For the next couple of months, you watch clone fights alone in your room. Nobody watches them in the common area or the rec room anymore. Not if they want to have sex again before they die. “Last night’s fights” are no longer appropriate cafeteria conversation. Winston snickered at you once in the food line for bringing it up. Fight discourse is only safe during sauna time with the boys.
In one such sauna session, one of your closest acquaintances at the facility convinces you to try out a clone café.
Clone cafés have become the place for fanatics to watch clone fighting ever since the 60 Minutes interview came out, but you’ve been too intimidated by the trivia and the fight prediction leaderboards to try one out. You know your stuff, but these guys are the real thing.
Your acquaintance assures you that the guys at the clone café he goes to are super welcoming to casuals.
It’s time to put yourself out there.
The Clone Café: Your New Third Place…
The place is shaped like a giant dome. Smooth matte silver shell. No windows. A glowing X suspended above the door.
There’s text on the glass doors:
Enter Myth Responsibly.
Emotional intensity is expected. Physical aggression results in a permanent ban.
Debate the fight. Not the fan.
The guy at the kiosk tells you that, as a newbie, you will be starting at 144th (dead last) on the leaderboards.
The interior is circular. 144 Octagon-shaped treadmills arranged in perfect symmetry.
12 curved rows.
12 treadmills per row.
Usernames drift like constellations across the curved LED sky — prediction accuracy percentages twinkling beneath them.
One-hundred and forty-two other men and one woman mingle in loose clusters, drinking IPAs and eating thick-crust pizza on greasy paper plates.
You get the first beer out of the way. It’s not easy to chug that fast, that subtly. Your throat control is elite.
A holographic figure resolves beneath the apex of the dome. Hovering. Hands clasped loosely behind his back. Mid-50s. Coiffed hair. Red sequined bodysuit.
“Welcome (your town)! How we feelin’ tonight?”
The room answers with applause that feels rehearsed.
“Did anybody find Jerry’s leftovers?”
People laugh like that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. The emcee smiles.
“Uh-oh.”
He tilts his head down at you.
“New myth-seeker.”
“Shit,” you think.
“What’s your name, man?” asks the hovering specter.
You start saying your name, but have to restart halfway to clear your throat. The sound of your phlegm echoes through the dome.
“Nice to… (clears throat) meet you,” he says.
Laughter, again. He floats slightly higher.
“No, we like to have fun here. But we do take the work seriously… Ask Joan for her breakdowns. Thank me later.”
The one woman here, with a long gray braid and a Dallas Stars hoodie, raises her glass.
You search for Joan’s name on the leaderboard. It isn’t hard to find.
JoanOfArlington — #1
78.4% accuracy
“Alright, headsets on.”
“First trivia question of the night,” the emcee says, dancing around a dark void on tiny angel wings. “And it’s a toughie… Helix gave demerits for every act of behavioral misalignment from infancy until the clones’ twenty-fifth birthday. Name the only clone in the program with zero demerits.”
“Rob Gronkowski-X,” you think.
A loud ding sounds from nowhere. You look up at the leaderboard constellation.
Usernames shift across the LED sky like migrating stars. You watch yours move from 144th to 99th. Your shoulders roll back a little. It’s been decades since someone kept score of you.
“Stations, people. Let’s enter the Octagon…”
The surface of your omnidirectional treadmill adjusts to your stance. It feels exactly like the mat in the Prometheum — soft on your knees. You take a step to the right. A step to the left. A sneaky burst of acceleration. Every step is mirrored perfectly. You wouldn’t be able to get off this thing if you tried.
Headset on.
Into the Octagon you go.
“My money’s on Bruce,” you think, as clearly as you can. “I think he wins every round on his way to a unanimous victory by decision.”
Your headset confirms the prediction. It’s locked.
“Bruce has him,” says a nearby voice — almost certainly Joan. “Watch Bruce end it midway through round two. Bruce pivots outside. Spud resets his feet too square. That’s when it lands clean.”
