the double doors and down the staircase. I had work to do.

  The door awaiting me at the bottom was open and unguarded. Stepping inside, I found myself surrounded by an arena that was smaller than I had expected. It could probably fit about three hundred people, which wasn't exactly tiny, but not grand like I had imagined the venue of a national sport would be. Not much pride had been taken in the aesthetics either. The seats were made of garish red plastic, and the walls and ceilings were rough and unpainted, the brickwork clearly visible. But maybe this was all intentional; I supposed that it added to the atmosphere.

  I turned my mind back to the conversation I had overheard with Lee's colleagues, when they had been excitedly talking about a fight that was to take place in a few days’ time. I couldn't remember the name of the arena where it would take place, but it hadn't been Brunswick. I was sure of that. Maybe Viggo's career hadn't taken him to the big leagues.

  In the center of the room was a cage in the shape of an octagon. It had two entrances and the mesh walls were constructed from thin malleable metal, and the edges of the cage's floor itself looked painfully sharp. Their ridges were pointed; if someone slipped against them with the right amount of force, they could easily cause serious damage. Probably even hospitalize someone. I guessed this was deliberate though—making their environment as rough and treacherous as possible to up the stakes and keep the men on their feet at all costs.

  I roamed around the arena, mulling over my task, until voices came from the door near one of the back rows of seats. Two men strode into the arena carrying lighting equipment and two small foldable tables.

  I moved back into the shadows and took a seat, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while they set up the lights. They unfolded the tables in front of each of the entrances. Then more men came in with more paraphernalia. Some carried chairs and boxes of food, while others carried towels and first-aid equipment. Finally, I spotted something interesting—a man carrying in two containers of water. He set one down on the tables at either entrance, where two flasks had already been placed.

  More banging and commotion ensued while they rigged up all the final lights, and then everyone retreated through the back door. I wondered if anyone had noticed me at all yet, or whether they'd just chosen to ignore me.

  Either worked for me. The main thing was that the room had become empty again. This was my window of opportunity—a window I had to grab with both hands now that the fight was drawing so close.

  I left my seat and made a beeline for the nearest cage entrance. The flask on this side was helpfully labeled with the name of Viggo's opponent. I sped around the cage to Viggo's side. Glancing over my shoulder, I hurriedly opened the flask. It was already filled to the brim. I retrieved the foil ball and unfurled it, dropping the transparent gel capsule into the water. It blended in so well that I had to make an effort to search for it. It floated on the surface, too, which meant he'd likely swallow it in his first or second gulp.

  Footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Replacing the lid, I jerked back from the table and resumed my seat.

  I exhaled slowly, wiping my palms against my pants. Okay. It's done. The worst is over. Now, hopefully, all I had to do was wait.

  Twenty minutes before the fight seemed to be the magic time of arrival—the arena began filling quickly and within a matter of fifteen minutes, every single seat had been taken, leaving many forced to stand. With five minutes to go, the main doors were closed.

  The excitement in the room was palpable, and I was surprised to see many women accompanying their husbands. Dressed to the nines, in front of me sat three of them in a row, sandwiched by their husbands.

  In between flicking their perfectly coiffed hair, they were gushing about the fight that everybody else seemed to be so breathless about: Croft versus Vanguard.

  In spite of my nerves, I couldn't deny that I was excited, too. Attending this event was unique—an adventure. Something I’d never imagined myself doing in my whole life. I suspected this would be the high point of my stay here in Patrus, so I probably ought to make the most of it.

  The lights dimmed, leaving a single spotlight to blast down in the far right corner of the room. Boos erupted as a tall, sculpted man stepped out, bare from the waist upward. He was bald, and every visible inch of his bulging physique was etched with green-ink tattoos. His face reminded me of a shark's—angular, with a broad, flat nose and a cruel, crooked mouth.

  Wearing yellow shorts trimmed with gold, 'Seamus "Sharp" Vanguard' made his way to his entrance and climbed into the cage. He skipped around the enclosure—bowing in four directions while gnashing his teeth and beating his chest—before retreating into his corner.

  Then the spotlight sped to the far left corner of the arena. Cheers erupted before Viggo even came into view. When he did emerge beneath the glaring beam, the crowd went wild.

  "There he is!" gasped one of the women in front of me through the deafening applause.

  He wasn't introduced with a nickname like Seamus. Just Viggo Croft.

  Viggo looked quite different in his role as a fighter. His hair was tied back, revealing the full breadth of his jawline. His physique was muscled, but in a more understated—and, in my opinion, very attractive—way compared to his opponent. Although their weight must be even, Viggo was taller, leaner, and I suspected more agile. His knuckles were tightly bound in bandages, and his shorts were plain black.

  I found my butt sliding to the edge of my seat as he prowled down his aisle and swept into the cage. He didn't offer the audience any introductory performance like Seamus had; he simply planted himself immediately in his corner.

  A man sporting a blue shirt and white gloves moved to the center of the cage and beckoned both fighters forward. After he informed them that they were to obey his commands without exception, a bell rang. The commencement of the fight was announced by the booming voice of a man whom I was sure must have popped a Deepvox pill or two. Nobody's voice is that deep.

