LotS/The Story/The Search for the Princess
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Intro= The breeze whispers, sending ribbons of cloud scurrying across the soft blue sky. The surface of the lake, almost a perfect mirror of the heavens in shade and hue, trembles as it catches the words from the air, and passes them along its waters. They play against the side of the little boat, a wet, fluttering caress. The message reaches the Sian cherry blossoms on the distant banks. Their adornments, a resplendent riot of purple, blue, turquoise, and jade, quiver as they gossip over what they’ve heard.
Your gaze rests on the chattering blossoms, the finery of trees that exist only here in all the impossible vastness of the galaxy. Glories created for the imperial gardens, their beauty a secret kept from all but the Emperor’s family and those honored enough to be invited to share in their wonders.
The breeze shifts, twirling like a dancer. The lake murmurs in disapproval at this sudden and unseemly gyration, its waters undulating in quiet outrage. The trees lean in close to each other, the bright blossoms upon their heads mingling in clashing waves of color. It’s as though they’re coming together in silent congress, plotting the upstart breeze’s murder for the shocking breach of decorum. But overhead the clouds show no sign of joining in the general vexation. They’re enjoying the dance, sharing in its steps, twisting and turning into new shapes.
“What do you see?” she asks.
“Two dragons,” you reply, after a moment’s contemplation, “their bodies intertwined.”
“No…”
Your gaze drifts downwards, meeting hers as it too descends from the heavens. She leans back against the plush cushions at the prow and smiles, the slight movement of her lips completing her beauty like the final stroke of an artist’s brush.
“…it’s something else.”
“What?”
“Lean in close, and I’ll tell you.”
Her eyes sparkle with the promise of cosmic knowledge, something she wishes to divulge to you alone. You stand up, eager to share in whatever eldritch secret she possesses. But your legs tremble, groaning as though under some immense weight that they cannot hope to master. Their muscles are weak, drained of all the strength they possessed only a moment ago. You fall onto your hands and knees, the floor of the boat filling your vision.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
You open your mouth to reply, but no words find their way to your tongue. Only a meaningless mumble comes out.
You muster up all the energy you possess, willing your limbs to work, to lift you, to take you to her. And you rise. Her face flashes into your gaze, and you have a second to absorb the sorrow that mars her features. Then the boat rocks beneath you. You totter, desperately trying to keep your balance, though somehow you know it’s futile. You plunge over the side, and the water reaches out for you.
It’s all around you, grabbing hold of you, enveloping you. You try to thrash, to kick, to claw your way free. But your limbs are powerless, their movements stifled by the viscous liquid that surrounds them. Above you the bottom of the boat, framed by a burning halo of incandescent light, is growing smaller. You’re being dragged down into the depths, and there’s no escape.
No… This isn’t right… You’re not on Sian. This can’t… Your eyelids tremble. Of course… Not real. A dream. If you can just wake up…
Your eyelids are heavy. You struggle to lift them, to open them, to dispel this dream and return to whatever lies beyond. It’s a herculean task, a labor worthy of an ancient epic. But somehow you force them open a sliver, and…
There’s water all around you. You’re still drowning.
Your limbs try to thrash, but the viscous fluid encases them, throwing each movement into agonizing slow-motion. Your eyes sting, their vision blurry – smothered with green, punctured by flashes of brightness.
As your swimming senses start to realign themselves, you realize that there’s no water in your nose and mouth. There’s something else there instead… a respirator. There’s a strange sensation around your torso, weird but somehow familiar. It’s the tingling of flesh and bone being repaired at a rate nature never intended for the human body.
“The captain’s awake!”
Talia’s voice. It’s wobbly and distorted, but you’d recognize it anywhere. It cuts through all the confusion like a blast from one of her pistols.
The images before you slowly come into focus, assembling themselves into distinct shapes. Faces appear beyond a wall of glass, vaguely recognizable yet rendered alien by the green liquid that engulfs you. But one face is missing. Reality, bitter and brutal, rushes back into your consciousness.
For the first moment the voices are unnatural, mutated by their passage through the liquid. But then your aural implant begins to compensate. There’s a weird echoing effect as the artificially generated sound is superimposed on the natural one, but you hear their words rendered with perfect clarity.
You begin to speak, ignoring the twinges of discomfort from your chest that accompany each word, and hear your own voice reverberating back through the tank. There must be a microphone in the breathing apparatus on your face. Questions fly from your lips. You have to know…
Information is hurled at you in a barrage, your companions sometimes taking turns and at other times issuing a collective babble. It’s like listening to a chorus. They all know how desperate you are to learn what’s happened, and each of them wants to fill you in. Even when a woman in a medic’s uniform appears, and demands that her patient be left to heal in peace, they continue. Only Ragnar stops, just long enough to glare at the doctor and send her running from the room in mortal terror.
