THE PLAYPEN

“Did you know Ares got put in a jar?”

Ivy Kross stopped writing.

She had learned there were questions Mixie asked because she wanted an answer.

There were questions Mixie asked because she had an idea.

And then there were questions like this.

“Yes.”

Mixie sat upside down on the couch, legs hanging over the back, stuffed dinosaur against her chest.

“Ares.”

“Yes.”

“God of war.”

“Yes.”

“Big scary murder guy.”

“Crude, but essentially—”

“And they put him in a jar.”

“A bronze jar.”

Mixie frowned.

“Why does everyone keep telling me it was bronze?”

“Because it was.”

“Would've been funny if it was Tupperware.”

Ivy stared at her.

“Ares was imprisoned by Otus and Ephialtes. He remained trapped until Hermes rescued him.”

Mixie slowly sat upright.

“Rescued?”

“Yes.”

“But he's Ares.”

“Yes.”

“God of war.”

“We've established this.”

Mixie's eyes narrowed.

“So he was really strong.”

“Yes.”

“Really dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what elite means? You get to be more important before anybody starts playing?”

Ivy looked over at Mixie, her expression softer: like she knew what this meant. Specifically what had happened that distressed Mixie.

“What?”

“Elite.”

“Where did you learn that word?”

Mixie ignored her.

“Ares would've been elite, right? Everybody knew him. Lots of experience. Very important.”

“I suppose.”

“But the jar didn't care.”

Silence.

Ivy lowered the clipboard.

“No.”

Mixie's smile appeared.

“Did the jar get bigger because Ares was elite?”

“No.”

“Did he get extra room because he'd been doing war longer?”

“No.”

“It didn't decide he deserved more space because people knew his name.”

“Mixie.”

“The rules stayed the same?”

“Yes.”

Mixie considered that.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Adults are bad at that.”

Ivy's brow furrowed.

“Bad at what?”

“Rules.”

Mixie hopped down.

“Adults make rules and say everybody has to play by them. Then somebody important doesn't like the game anymore and suddenly everybody has to adapt.”

“That's not always—”

“And sometimes they call somebody elite before the game starts. That means they're supposed to get the good game, right?”

Mixie made enormous quotation marks with her fingers.

She shrugged.

“And if they call somebody a midcarder, everybody already knows how much they're worth before they play.”

More quotation marks.

“So they get less game.”

“That's not a rule. That's picking who matters.”

"People are watching. Good. Remember this: when you are watching me: I am also watching you."

Ivy stared.

“Where exactly have you been spending your time?”

“Around wrestlers.”

“That explains considerably less than you think.”

Mixie wandered over and stole Ivy's clipboard.

JAMAL PAYNE.

6'4".

303 pounds.

Thirty years of wrestling experience.

Mixie nodded.

“Big.”

Then:

DAMIEN KOSTICH.

7'6".

325 pounds.

Mixie's eyes widened.

“REALLY big.”

Finally:

MIXIE.

4'2".

108 pounds.

She looked down at herself.

Then back at the clipboard.

“Ivy.”

“No.”

“You realize what this means?”

“Yes. If either man catches you, we have a serious problem.”

Mixie blinked.

“Oh.”

Mixie looked right at Ivy and scowled.

“Yeah.”

That answer seemed to surprise Ivy.

“Jamal is almost three times your weight.”

“Yep.”

“Damien is seven-foot-six.”

“That's a lot of Damien.”

“An extraordinary amount of Damien.”

“If he falls on me, I'm probably going to see dinosaurs.”

“Please don't test that hypothesis.”

Mixie looked back at the clipboard.

Then she smiled.

“But they're huge.”

“Yes.”

“They're HUGE.”

“Still yes.”

“And we're putting them in a cage.”

Ivy went quiet.

There it was.

“Jamal said there's nowhere to hide.”

“Yes.”

“Nowhere to escape.”

“Yes.”

“He said we're locked in there with him.”

“Yes.”

Mixie tilted her head.

“Does Jamal know he's locked in there too?”

The room became very quiet.

"Jamal thinks he gets to decide what kind of player I am. Interesting, where have I heard that before.?"

Mixie didn't sound hurt.

That was worse.

“He said I'm the odd one out. Because Damien likes violence. Jamal likes aggression. And Mixie likes playing.”

Her finger tapped Jamal's name.

“So Jamal made a choice to alter the rule. I noticed. Will you still believe that rule is fair if you lose?"

Ivy watched her carefully.

“What rule?”

“Who belongs.”

Tap.

“He decided violence counts.”

Tap.

“Aggression counts.”

Tap.

“Being big counts.”

Tap.

“Being experienced counts.”

Then Mixie tapped her own name.

“But fun doesn't.”

"This was never about countering you. Why would it have been? This was always about reminding the elites that the world has changed."

She shrugged.

“Adults.”

“Mixie—”

“It's okay.”

Her voice was cheerful again.

“Jamal can have his rules.”

She put the clipboard down.

“I'll adapt.”

Something about the way she said it made Ivy straighten.

Mixie began counting on her fingers.

“Jamal is stronger than me.”

One.

“Damien is stronger than me.”

Two.

“Jamal is heavier than me.”

Three.

“Damien is WAY heavier than me.”

Four.

“Jamal has thirty years of wrestling.”

Five.

“Damien is basically a building.”

Six.

“So if I try to prove I'm stronger…”

She smiled.

“That's stupid.”

Ivy couldn't disagree.

“If I stand in front of Jamal, he runs me over.”

Mixie stepped sideways.

“So don't stand there.”

“If Damien wants to grab me…”

She ducked underneath an imaginary arm.

“Don't be there.”

“If they want space…”

She looked upward.

“Don't give them any.”

Then came the grin.

“Cage.”

Ivy sighed.

“Cage.”

“Walls.”

“No.”

“Ropes.”

“Mixie.”

“Corners.”

“Please.”

“Two enormous jungle gyms!”

“People are not jungle gyms.”

“Then why are they climbable?”

Ivy opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Mixie beamed.

“Jamal even said Damien isn't mobile!”

“Yes.”

“So Jamal already found the problem.”

The smile faded again.

“He just didn't realize I was listening.”

That one hung there.

Mixie picked up her dinosaur.

“Jamal says the Freight Train doesn't stop.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

Then stepped aside.

“Why would I stand on the tracks?”

Ivy watched her.

“Ares was stronger than the jar.”

Mixie's voice was quieter now.

“The jar still won.”

She walked toward the door.

“And that's the funny thing about rules.”

Her hand settled on the handle.

“They're supposed to stay where you put them.”

She looked back.

“If the cage is dangerous because nobody can escape…”

A tiny smile.

“Then nobody can escape.”

Jamal.

Damien.

Mixie.

Same cage.

Same walls.

Same game.

“I don't need Jamal's game.”

She opened the door.

“I don't need Damien's.”

Another pause.

“They don't have to like my game. They just don't get to change it because they don't like who's winning.”

“Mixie?”

“Yeah?”

“This is still called the Cage of Death.”

Mixie looked almost offended.

“No it isn't.”

“It quite literally is.”

“No.”

That enormous grin returned.

“They built me a playpen.”

She disappeared through the doorway.

Ivy stared after her.

She sighed.

“Ares had Hermes.”

From somewhere down the hallway came Mixie's delighted voice.

“THEY DON'T!”

Ivy closed her eyes.

“Of course they don't.”

Mixie turned back and looked at the camera and then at Ivy and leaned in to whisper as if she was confessing something to the camera.

"You can be big, you can have your storied career: I have something far more dangerous. I have me. And that adults is something you cannot explain away."