Three Hours Later…
You’re now 79th on the leaderboard. Joan is still at the top.
She’s been giving you tips all night, but you’ve only retained one of them: She said you should always bet on the most boring outcome.
Wilt steps into the cage, looking bored as ever. Across from him, Hafthor Bjornsson-X does not look bored at all.
The referee steps back.
Round 1
Wilt’s left hand floats forward immediately, fingers open.
Touch.
Wilt rests his palm on Thor’s forehead from what feels like the other side of the Octagon. Just enough to steer the head. Thor doesn’t swat it away. He just keeps stepping forward.
Wilt whips into a spinning back kick. Thor catches the leg. He cranks upward, forcing Wilt to bounce a few times on one foot. The Prometheum goes nuts.
Wilt leaps off his plant foot, raises his elbow, and rotates toward the trapped leg, pulling himself into range.
The elbow crashes downward across Thor’s brow as Wilt lands. A thick red line splits open above the eye.
Thor stumbles back.
Then charges.
He shoots for Wilt’s waist.
Wilt jumps, splits his legs, and leapfrogs the charging Norseman, who then crashes onto his hands and knees.
Thor pivots hard to face his opponent. Not hard enough. Wilt gets behind him and snakes an arm around his neck.
Thor grabs the choking arm with both hands. He pulls. Nothing.
Thor rolls onto his stomach, pushes up onto his knees, then plants both feet onto the canvas and rises, wearing Wilt as a backpack. The Prometheum rises with him.
He takes one step. Then another. Slower now.
The arena realizes what’s happening before Thor does. The Icelandic giant collapses forward onto the canvas.
You take your headset off and look at the ceiling. The usernames don’t shift at all.
Closing Time…
The dome ceiling shifts to pale morning. No one says anything for a moment. Just the soft whir of treadmills powering down.
“Good calls tonight!”
“Joan, you’re unbelievable.”
You linger a moment longer than most.
“Sixty-eighth,” Joan says to you. “Not bad.”
You shrug.
Outside, the sidewalk hums a very different tune.
Fifty people. Not an angry mob. A disappointed one.
They raise handwritten signs:
Free the Clones
You Can’t Optimize a Soul
A teenage girl holds a sign that simply reads:
They Feel Pain
Next to her, an old man raises a poster:
No one crosses the street. No one shouts. The two groups just stand there looking at each other.
One by one, the dome patrons are collected by a quiet procession of self-driving cars. Your car comes last.
A Clue…
Fan Fiction Heats Up…
Tribal Lines Form…
Behind the Curtain…
Don’t ask me how I got this (you wouldn’t believe me if I told you), but there’s another internal document you should probably see.
A Fracture…
A Siren Song…
In early December of 2069, pop sensation “Siren,” the ex-girlfriend of Mickey Mantle-X, releases a song titled “The Fighter.”
You wouldn’t normally listen to Siren. Not your era. Not your thing. But she was your daughter’s phone background in 2058, so when a notification pops up on your screen: “Siren drops first single in three years,” you give it a listen, trying to identify a lyric you can text your daughter about. You zero in on one:
Then morning came, and you were still exactly what they made.”
You sit with it. It’s obviously about Mickey Mantle-X, but you want to have something really interesting to say about this particular line, so you type it into Twitter, hoping to find a thoughtful analysis that you can sand down and present as your own.
The results load…
847,009 posts.
You put your phone down.
You pick it back up. Open your texts. Find your daughter’s name. You stare at the blank message field for a moment. Then:
“Hey sweetheart. I just listened to The Fighter. That line about the jungle got me. Miss you.”
Send.
A Farewell…
You’ll never forget where you were when you saw this one live. (Treadmill 87)
December 10th, 2069. Dennis Rodman-X vs. Julio Jones-X.
Two Minutes Into the Second Round…
Rodman-X snaps a low kick into Julio’s calf.
Julio fires a double jab. Rodman-X walks right through it and closes the distance.