An emergency teleportation device. You’d heard of such things, though you’d never seen one used before. Alien technology. A gift from the Centurians’ allies. Talia manages a faint smile when she passes on what she’s heard from your TALOS allies. The devices have safety mechanisms. They’re designed to whisk people away to habitable worlds, not fling them wildly into the void. That means she’s out there somewhere, she and Rahn. That means there’s still a chance.
You try to struggle free, and yell in frustration. You should be out there, helping to find her. But they tell you that Wilex and his colleagues are trying to trace the energy signature created by the device. Until they learn more, there’s nothing you can do.
You force yourself to listen to everything else your friends have to tell you. It seems dull, meaningless in comparison. But to neglect your duty to the Sian Empire is to betray her. The fate of the war is dearer to Princess Illaria than her own life, and you cannot ignore it.
The Besalaad. They’re the power behind the Centurians – their machinations dragged from the shadows and hurled into the glaring light now that one of their number lies dead, having sacrificed himself to protect Rahn. You didn’t recognize the alien by sight in the frantic battle aboard the Zenith, but their name is known to you. As soon as you hear it, you understand the true threat the Sian Empire faces.
Over centuries that warlike race has carved out a vast dominion in their distant corner of the galaxy, conquering many other species and bringing them into their empire. In battle they can seem like animals, brutish and powerful. The tingling of your regenerating flesh is a testament to that. But they are advanced, intelligent beings – capable strategists and imperialists. It isn’t their way to destroy all before them, in the mindless genocides employed by the universe’s more savage inhabitants. Instead they subjugate, with force or threats, and over generations eradicate all traces of a conquered people’s culture – until their own ways are embraced instead. Through such means their empire has endured and expanded.
Until now the Besalaad have had little to do with mankind, their territory being so far away. But it seems that they’ve formed some kind of alliance with the Centurian Collective, and there can be no doubt of their ultimate goal: the annexation of human space. The aliens have made such arrangements in the past, a convenient means to subdue and rule by proxy. As for the Centurians, they’ve long called for the obliteration of Earth’s cultural trappings, for mankind to abandon its roots and enter into the future unencumbered by what they call the divisive snares of history. What better way to ensure that than to dominate the rest of humanity as the vassals of the Besalaad?
“TALOS’ diplomats are currently presenting our findings before the UHW Assembly,” Lu Bu tells you.
You give a slow nod, the movement stifled by the liquid. If anything can galvanize the other factions of mankind against the Centurians, this is it.
You discuss the possible results of this action with your companions, the potential political stances the various powers might adopt, and the maneuvers which could take place. All of you appear to welcome the distraction, as inadequate as it may be. And so the five of you talk, you suspended in the tank of green fluid, Talia, Ragnar, and Telemachus sprawled on the floor in front of it. Lu Bu remains standing as though at a military inspection, his robot body immune to needs of comfort.
Then a beeping sound fills the chamber, cutting you off in mid-discourse. Telemachus runs over to a terminal, and reaches for one of the buttons. A man’s face fills a holographic screen on the wall. After a moment you realize that it’s Chief Assembler Wilex.
“We’ve traced the energy signature,” he says. “We know where the Princess went.”
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Drekchester (1)= Drekchester (1)
The planet glitters like a gaudy ornament though the flight cabin’s window, a discarded bauble that refuses to lie quiet upon its black mantle. Myriads of tiny lights conspire to pepper the landmass, glowing eyes of the sprawling metropolis that has devoured every inch of it like a creeping contagion. Drekchester. The city that consumed a continent, and still wasn’t satisfied until it had eaten the very identity of the entire planet. Now no one calls the world by its official name. It’s simply “Drekchester”.
She’s down there somewhere, on this cesspool of a planet. One soul amongst billions, a single diamond submerged in an ocean of sludge.
Drekchester has a government of sorts. But though its politicians rival those of other planets in corruption and inefficiency, they will be of little use to you. This isn’t some orderly, disciplined world like Sian, where a diplomatic visit would settle the matter in short order. The place is carved up into territories under the dominion of criminal barons. It is they who see and hear whatever happens in their little corners of the galaxy, and it is to them that you will have to go if you are to have any hope of success.
“We’ll find her,” says Talia, as if reading your thoughts.
“Even if we have to tear the whole planet apart,” adds Telemachus.
“I’ll crack heads until people talk or their brains end up on my boots,” growls Ragnar. There’s a dull thud as he slams his fist against a bulkhead.