  The two men circled for a few seconds before Viggo drew in. He aimed a front kick at Seamus's chest, causing him to stagger toward the edge of the cage. Seamus, trying to regain a central position, threw a flurry of punches, but Viggo blocked them deftly before counteracting with a powerful right hook that knocked Seamus to the floor.

  The crowd erupted.

  "He's got the takedown!" one of the women in front of me squealed.

  Viggo pounced on the man before he could rise, pinning him down and raining punches. Seamus held up his elbow, attempting to block them, but Viggo was too overpowering. He came in with blows not only to the side of Seamus's face and ears, but also against his kidneys. Seamus, daring to come out of pure defense mode, shot up a punch toward Viggo's face, but that only opened himself up. Viggo hammered down a punch so hard I found myself wincing, and the next thing I knew, Seamus had gone still and the referee was calling a stop to the fight.

  My eardrums ached from the cheers.

  Viggo rose to his feet. Although he had won, there wasn't the slightest trace of victory in his expression. He barely even made eye contact with the crowd. He looked uncomfortable, forced into the situatio
n. I knew that feeling.

  Everybody stood and clapped. Whistles ricocheted around the arena.

  I watched with bated breath as he was handed his flask by a man in a black shirt. He swallowed a few mouthfuls before handing it back. That should have been enough for the capsule to glide down. I guessed Lee would know soon enough.

  Viggo didn't hang around to soak up the adoration. As soon as the referee announced him as the official winner, he swept out of the cage as swiftly as he had arrived, strode down his aisle, and exited the basement.

  As everybody settled back down to wait for the next fight, I tuned into the conversation the women in front of me were having.

  "When is that guy going to move on to bigger things?" a blonde was saying. "He doesn't belong in this dump. Such a waste of talent!"

  "He's been approached by the big league a bunch of times already, Vanessa," a man, presumably her husband, replied. "He turns down their offers again and again. He doesn't want a bigger spotlight."

  "He's twice the man most big-league fighters are," a brunette chimed in. "Cruz. Rosen. Croft would knock them out. He'd be top of his division!" She shook her head sadly. "He'll fade away if he doesn't move up in this game."

  "Maybe that's what he wants," a second man retorted. "Whatever he's doing this for, it's clearly not legacy."

  The conversation died down as the next fight was announced. The lights dimmed, and once again the spotlight shone on the far right corner of the arena. This was to be a "middleweight" fight. Terrence "Trump" Wilson versus Bernard "The Beast" Hill.

  As the two opponents made their way to the ring one after the other, I was shocked to see a huge chunk of the audience get up and leave the arena. They really had just come to see Viggo, only they weren't adhering to the etiquette Lee had advised me to follow.

  I understood why so many left. Professional fighting was still a complete novelty for me, but even I found the second fight slow and plodding. Neither had the skill or agility of Viggo to make it an interesting match. It went on for five rounds, and by the time the winner was announced, three quarters of the arena had left.

  I felt bad for the fighters as they bowed, and clapped harder in a feeble attempt to make up for the lack of noise.

  But those women were right. Viggo didn't belong here.

  I checked my watch. Lee was due to collect me in ten minutes. I made my way to the exit before the next pair of fighters could enter the room and climbed up the stairs, out into the open air. I headed to the main road and crossed to wait by the bay to make it easy for Lee to spot me when he arrived.

  After a couple of minutes, a familiar figure exited the bustling eatery. Draped in a long trench coat, hood pulled up over his head to shadow his eyes, Viggo was carrying a bottle of water and a bulging paper bag. I realized he was heading right for me. Or, rather, the motorcycle bay, and I moved discreetly backward, trying not to stare as he approached a beetle-black motorcycle.

  He seemed too intent on leaving the arena to even notice me standing nearby.

  A part of me was tempted to congratulate him for the fight just for the hell of it, but I bit my tongue. Of course, that would be a stupidly unnecessary thing to do.

  He stowed his items beneath the seat, swung himself onto it and roared away down the road, in the direction of the mountains.

  When Lee arrived at eleven on the dot and asked if I'd placed the capsule, there was a lump in my throat as I replied, "I did."

  15

  After I gave Lee details of how I'd planted the tracker, he asked, "So how was the fight?"

  I couldn't deny that I had enjoyed it. "It was good."

  But I didn't feel good about what we were doing, in spite of Lee's assurance that we were doing nothing wrong—that we were simply retrieving a stolen object. But Viggo hadn't stolen it, he was just a foot soldier. Someone just trying to survive, like me.

  I wished that the banquet was sooner, not only so I could see my brother sooner, but so that I would not have to carry around my guilt for so long.

  I realized that the only way I could get through this would be to stop thinking about what I was doing. Adopt tunnel vision. Do everything required to ensure things ran smoothly so that I could get out of here, see my brother and then, assuming I couldn't wrangle a way to stick with him permanently, reintegrate myself into some form of existence back in Matrus… and try to move on with my life. I'd probably look to move somewhere far away from everybody—like Viggo had done—to reduce the odds of getting into trouble again.