Rodman-X suddenly changes levels, forcing Julio back to the fence.
A sudden, violent trip. Julio hits the canvas.
Rodman-X follows Julio to the ground. He settles into a rear-naked choke. Tightens it gradually.
Julio’s movement slows. Then stops.
The referee waves it off.
Dennis stands and looks out into the crowd as the LED sky above him begins to dim.
Elijah and Fenwe enter the Octagon.
Dennis turns his head slightly, makes eye contact, and says nothing.
Rodman-X just looks at Fenwe.
A beat. Then another. Then he starts laughing. Not obnoxious. Just leaking out.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis wheezes. He shakes his head, trying to catch his breath. “He uh… He left something in my dressing room.”
Fenwe hesitates, then puts his hand on Rodman-X’s shoulder. “…What’d he leave you, Dennis?”
Rodman-X busts up again.
“A grilled cheese.”
The Incident…
Two Minutes Into the First Round…
Shaq is on his back. Angus postures upward for ground strikes. Then boom. A heel to the face. Shaq is throwing heel strikes from his back.
Angus catches the ankle. Then catches the tricep of the opposite arm. Then he widens his stance. The canvas dimples under his planted feet as he rises in one continuous drive, hoisting his opponent off the mat.
Shaq’s weight lags behind him as he’s dragged skyward. He floats for one weightless moment before Angus drives him down hard into the mat.
Angus postures up for a finishing strike. Shaq’s eyes are open, but not focused. He stirs — barely. A shift in the shoulder, a turn of the head — maybe just a twitch. Angus sees it and commits. The hammerfist crashes downward onto Shaq’s face. The referee waves it off.
Sixty Seconds Later…
The Breakdown…
You’re not sure what you think, so you throw on the headset and think hard about the Angus vs. Shaq fight. Surely enough, a choice appears:
Angus MacAskill-X vs. Shaquille O’Neal-X Breakdown
Select:
(Interesting Choice. Tony Russo it is.)
Alright let’s talk about it. Lot of noise surrounding Angus’s finishing strike from last night’s fight.
[THE CLIP PLAYS IN SLOW MOTION AS SHAQ SMASHES INTO THE MAT AND GOES LIMP. RUSSO CIRCLES SHAQ’S SHOULDER.]
Right here. Watch this.
[A SLIGHT MOVEMENT.]
Shoulder activates. Neck follows. That’s engagement. That’s a fighter who’s attempting to recover position.
[THE CLIP CONTINUES IN SLOW MOTION. ANGUS POSTURES FOR A HAMMERFIST.]
Now look at Angus. Perfect base. Controlled. He’s not swinging wild. He’s not emotional.
[THE HAMMERFIST DESCENDS. FREEZE ON IMPACT.]
And what you’re being asked to buy into right now… This “controversy?” It’s not about the finish. It’s about a man who refuses to play along with a role that we’ve asked him to play.
[HE TAPS THE SCREEN AGAIN.]
This is a clean finish against a fighter who is still, very clearly, in the fight. If you’re seeing something else — you didn’t get it from the clip.
(Why not, Leon Robinson it is.)
Alright. Let’s take a look.
[THE CLIP PLAYS IN SLOW MOTION AS SHAQ SMASHES INTO THE MAT AND GOES LIMP. ROBINSON CIRCLES SHAQ’S HEAD.]
Was he out? We don’t know. Was he defending himself? You tell me.
[THE CLIP PLAYS AGAIN IN SLOW MOTION. ANGUS POSTURES FOR A HAMMERFIST. ROBINSON DRAWS CIRCLES AROUND ANGUS’S HIPS AND SHOULDERS.]
This is the part we’re not supposed to slow down. Look at this…
You can see it in the pause. There’s a decision forming here.
[THE HAMMERFIST DESCENDS. FREEZE ON IMPACT.]
There’s an image around Angus. “The Gentle Giant.” “The King of Men.”
What we’re seeing right now is what happens when that image gets challenged.
