Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,46
bodiless heads staring her down. She recognized the two highest billed Japanese fighters and the Brazilian woman looking for the welterweight title. Merritt Osborne was also among the group. Nora’s glove paused for a moment before moving to brush Logan’s cheek. Instantly, the other faces vanished, but Logan’s lingered a second longer, winking at her before disintegrating.
“The greatest kickboxer in history! Give it up, ladies and gentlemen, for Logan Russo!”
On the other side of the ring, Logan’s full, life-sized body appeared, pixel by pixel, until she looked as real and as imposing as an unbeaten prize fighter should. Every tendon stretched and recoiled. Every muscle gleamed like shards of glass. But there were tiny errors, too; the lines around her eyes and mouth were missing. When she started mouthing words—lost in the noise of the crowd—her lip didn’t tug down at the left corner like it was supposed to. She was taller, more beautiful, and more menacing than the real-life Logan, and Nora felt like she’d been sucked into a painting or an idea. The painted Logan wore a glossy mesh shirt and her golden gloves left a trail of haze as she paced in the corner, eyes locked on her opponent. As she moved, the same neon dots winked on her body that the attendant had attached to Nora’s.
“Watch that right hook. She’ll double it up on your head before going for the body.” A virtual coach had scuttled up next to her, looking suspiciously like the head of Strike marketing. “Block her blows and try to land as many as you can on the dots. The first fighter to land three unblocked hits takes the championship.”
These weren’t kickboxing rules. The fight wasn’t set up in rounds or even like Henry’s game with energy and life bars at the top of the screen. A scoreboard hovered above them with three X’s and three O’s waiting to light up beneath each name.
When she blinked again, she’d been transported to the center of the ring, staring into Logan’s implacable face. She was close enough to hear Logan’s breath and should have been able to feel the heat rising off her. Neon flashed on either side of her temples.
“Aaaaannnnnddd GO!” A bell rang and Logan’s fists became streaks of gold.
Nora startled back, automatically blocking the jabs. She twisted right and left, clamping her elbows to her ribs, and felt the belt tethering her to the center of the box bite into her waist. Pivoting, she kicked Logan’s leg, making the dot on her thigh flash red and sending a buzz through her own foot and mask. The scoreboard lit up a green O under her name, but before she could celebrate or plan her next move, she was under siege. Logan threw a cascade of punches and roundhouses. Gold met silver, trails of light exploded into each other, surrounding them both in a cocoon of shimmering violence. One dot buzzed. Two. Nora stumbled back until she couldn’t go any farther, ducking the double head hook the coach had warned her about.
She was outmatched. There was no winning this fight. Henry would tell her to jump in and attack, to “die big,” the way he had in his fighting game, but Nora could only curl up and defend. It was all she could do to block the blur of gloves and feet. In a desperate move, she lunged into the painted Logan, pulling her into a grappling hold so that both of them were too close to land any blows.
Everything was surreal, both more and less than a dream. More because her brain was conscious, processing every cue—Logan’s head pressed against hers, her breath stuttering in Nora’s ear. Less because other, more vital data was missing. The sensors on Nora’s body radiated heat and energy, but there was no resistance against her arms, no scent, no substance within the painting. The virtual reality was overpowering, and—Nora realized with a shock of clarity—it wasn’t enough.
She wanted the real Logan.
Nora’s arms fell, releasing the hold, and the virtual Logan drew back. She cocked her head to consider this unworthy opponent who had somehow blundered into her ring. The swelling noise of the crowd drowned out whatever the announcer shouted above them. Then the computer pivoted into a cross, the thousand glass shards of her pixelated body glittered in the stage lights, and the ball of her fist exploded the world into gold.
* * *
“I’ve never seen anything like it. No one’s seen anything like it.”
Mike,