  Numbing myself shouldn't be too much of a challenge. My years spent in detention facilities had made me good at that. Blinders on, head down, same routine day in and day out. Just get through the day. I had to see this mission involving Viggo Croft like everything else: threading needles, sifting flour, or shoveling crap.

  This was all simply another detention, where I had no choice but to do as I was told.

  Once I adopted this mindset and stopped considering consequences, I felt lighter and I was better able to engage in Lee's conversation.

  "Viggo knocked out the other guy in the first round," I told him.

  "Yup." Lee smirked. "No surprise there."

  I wished that professional fighting was a thing in Matrus. If it had been, I might not have ended up in so much trouble with the law. I'd have had other ways to let off steam.

  "If I was a man," I muttered, "that's what I would be doing.” This was probably the first time I'd ever truly considered what it would be like to be a man.

  "Fighting? It's not all it's cracked up to be," Lee said. "It's a hard, hard life."

  Yeah, well, life is hard whatever you do.

  Reaching the foothills, we let the quieter atmosphere halt our conversation: the gentle mountain winds, the fragrance of the soil at the end of a warm day.

  Samuel was asleep when we returned to the house. We headed immediately to Lee's bedroom and drew up chairs at his desk. He switched on the monitor and pulled up a detailed map of Patrus. Roaming it, I spotted four flashing red dots. They were all stationed near the city center.

  "You're tracking other people, too?" I asked.

  "Yes," he replied. "There are a few whose help I've needed, and I've had to keep an eye on them. There's Viggo," Lee said excitedly. He pointed to a red dot that I hadn't even noticed yet. It was up in the mountains, some distance away from Lee's home. While we were situated on the southwest side of the palace, he was northwest.

  It seemed that he had already reached his home by now, as his dot appeared stationary.

  "So," Lee said, leaning back in his chair, looking relieved. I reached up to peel off my mustache. "Step one is completed," he said. "You successfully tagged him and we can now monitor his movements in real time."

  "Next, I suppose we need to figure out his schedule," I muttered, pulling off my wig and removing the rest of my scratchy facial hair.

  "I agree. We need to know what, if anything, he plans to do on the night of the banquet. This should be easier than what you did tonight. Viggo has little time to vary his schedule. When he is not working as a warden, he's typically either fighting or preparing for a fight. He trains at a gym in the city, and behind the reception desk is a schedule of all the booked sessions, as well as each of its members' upcoming fights. You'll likely need to hang around for a bit and wait until the receptionist goes for lunch, but the arrangement would be similar to tonight. I'll drop you there and give you about half an hour—I'm sure within this time you'll find an opportunity. There's usually only one receptionist behind the desk and since we'll be arriving just before lunch, he'll have to take at least a short break to fetch his meal… We'll do it tomorrow—leave here at eleven-thirty in the morning, okay?"

  Okay… Another risk for me. But I understood why; Lee was more valuable than me in Matrus’ eyes.

  I sat with Lee a little longer, staring at the map and watching the red dot that was Viggo.

  Then I left his room and headed to my own. Entering my bathroom, I remove
d the suit, took a quick shower, and changed into my nightclothes before climbing into bed.

  As I drifted off to sleep, I returned to the Brunswick Arena. The electrifying atmosphere flooded my mind: the bright lights, the roaring of the crowd… The mass celebration of physical prowess.

  That night, it was me in the cage instead of Viggo, and opposite me, a stocky blonde female inked with green tattoos, whose face uncannily resembled a shark.

  16

  I decided to wear the full-body suit for this lunchtime's excursion to Viggo's gym. Since I would be roaming in the daytime, rather than lurking anonymously at the back of a shady arena, I figured that I would feel less nervous with it on.

  Lee donated three outfits to me: jackets, shirts, and pants, and I spent the morning tailoring them so that they would fit me properly. I pulled the pants' ends up by a few inches before adjusting the jacket and shirts. My time working in the textiles factory had been useful after all.

  As for my shoes, I decided to wear my own again, the same as last night. They were kind of scrappy, but they'd do.

  I also took four Deepvox tablets two hours before we were due to leave.

  By eleven-thirty, I was ready to leave. My voice had sunk deeper than the night before, not fight-announcer deep, but deep enough to pass as a real man.

  I couldn't stomach a lot of brunch, and it seemed neither could Lee. He was just as nervous as me.

  Lee headed upstairs briefly to check on Viggo's location, and returned to report that Viggo was near the palace, as expected. He also placed a small red rectangular object in my hand, and a miniature notepad and pen in my pocket. I stared at the red object, turning it over in my palm. On one side was a blank screen.

  "It's an advanced pager. Smaller and less conspicuous than a phone, it will vibrate when I trigger it"—he drew out an identical red object from his right pocket—"and a message will pop up on that screen. You can also send a message to me if you need to. As for the notepad, use it to note down the dates… So, are you ready?"