I’m not saying this is a dirty shot. I’m saying it’s a moment worth sitting with. And the fact that sitting with it makes people uncomfortable — that’s the story.
The Clone Café: Your New Third Place (Pt. 2)…
You barely feel the smart car slow down.
“Have a great night, (your name),” says the voice of an Australian woman, as per your request. Your name lands particularly softly — like she’s been practicing it.
Her door seals behind you as she glides away, rejoining the chorus of traffic, and the sounds of your new surroundings hit you all at once.
Between you and the entrance: a cross-shaped fracture in the crowd. Four opposing groups, each one of them yelling at the one across from them.
To your left: Angus fans — holding up green and white flags and carrying signs like, “GIANT OF THE GAEL” and “BOW TO THE KING OF MEN!”
Across from them: Wilt fans wave black and gold flags and raise signs like “HIM OF HIMS,” and “WILTNESS GREATNESS.”
To your right: “Free The Clones” protestors hold signs like “FREE THEM!” and “WHY DO THEY CRY IN THE DARK?”
Across from them: Clone-fighting diehards hold signs like “BEST SHOW ON EARTH” and “YOU’RE WATCHING TOO.”
No one stops you as you begin your march through the corridor of neutral space.
An Angus fan makes eye contact with you and nods. You nod back and immediately feel shame about what you just agreed to.
Ten feet away now. The X above the door glows its same steady white.
You push through.
As you cross the threshold, the noise cuts. Like a door closing on bad weather.
“Welcome back,” says the emcee. You never thought you’d be this happy to see that red-sequined, holographic jumpsuit hovering above you. “Glad you could (clears throat) fit us in. Trivia is about to start.” You handle the ensuing house laugh with dignity.
You saddle your favorite treadmill. Trusty ole’ 87. You glance over, and there’s Joan, headset already on.
“Big night tonight,” she says. Headset still on. “Do anything fun today?”
You tell her that you didn’t.
“Good,” she says. “You’re ready.”
The emcee assumes his position near the top of the dome. Your headset goes on.
Round 3
Diego tries to enter — but his lead leg gets clipped mid-step.
Maradona-X is backing toward the cage. He drops his shoulder as if about to burst right, then spins out left into a whipping backfist.
Bruce is already crouched and spinning in the opposite direction — one foot planted — the extended foot sweeping behind Diego’s planted ankle.
Diego crashes onto his back. Bruce gets on top of him.
Diego frames his hand across Bruce’s face. His hand slides, adjusts, then — Bruce Lee-X’s posture breaks. He recoils and clutches his right eye.
Bruce keeps his hand over his eye. The doctor is already in the cage.
Bruce lowers his hand. The eye is red, but open. It’s not tracking properly.
The referee turns to Diego:
“Watch the fingers!”
Diego nods.
The doctor speaks quietly to Bruce. He listens patiently and nods. He tries to blink. Once. Twice. Stops. Shakes his head.
The referee steps between the two fighters and waves it off. His voice fills the arena.
“Due to an accidental foul… this bout is ruled a no-contest.”
Bruce stands still. No protest. Diego stands across from him — chest heaving.
They’re both silent for a beat.
A confused swell rises in the Prometheum. Boos. Shouts. Laughter.
Diego is still breathing hard. He hears the boos — and suddenly, the exhaustion is gone — he starts bouncing and laughing.
The boos escalate. People are pointing and yelling.
Diego Maradona-X spreads his arms wide and flips the double bird. He struts a slow, exaggerated victory lap around the cage, taking his time with every section in the arena.
You take off your headset and look up at the LED sky. The order doesn’t change at all, but every accuracy percentage dips. Joan’s goes down to seventy-seven percent.
The emcee resolves beneath the apex of the dome.
“Diego Maradona-X, ladies and gentlemen.” He shakes his head. “Strawweight champion of the world. By finger.”
An Hour Later…
The LED roof drains to the color of nightfall. A pillar of light. Inside it — Jim Thorpe-X. Still. Head slightly bowed. He walks to the Octagon with measured steps.
