04 - Round Two, Fight!

"Welcome…to the Arena!" Flatfoot says, opening his arms wide, smiling broadly. The effect is slightly defeated by the bright blue hat on his head stamped with the Arena’s logo.

The Arenas of Paragon City were built for one specific purpose, for heroes to "test their skills" against their peers. In other words, it’s an officially sanctioned place for heroes to beat the tar out of each other.

"Um…thank you," says the scrapper standing in front of the front desk.

"How can I help you?" Flatfoot asks cheerfully, the smile on his face looks pained.

The scrapper scratches his head. "What are you doing here? I thought they only employed civilians here?"

Flatfoot’s smile falters for a bit. "Well, under, um, certain circumstances, exceptions can be made."

"Community service?"

"Yeah."

"Ok…I guess. I’ll have four catch-a-breaths and, oh what the hell, a hover pack."

Flatfoot nods and reaches below the desk, pulling out a large metal object with shoulder straps. It lands on the desk with a thump. Next to it, he puts a small blue box of what look like pills.

"Will there be anything else?"

With a grunt, he hefts the backpack. "No, that’ll be all. See you around, Flat," he says, taking the blues, and leaves.

"Then have a great day!" Flatfoot practically shouts to the retreating scrapper. As soon as he’s out of sight, the smile drops. He looks over to a clock, sighs in relief, and yanks the hat off. Then he speeds over to another side of the Arena, where another, identical desk complex sits. Standing behind the counter is Teckstyle. An identical hat is sitting on top of his helmet.

"Welcome…to the-Oh, its you." He says.

"Sup Teck. Man, this place is dead today."

"What’re you doing over here?"

"My shift’s over."

"How do you get a shorter shift?"

"I plead scrapperlock," Flat shrugs.

"Scrapperlock? You call refusing to return a jet pack, Arena property, and then running out of building screaming "Peter, I can fly" scrapperlock?"

"I didn’t know it wouldn’t work outside."

"They had to send Synapse after you, and he was none too happy to chase you down." Teck shouts.

"Guy’s got a mean right hook," Flat says. "Like you’re one to be pointing fingers, Mr. Spends All His Arena Time Trying To Pants Every Tanker You See. You’re a disgrace to the medical profession."

"I’m NOT a doctor!"

"Not with that attitude you won’t be."

"Look, for the last time-"

"Excuse me," says a new voice.

"What?" asks Flatfoot.

"Welcome…to the Arena," Teckstyle says, spreading his arms wide.

"I’m looking for Mr. Flatfoot," says the intruder, a short blond scrapper wearing a yellow and blue outfit, with big goggles and shoulder pads disturbingly similar to Flatfoot’s.

"Right there," Teckstyle says, pointing to Flat.

The shorter scrapper salutes. "How do you do, Mr. Flatfoot. I’m your official plucky teen sidekick!"

"My God, they’re multiplying…" Teckstyle says in horror.

Flatfoot’s mouth hangs open in shock.

"Foes of justice everywhere will come to fear the name of…Kid Flatfoot!" the sidekick says, raising a fist to the heavens.

Flat looks around the lobby. "Is this some kind of candid camera show I don’t know about?" He looks helplessly to Teckstyle, who is doubled over laughing.

Kid Flatfoot grabs Flat’s wrist and starts pulling him toward the door. "Come on, we can't dawdle! There’s a city out there that needs our help!"

"Help me!" mouths Flatfoot as he’s being dragged out the door.

"Hey, you wanna hear my secret origin?"