Canto 6: The Colosseum
Marcus regained consciousness on a flat stone row with the echoing roars of battle below. Sitting up, he found himself at the highest tier of terraced seating inside the Roman Colosseum. Dante stood beside, cheering for something in the arena.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “An excellent blow!”
A free-for-all death match waged in the sand pit between dozens of crazed individuals in gladiatorial wear, most young, wielding bizarre weaponry related to news reporting.
In the section nearest them, a short man with a bodybuilder figure cornered a scrawnier male with bronzed skin against the wall and raised a hefty camcorder. With a single strike he bashed in the man’s head and released a primal scream. He couldn’t celebrate long before a red-haired woman snuck up and drove the sharpened end of a microphone into the bodybuilder’s kidneys and twisted.
“Yes!” Dante exclaimed. “An ‘Et tu’ for you, she says!”
The bodybuilder collapsed and both corpses disintegrated to sand. A moment later, gates on the arena opened and the murdered men reappeared behind them. They jolted back to action, thirsty for blood.
“What happened back there?!” Marcus started, callous to the ongoing violence. “Judas took control of a plane just to kill me!”
“Yes, he’s obtained more power in the simulation than I believed possible. And it is peculiar he’s followed us to each Canto. I’m beginning to think he has a vendetta against you.”
“What would he have against me?”
“I’m not sure, did you botch a surgery?”
“Maybe.” His eyes closed, searching for a clue in his empty recollection.
Slowly, a scene emerged. In it, Marcus approached the entrance of the real Roman Colosseum with his son and Barbara. The memory skipped forward to him walking its lower corridors, his son ecstatic as Marcus paraphrased informational postings. They climbed to the sunny first tier where Barbara stood alone, gazing over the arena. Her flesh was pale and sickly thin. Marcus drew close and noticed tears running down her cheek. He placed a hand on her shoulder, but she knocked it away. He sighed and whispered in her ear so his son couldn’t hear.
“I know you’re angry,” he said. “But it was my decision. It had nothing to do with you. And I would make it one million times over. Things will get better, you’ll see.”
He grabbed his son’s hand and continued the tour.
“Did you find something?” Dante asked when Marcus’s eyes reopened.
“No, just a memory of visiting this place in the real world.”
“Hmm, a shame. Well, we should hurry on before Judas arrives. If he indeed has it out for you then death is the least of your worries.”
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“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he traps you in a canto and gets his hands on your source code, there’s no limit to the tortures he could impose. Your world would become his vindictive oyster.”
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As they continued, a series of lengthy boom arms repurposed as javelins soared over the arena and into bodies on the opposite sides. One athletic individual caught an incoming boom and spun it skillfully around his waist before thrusting it through the closest skull.
“Why are they doing this?” Marcus asked. “And why all the news gear?”
“The latter is quite obvious—they are reporters! Well, modern-day equivalents at least. Corrupt heads of media and top-tier journalists.”
“What possibly could journalists have done to deserve this?”
“What did they not do is the better question! By the end of the twenty-first century, nearly all media transitioned from print to social media platforms. Eyeing an opportunity, billionaire elites began acquiring existing media firms as their profits spread thin and, soon, the entire news landscape was under their fingers. Quietly, they removed leaders of industry and replaced any uncooperative journalist with one who was. With control now of the bulletin board and the bulletins, these elites distracted viewers with political gossip and outrage porn whilst sweeping evidence of the growing wealth gap under the rug. Simultaneously, lobbyists with unregulated, endless bribes ensured no politician would confiscate their newfound power. Without plausibility for an audience, incentives for honest reporting withered and journalism contorted from a quest for truth into a form of prostitution.”
A loud horn in the arena caused the combatants to freeze.
“Oh, I love this part!” Dante exclaimed.
A rectangular platform in the center plummeted, sending many into freefall. Then a mechanical screech aired and the platform slowly returned, carrying a red news van topped with a satellite dish, bulky camera, and splattered logo, “Eyewitness Hell”.
Combatants rushed for the driver’s seat, murdering as they went. The bodybuilder arrived first and slammed on the gas with his body crammed over the wheel. He drove donuts around the battlefield, flattening as many as he could until the van caught fire and combusted with him inside. He resurrected at an opened gate, howling for more.
“A bloody good show,” Dante said. “Anyways, where was I?”
“Tech giants bought out the media.”
“Ah yes, and to make matters worse, advances in machine learning allowed them to influence public perception until the vast majority of their upper-class audience, removed from the plights of the poor, believed full-heartedly society was better than ever! They were caught quite off guard when revolution broke out down the street. But when it did, the media adapted, spinning a global war over wealth inequality into an attack on the foundations of democracy. Desperate to maintain normalcy, the upper class bought the lie pound for pound and provided monetary aid to squash insurgents. Those in the arena manipulated the masses until bloody revolution was the only option, so now they are the ones manipulated. Their brain code is rewired with increased levels of aggression and the conviction that everyone else will kill them if they don’t kill first. Toss in some nifty weaponry and, wahlah, are you not entertained?!”
Marcus recalled the news report of the revolution he watched with Barbara. This time he noticed its headline: “BREAKING NEWS: COMMUNIST INSURRECTION IGNITES TERRORISM ACROSS THE WORLD”.
Until this point Marcus believed Hell’s punishments too harsh for the crimes committed. But seeing how they compounded like air in an expanding balloon, he became unsure.
Maybe Dante’s right, he thought. Maybe this is what they deserve.
The Colosseum rattled. Terraced seating beneath Marcus’s feet shifted until it was flat and steeply inclined. In an instant, the stone became smooth, slippery metal.
“Dante!” Marcus grasped for a hand beyond reach as he slid down and crashed into the arena. The reporter-gladiators froze and, in one motion, twisted toward him.
They swarmed with bodies covered in blood and microphones wielded for murder.