SESSION 25
It begins with a coin-flip.
That sweet sound of metal twirling into the cold winter air.
Damned Chance, what other way is more fair? What other way is more sure to screw you over
each and every time? Damned Chance,
she’s a cruel handmaiden of the Bitch-Queen herself . . . that whore Fate.
Damned Chance had me assaulting the Mound instead of
defending it.
Ultra Class ’09 spread out along the edge of the Mound.
Mound . . . seemed like a false name all of a sudden. Hill.
Mini-mountain. The one piece of Up On High in all the Asylum. Taller than even the Admin and Ultra
buildings. Tall, tall, fucking way too
tall.
Taller than me, that’s
for sure. But when ain’t that been
true?
I could only see a slice of it, my little slice of shit pie. Shit pie . . . even cinnamon can’t fix it.
Stupid ass Welf and
his stupid ass plan.
Going to get swept again, just like Single. Embarrassing.
Made me want to put a fist through a wall. I suppose at least there was a tactic this time.
Plenty of them. We got ourselves
up deep in Winter War strategies after the first massacre. Plenty to choose from but picked the worst
one. Wouldn’t listen though, oh no. Heinrich Welf knows best.
Stupid ass plan.
The cheers and jeers and just plain voices swept over the
Mound, all of the Asylum come out to see the show. This was our Superbowl. Only . . . if the Superbowl kept happening
right in a row for a week straight . . . and if Peyton Manning could shoot lightning
from his asshole. It is pretty downright awesome when you’re
on the watching side . . .
It’s even pretty awesome when you’re the team defending the
Mound . . . but when the coin-flip goes against you . . .
Just like last year.
I couldn’t see every member of my class. Thirty kids to cover the whole Mound. Welf’s supposed genius. Stretch out the defense, find a hole. Use the size of our class to our advantage. Take on Ultra Class ‘08 one on one, not as
groups. Those that win ignore buttons
one through four and make a gambling charge for the end prize . . .
You think the Nazi
would be more for the Blitzkrieg than this chicken shit . . .
Pocket was on my right, if something like fifty yards away
counts as my right.
He looked excited, bounce in his step.
Probably helped that he didn’t have a single person from the
opposing team guarding him.
Valentine was on my left, same distance.
She looked determined, blond hair wrapped up in a pony tail,
feet set in a sprinter’s stance.
Wasn’t a person guarding her either.
All three of us wore black colors, the color of
necromancers. Giving honor to our
illustrious leader. Stupid plan, stupid way to choose a leader. Class rank, can you believe that shit? Grades fucking me extra for once. And
Ceinwyn has the nerve to tell me to try harder on my tests if I want to be the
leader! I was fourteenth in the December
Evals! That’s a miracle for me . . . and
she wants MORE?
At least it wasn’t Miranda in charge like last time. The bi-polar swings between panic attacks and
know-it-all-ness during our Single Winter War practices were best forgotten . .
. and then the plan . . . and then the massacre . . .
Singles never win
the War. Singles never even win a match.
Singles barely even win a
game. We were all high on ourselves,
going to be the first to beat the Quads at a game in twenty-three years, going
to be the first Singles ever to win a
match . . .
Fucking disaster.
Like . . . if Hurricane Andrew had raw ass sex with
Hurricane Katrina. And then their spawn
from this meteorological ciotis had itself a temper tantrum.
All three of us had artifacts on, these clasp-on vests that
covered our chests and backs. Kind of
like life-preservers, except not as bulky, and blood red instead of rebel
fighter orange. I fidgeted with
mine. Not as bulky, but still heavy over
my coat. Could have been armor for how
heavy it was but . . . it had more in common with a straightjacket.
You let them hit the vest hard enough or just hit it enough
and the thing would stun you, warn you to exit the Mound: you’re
out, kiddo. Removed from play. On the bench.
I ignored the stun last year, thought I could take the occasional
reminder I was cheating and just keep swinging . . . I’d never do that again .
. .
Valentine had something else, something extra around her
left hand and up her wrist. The teachers
do some messed up stuff to us—like make the classes do the Winter War and
record the damn thing—but they aren’t so far gone as to let pyromancers run
around burning kids down. Or
electromancers doing their own version of the taser. Some of the disciplines get the glove—an
anima-projector—and get told they can’t use the Mancy directly at other
students.