The LED ceiling darkens again. Abruptly this time. Like someone cut the power.
A pillar of light descends into the opposite aisle.
The silhouette inside the light doesn’t move.
He lifts his gaze, and a face comes into view. Weathered. Heavily bearded. Blue eyes.
The murmurs ripple out, section by section.
Recognition hits in waves. Lower levels first. Then the upper deck. Then the arena breaks with screams of disbelief.
Jim Thorpe-X’s jaw sets. He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders once.
A chant of “Mickey… Mickey… Mickey” fills the arena.
Round 1
Mantle-X doesn’t circle or test range. He just walks forward.
Jim lifts his lead hand. Small feint. Mantle-X doesn’t react.
Thorpe-X flicks a jab that snaps Mickey’s head back. Mickey doesn’t reset. He doesn’t adjust his guard at all. He steps in again and swings a wide right. Too wide. Thorpe-X sees it from a mile away and slips inside, but Mantle-X is already firing an uppercut that connects with the jaw.
Thorpe-X resets. Places his hand behind Mickey’s upper neck and grabs Mickey’s forearm with his other hand.
Mantle-X doesn’t try to disengage. Thorpe-X has him off-balance, but Mickey simply doesn’t fall. It’s neither a clean takedown nor a clean defense. They separate.
Thorpe steps in. Jab. Another jab. Mantle-X eats them both. He swings back wildly. Miss.
Horn.
Round 2
Jim and Mickey both step into the center of the cage immediately. Thorpe-X throws a jab. Mantle-X walks right into it. Then another jab. Then a right hand. Mantle-X swings — but the timing is off. Thorpe-X closes the distance and secures another collar tie. He throws a brutal uppercut.
Thorpe-X trips him. This time it’s clean. Mantle-X hits the canvas. Jim follows him down. He starts pummeling him with short punches. Left. Right. Right. Left. Each one landing a little cleaner than the last.
Mickey twists awkwardly and ends up face down in a shell — forearms tight to his head, elbows pinched in.
Thorpe-X rises to his feet and starts driving his knee into Mickey’s ribs in methodical, brutally rhythmic thuds.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Mantle-X tightens, but he doesn’t move. Now the knees land cleaner — each one digging into the side of his body.
Then… He settles. He takes a breath. His shoulders drop a fraction. His eyes go somewhere slightly distant.
He smiles. He looks at the referee and shakes his head. The ref waves it off.
Thorpe-X steps back. Mantle-X rolls to his side. The crowd is silent.
Jim extends a hand. Mickey takes it and gets pulled to his feet. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. He just opens the cage door and walks out.
The LED ceiling stays dim. The tunnel ahead is dark. Mickey disappears again, barefoot and unhurried, as the light from the arena fades off of him.
You take off your headset and look at the LED sky. Joan’s prediction accuracy percentage is back up to seventy-eight. You glance over at her. Her headset is still on, but tears are streaming out.
You ask her if she’s ok.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she wipes the tear from her cheek. “I was remembering my son.”
You aren’t sure how to respond. So you don’t. She smiles.
“He had that same look on his face. Like he had made his peace.”
Closing Time…
The dome ceiling shifts to pale morning. The treadmills power down.
The headsets come off a little slowly this time. The goodbyes are stretched.
“We gotta stay in contact, bro!”
“You better not disappear on us!”
“I won’t!”
14th. That’s where you ended up.
“Not bad,” says Joan.
Out on the sidewalk, there are no more protestors. Just robots picking up trash.
You wave goodbye to Joan as she gets into a car. She waves back, and her bag slips off her shoulder. Books scatter across the sidewalk. You’re already moving.
You kneel and hand her “The Art of War.” You hesitate — then mention that you’re a parent too — that you have a daughter and that the two of you don’t talk much. Then you apologize for bringing it up.
“No — no,” she says quickly. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” … “And I’m sorry to hear that.”