Bummer that . . . we never would have lost if Boomworm could
do her thing.
Instead the glove read your Mancy draw rate, shot out a
projected blast at the nearby vests. At
least . . . that’s what I figure.
Artificer or not, fifteen-year-old-me didn’t have a clue one way or the
other. Now . . . it’s an educated
guess. A gauge, something to signal the
vests, and then a container like anima-vials to hold the discharge. Wasn’t converting anima to electronic signal
. . . no way. If the Guild was that smart I wouldn’t need to be doing
what I’m doing.
So the glove, so signals.
Not as fun as fireballs, but . . . more fun than melting faces.
“You want help?” Valentine yelled my way.
I was shocked I could even hear her at all. All the people at our backs, the majority of
the Asylum. Teachers, students, even the
groundskeepers and maids and the like.
In the thousands for sure. Be one
thing if they were silent . . . but with all the excitement, all the cheers
already . . . it was testicle vibrating loud.
“I’m fine,” I yelled back.
“Are you sure?”
She had some pipes on her.
Had some other things on her too . . . gotten taller than ever the last
few months, filled out her colors instead of being a lanky stick of a
girl. Her grin was nothing but a flash
of white at that distance but I returned it.
Only girl in the class who seemed to like my company. A few would put up with me . . . Miranda, Eva
and Nizhoni. A few more would deal with
me if we got partnered up . . . Debra, Naomi, Malaya, even Yvette if she was in
a good mood. Then there was the whole
weird Isabel thing . . .
But drop down beside me for a bit of gossip? Wave me over at lunch or breakfast for a
question about homework? Only
Valentine. Boomworm. Coolest girl in the class. And a
chance to become the most popular girl in the class judging by how pissy Hope
is getting towards her . . .
“I’m sure.”
“Are you really
sure?” she teased me. “Or are you just showing
off sure?”
Good reason to tease too.
I had a chunk of Class ’08 standing right in front of me, all ready to
defend the Mound by smashing in my face first and foremost. Guess I shouldn’t have been such a braggart
leading up to the match. My mouth . . . Ceinwyn
always says it’s going to get me killed.
At least gonna get me
beat up . . .
In about a minute according to the countdown clocks.
Only question is,
punks . . . how many of you assholes am I gonna take with me?
“Stick with the plan.”
Down went my clock, tick, tick. Lower it went the harder to hear Valentine it
got. First match, first game of the Winter War. The teachers or Learning Council or whatever
was in charge had really outdone themselves this year. The Mound changed every time we had a
War. Spices things up, I guess. Last time they’d handed it off to a
cryomancer artist, turned the whole Mound into an ice fortress with tunnels and
battlements. Intimidating as all fuck.
This year . . .
“Plans are only good until you see what the other side is
doing!” Boomworm really had to yell.
This year the Mound was traditional, I suppose. Divided into four zones. Earth, Water, Fire, and Air. I was at Fire . . . so . . . a wasteland of
burnt trees and ash, pits of sand and . . . would you believe it? Burning bushes.
I kept ignoring it.
Kept staring at the big screens they’d put up. Four of them too, facing the Field where
everyone was camped out. One for each
zone, a top down view of the whole mess we would be sprinting through . . . guess
the Asylum had itself some Lakitus on retainer to fishing-pole some cameras. Even more
cameras you don’t suspect, Price. This
is really a test, ain’t it? Not some
game. Not some sport. You think the tapes end up in your file? Think your reactions are psychoanalyzed?
Yeah . . . I do.
That’s why I planned to give them a show worth analyzing for
years to come.
“If we don’t stick to the plan then Welf will just sulk for
weeks! We’ll never hear the end of it!”
Laughter.
When she laughed it always made me feel better.
Even when I’m about to
get my ass kicked.
[CLICK]
“Ten seconds!” Mordecai Root screamed out, even over the
speakers you could barely hear him from the noise.
Wave after wave of sound.
Clock ticking down.
Val and Pocket focused on running.
Me focused on . . .
Five-minute-pool.
Eight enemies.
All smirking.
All cracking knuckles.
In fact . . . six corpusmancers, a spectromancer, and a
cryomancer.
Biggest kids in Ultra Class ’08.
Wasn’t like last year either, I’d had time to adjust to the
Asylum—a whole three-hundred-and-sixty-five days to learn the names and learn
the games. Knew some of these kids. Cryomancer was named Leo. Gifted mancer that guy, which explains how
he’s Second Tier and still leads his class in rank. Also the reason why all eight of ’08 wore
cryomancer blue and whites.
I’d told Leo for a week running that I would be knocking him
out personally. Guess the joke is on me.
Maybe you can do it.
Going down one way or
the other, might as well cut off the serpent’s head or some shit . . .
The spectromancer was Quinn Walden’s older brother
Jacob. Odds are he’s a snobby brat just
like her, don’t know him well enough. Do
know he was too shocked to make a comment the day before when I asked him why
Quinn’s vagina glows in the dark.
Then the corpusmancers . . .
I’d put on four inches and almost forty pounds that first
year at the Asylum. Spent a lot of time
in the Gym making sure it wasn’t fat but muscle. Those guys gave me shit day after day . . . until
I started breaking weights with the Mancy as they lifted them. Knew it was me, couldn’t prove it . . . found
ourselves some balance. Only now they
could beat on me all they wanted until my vest went off.
Why I get the feeling
that most of the punishment will be missing the vest and instead be smashing into
my skull?
“Five seconds!”
So loud I only knew what Root said because I expected the
words. By sound they were nothing but muffled
noise, blown over by the eruption of cheers.
I cracked my knuckles, set my feet.
Eight of them.
With the high ground.
What could I possibly do?
But then . . . they seemed to be forgetting . . . high
ground or not, it’s still ground,
ain’t it?
The game started with a blast from each screen’s speakers,
countdown clocks immediately switching to views of the Mound. I caught a brief glimpse of the other three
zones.
Earth looked almost unchanged from how the Mound was set
day-to-day in Asylum life. Large trees
shading dirt and flower beds with a single rock pathway towards the very
top. Only now the trees ran out of
control, the flowers flowed over their boundaries, and in place of a careful
slope the ground was shattered, odd angled, and just plain rough. Shapes waited among the trees for our team to
start the climb.
Not good.
Water had a whole line of waterfalls, falling to ponds, then
falling again. Cliffs wet from dew,
fountains blasting streams of water all the way down the Mound. Only one ‘08er was in view here. Sabine, their hydromancer. A French foreign exchange student skipping
out of the Continental Academy of Elementalism for the Asylum instead.
I’d give a better description of how hot she is but in the
moment I couldn't give a shit about women.
I know . . . from me . . . it
happens occasionally . . .
Hydromancer with tons
of water, what could go wrong?
Air looked promising.
I assume. Not a whole lot to see
even on the camera views. It was
shrouded with fog, some of it boiling, some of it twisting, and even a bit that
sucked into the ground. Anything could
have been inside that zone . . .
Perfect place to sneak
through . . .
Only . . . I was left with Fire.
Sand and ash.
Maybe an explosion or two knowing the teachers.
Least I wouldn’t have to swim . . .
The grass of the Field changed to the sand of the Mound as
my feet dug in, surging me forward.
Sixteen fists came up in front of me, quite a few of them grinning at
the meal quickly approaching their den’o’pain.
Eight-to-one. My
hands balled into fists too, pumping at my sides. I didn’t move fast, never did move fast. On either side, I could just make out the
black-colored forms of Pocket and Valentine hitting their marks, completely
ignoring the group of ‘08ers in front of me.
Eight-to-one, King Henry, all alone.
I strategized as I ran.
Eight-to-one, hard to get over those odds, but not like pretending they
didn’t exist would make those corpusmancers disappear. Corpusmancers, in the classical mold: big and buff, four guys and two chicks. Wouldn’t have sexualized those girls for
nothing . . . I mean . . . they’re buff enough to have vagina muscles that
could snap my dick off. ‘08 gets buff
chicks with vagina muscles and ’09 gets freaky Isabel’s body changing, Nizhoni
switching her hair color, and Yvette giving herself a nose job . . . seems
fair.
Muscles . . .