You nod. Neither of you moves for a second. You ask if you can give her a hug, and she nods yes before you have time to feel embarrassed. The two of you share a brief, careful embrace. She pulls away first.
“Take care,” she says. The car seals shut and pulls away.
Around you, the last few patrons say their final goodbyes before drifting away. Some are already in a car, headsets back on.
Your hand brushes your pocket. The phone is there.
You take it out. Start texting…
“Hey sweetheart. Dad here. I hope you’re thriving. I know how you feel about clone fighting and I completely understand, but you have to trust me that if there was one fight to watch, it would be this one. Not sure if you’ve heard. It’s next month. Most important sporting event of all time. Anyway, you’re my favorite person in the world, and I would be honored if you would watch it with me. If you want. Would love to see you. Love you.
Dad.”
Send.
The Press Conference…
Angus and Wilt reach center stage at the same time. No one speaks. No moderator. No introduction. They step forward — close the distance — and stop.
No puffed chests. No theatrics. They just stand there and, for a few seconds, look at each other. Not staring. Not analyzing. Just seeing.
Two podiums rise slowly from the floor like mechanical altars.
Wilt nods, and Angus nods back. They walk to their respective podiums. The crowd rises without instruction.
At center stage, a third podium rises, and Dr. Oren Calyx takes center stage — posture relaxed but unnervingly precise. The silver Helix pin on his coat catches the light. He hasn’t aged a day.
“This is the official press conference for the fight between Angus MacAskill-X and Wilt Chamberlain-X. The fight that will determine our Alpha Sapien.”
A beat.
“Questions will be taken in order. Please state your name and affiliation.”
A hand goes up immediately. Front row.
“Daniel Reyes, The Pacific… Angus, restraint has typically been a part of your fighting style, but in your last fight, we saw a willingness to finish in a more definitive way. Was that an expression of a new internal philosophy, or was that opponent-specific?”
Angus speaks in a musical, if somewhat hollow-sounding bass. Deep, and with room inside it.
“I don’t fight to express myself,” he says. “And the manner of the resolution is always determined by what’s required. That will never change.”
A new hand goes up.
“Marcus Hill, ESPN. Wilt… people have described your style as theatrical. But some of your critics say it borders on disrespect. I’m wondering if that’s something you’d like to speak on?”
Wilt’s voice is too relaxed to be booming. But it’s deep, smooth, and certain.
“Once you’ve conquered fear, the only choice you have left is between boredom and joy. I prefer joy.”
Second row. A hand goes up.
“Alina Petrov, Routers. This question is for both of you. Many people see this fight as more than just a contest between the two of you. That this particular fight is symbolic of something. I’m wondering if you see it that way too.”
Angus answers first.
“All I see is a man in front of me.”
Dr. Oren Calyx makes a small note on the tablet in front of him. He doesn’t look up.
“Yeah…” says Wilt. “I do see it that way.”
The room holds a moment, waiting for him to explain further. He doesn’t.
A hand rises in the back.
“Ethan Cole, FiveThirtyEight. Wilt — this fight has a one-hundred and ninety-pound weight discrepancy — the largest in the Alpha Sapien experiment. And according to advanced predictive models, your current probability of victory sits at just 32.2%. I’m curious how you —”
“Nobody roots for Goliath,” Wilt says, cutting him off with a faint smile. “Thanks to this man, for the first time in two lifetimes, I get to be David.”
Another hand goes up quickly.
“Sarah Klein, The Guardian. Angus — are you at all afraid about potential backlash if you do win this fight?”
A pause. Angus tilts his head slightly.
“Am I afraid?”
He grins.
“There are only two things I’ve ever been afraid of, miss: killing a man in the Octagon, and losing.”
Wilt smiles.
Dr. Oren Calyx goes still. Not a practiced stillness.
Another hand rises.
A buzz.
It’s in your pocket.
Your phone is already in your hand.
“Hey dad! Thanks for reaching out! And yes, of course I’ve heard, lol. Sure. I’ll watch it with you. I miss you.”