Sure, muscles . . . scary to most, I guess. Vagina muscles scariest to most, I guess
too. But not what I really worried
about. Jacob being a spectromancer and
Leo being a cryomancer—much more intimidating.
Leo had on a glove just like Val.
Could have ended me before I got within ten feet of him if he
wanted. Glove simulates a blast of ice
and cold and then I’m out before it even begins.
Don’t think he would waste it on me though.
Think he wants to save the pool for later. After I’m a beaten and bloody pulp lying in
the sand his group would retreat, start searching for ‘09ers from behind. Flank attack.
Envelopment. Old school war tactics.
Had to believe this was true.
Only chance for me to make a difference in this game.
If I can just hold the eight of them long enough . . .
Then . . .
I jumped into the air just in front of their line. Anima ripped down the length of my arms, into
my fists. Not iron fists. One nice hit and
I’d be out. Couldn’t do that. Too many of them. Got to . . . improvise. Into my fists as I threw my whole body
forward and down, arms and hammer-fists jackknifing into the ash-saturated sand.
Anima exploded on contact, carrying with it hundreds of
pounds of material, material in the form of grains and motes and the smallest
of the small. Behind me, I heard all
two-thousand-odd of the crowd gasp as the cloud filled the air, blocking out
camera views, blocking out eye views too.
Before me, I heard eight enemies curse their favorites.
Fuck won the
post-debate instant polling.
Me . . . I was silent.
I like my fighting silent.
Only talk if it gives me an edge.
Silent.
A silent hunter.
Couldn’t see but a squint, but neither could they.
And there’s only one
of me, assholes.
Know I ain’t beating on a friend.
Turn them tables.
Who’s a ninja, motherfucker?
Daddy needs to buy himself some nun-chuckers.
I’d like to say I opened up with a flip kick or something else
totally I-Know-Kung-Fu badass but
instead of foot-to-face sound effects, the silence was broken when someone
tripped over me from where I knelt in the ash.
Thud went one of the corpusmancers.
Don’t spurn Fate when she’s
showing you her tits, Price. I
pounced on the guy, little fucking hop right on top of his body and then up and
down with an elbow into his vest. Thing gave
him the shock and a buzzing noise.
“Shit! He’s here!”
the guy yelled, trying to cheat and hold on but I pushed off quick, rolling
around in the ash and adding to my cloud.
“Where?”
“Here!”
“I can’t see shit!”
“I got him!”
“That’s me, Jacob!”
My eyes watered. Dirt
colored or not, they don’t take kindly to dust any more than yours do. It hurt, screams along every nerve for me to
close them, but I kept them open, kept wiping at my face with a sleeve. Foot of vision might not be much but it was
too much an edge to waste.
You could run.
I stopped cold on the ground, a foot sliding into view that
just missed my fingers. I could run? What
coward part of my brain did that shit come from? Grabbing the foot, I pulled with both hands,
tugging the next off balance. One of the
girls. Caught me with a punch on the way
down, but to the back of my head, not to my vest.
It’s smart to run. Leave the idiots behind, make a play for the
button. Win the game, be the hero.
A stiff body punch to each side of the ‘08er girl’s stomach
got her vest going.
“You asshole, Foul Mouth!”
“Keyra?” a voice called.
“I’m out!” Keyra—I guess—grimaced, “He’s here! Get him!”
“No! Everyone stop
moving around, you’re only making it worse.”
That was Leo, knew the voice.
Calculating the odds. Cryomancers
are pretty cold bastards personality wise.
Like to do themselves the mathematical equation and follow through on
the answer no matter what or who gets crossed out.
Like you should
be. Run.
Now.
If I ran then I’d miss out on beating these guys up. No, I’m not enough of a tardflower to think
that I’m going to take out all of them.
Figured I’d get a couple more before Fate turned on me and kicked my
bare ass to the curb, not even a decent enough woman to throw a man his
jeans. But a couple more . . . four,
maybe five in all . . . that’s worth it.
Especially if one of the four was Leo . . .
“Don’t try to find him.
Come to my voice instead.”
I finally said something, “Don’t listen to him, boys.”
“Come to me. Watch
your feet and don’t kick up the ash,” Leo ordered, voice carrying fine through
the murk. “Do it.”
Not much time left.
One foot became two feet became three feet. Soon as they stopped bumbling about the air
quality improved quick-like. All my life
in smog filled valley and just when I’m using it to my advantage . . .
“Not very smart, Leo,” I told the ‘08er team leader.
“And now I know where to aim, Foul Mouth.”
I chuckled. “So do I.”
There was a gasp from the same direction as his voice.
I charged it, snarling.
A corpusmancer outline formed at my right, saw me, took a
swing. Nicked my vest, but not hard
enough to put me all the way out. Low beep from it. Yeah,
yeah, I’ll change your battery tomorrow.
Two more figures formed in front of me. Jacob looking awkward. Leo in his usual white and blues. Behind, the corpusmancer followed after
me. Three more shouts, could be
anywhere, focusing in on Leo just like me.
Visibility to five
feet but it didn’t matter any longer. I
was a freight-train, a locomotive, running to tackle. Choo,
fucking, choo. Didn’t matter that
each of them outweighed me. Didn’t
matter that they were taller. Didn’t
matter that they were older. I knew what
I was doing. They didn’t have a clue.
I gave a shoulder into each gut, hearing a small beep from two vests for the effort. One of them twisted with the momentum and
fell away from me. Whoever I’d caught blubbered
up some cries as I wrapped my arms and drove him into the ash. He screamed some more as we rolled, throwing
up extra dust. Five feet back to four
feet.
I popped a couple hammer-fists at his vest, but didn’t even
earn beeps. Not hard enough. Trying to push up off his body, I saw he
didn’t have a glove and realized Leo had gotten away. Jacob
Walden, not who I wanted . . . but I’m looking forward to telling everyone how
you—
The world went starry out of nowhere.
I was pulled off the spectromancer, head ringing. Full Nelson under my arms, up my shoulders,
Hercules Hernandez style. Big muscled
corpusmancer showing off, lifting me into the air. I growled, cursed, kicked his shins. Whoever he was, he laughed at me. “Someone punch him and finish it.”
Leo materialized.
Black hair swept back, blue eyes sharp, tanned skin tight over a
scowling face. The fist without a glove
bunched up. “Honor goes to the captain,
I think.”
“Fuck you,” I told him, trying to throw my head forward into
his nose.
“Just do it! We don’t
have time for this . . .” Jacob Walden called, still on the ground, still
keeping his distance from me.
Only Leo didn’t quite listen to his buddy. First thing he did was kick me in the
balls. “That’s a favor for Welf, Foul
Mouth, hope you enjoyed it.” I didn’t
answer, seeing as how getting kicked in the balls hurts a whole shitload. I almost had enough of a pool for iron fist . . . if only I could get my
arms free . . . “I don’t enjoy it or
much care, but the price paid was worth taking up the task.”
Welf, payback for
earlier in the year. I should have
known. I worked up some words. “What he do, give you Vicky for a night? Or he suck you off himself?”
Leo was too busy being all Summer Movie Villain, “Now . . . to
eliminate you and then to close my trap on your friends.”
Can a fucker get a MUAHAHAHA
up in this place? “Hope the suck off was
worth it, man, all this waiting around punting my nuts gave my friends plenty
of time to win this thing.”
The scowl went the way of pleasure, of satisfaction. Hitting me, he might not have got a rise out
of that, but Leo enjoyed winning. “It’s
only delayed my victory, only delayed,
Foul Mouth.”
Next bit was simple. A
punch to the gut. A beep and an extra-red vest.
A little shock to remind me I’m out of the game and should exit the
Mound without interfering . . . or else . . .
Or else . . .
Fuck your ‘or else’ .
. .
Anima snapped, not flowing into my hands but into my feet. Not so different from a hanging sit-up is
it? Just with a kick on the end. Not iron
fist . . . no, sir . . . got us a new name for this beauty. Iron boot. Right into Leo’s so satisfied face. The second that I connected with the kick Leo
disappeared from view. I hit him so hard
he almost vaporized into the mist. There
was a soft thud of impact from down below us.
My vest gave an angry beep,
a flash of red . . .
Can’t say how much it hurt, I was unconscious at the first flash
of pain.
Just like last year . . .
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