“I too will employ whatever violence is justified,” says Lu Bu.
You feel the faintest of smiles flicker across your lips. Your companions are as determined as you are, even those who have only known the Princess for such a short time. That’s the loyalty she instills on those who follow her, those blessed to experience her magnetism, to be swept along by the force of her personality. The Niflung mercenary even refused payment, telling you that this one was for her.
Illaria’s absence is like a tear in reality, a void in the midst of your little group. But at the same time, she’s still binding you all together.
There’s a bleeping noise, and you turn to one of the monitors. Your ribs give a faint twinge of protest in response to the movement, as though complaining at being removed from the healing tank too soon. At the touch of a button, Wilex appears on the screen.
“My ship is in position,” he says. “Just outside of the system. If you need us, we’ll do what we can – short of starting a war.”
Ragnar grunts, as though that qualifier displeases him. But the Chief Assembler is right to be cautious. The Contella Consortium controls this system, and they have a longstanding grudge against TALOS. Any show of force from your allies would only make your task that much more difficult. Better to keep them at a safe distance, unless the situation proves dire.
You thank Wilex, and descend into the neon skies of Drekchester.
“This place is amazing!” says Telemachus.
He gazes around as you halt in a street near the spaceport, beside a public information terminal that Lu Bu is attempting to interface with – the robot wearing mechanical hands at the ends of his wrists instead of his customary weapon attachments. The boy gawps at the sights of this city that’s so very different from anything on his native Gallea, his eyes wide as if straining to absorb everything before him.
You’ve seen far more of the galaxy than the young prince, but even you find your senses hard-pressed to withstand the assault. You find yourself in a world of flashing lights, where garish signs blink, burn, and flicker in every tasteless color visible to the human eye, shrieking the names of businesses and products like electric banshees. Music blares from a dozen different places, an unholy cacophony of clashing instruments and incomprehensible lyrics – rage, misery, elation, and a scattering of other emotions warring in your ears. Denizens throng the streets, bustling along or loitering in packs like wolves in search of prey or sheep fearful of straying from the safety of their flocks. They wear a thousand different styles and fashions, a parade of everything from the elegant to the grotesque.
“Kid,” Ragnar says, turning to Telemachus, “if you were alone you’d have been robbed, killed, and served in a carton by now. Don’t let the bright lights and stupid hairstyles fool you…” Several passersby scowl at the Niflung’s assessment of their appearances. “Drop your guard and this place will cut your throat and violate your corpse.”
“Oh…” The boy gazes around him, his expression shifting as he begins to see the lurking threats where before he saw only strange wonders. “Maybe you should have let me bring my mech.”
“We don’t want to attract more attention than we have to,” you reply.
“Ha! If we wanted to we could walk down the street shooting these people in the head…” Ragnar says, not bothering to lower his voice, as he indicates a nearby group of assorted citizens with a casual sweep of his arm. “…and no one would care. This is Drekchester.”
Some of the people in question scurry away. Others simply glare at the Niflung. A few look like they’re attempting to construct shadow puppets with their hands, though you suspect that they’re actually flashing gang signs by way of a threat or warning.
“Lu Bu, do you have what you need?” you ask, keen to move on before Ragnar’s lack of tact ends up starting a street brawl.
“Just a few more moments. The local systems appear to have been designed not to interface with TALOS technology. I have to access each piece of data separately and commit it to memory through vision.”
You continue to stand near the terminal, Lu Bu glowing with reflected light from the screen, the other four of you casting wary glances at your surroundings. When a man with a tattooed face staggers towards you, four pairs of eyes turn to regard him, and three hands surreptitiously reach for weapons. Ragnar just clenches a fist instead
If the man notices your scrutiny, or your defensive preparations, he ignores them. He comes to a swaying stop in front of Talia, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her. Now that he’s closer you see that the network of purple lines on his face aren’t tattoos, or paint. They’re throbbing as though alive, in some places bulging like pustules. Most likely a side effect of whatever recreational chemicals have blasted his senses.
“How…” he begins. Then he pauses, his face twisting in perplexity. He gropes at the air with a gloved hand, as if trying to snatch elusive, half-forgotten words from the ether. “…how much?”
“How much?” echoes Telemachus, sounding just as confused as the man.
There’s a moment of collective befuddlement. Then you realize that he’s mistaken the gun-slinging pilot for a prostitute. Ragnar gives a bellowing laugh as her face takes on an expression of cold rage. But you manage to stifle your own laughter. You’ve seen that look before. The other soldiers and pilots who served alongside Talia came to refer to it as ‘impending doom’. And when it was directed at them, they knew it was time to get out of the way.
But the man continues to stare at her, waiting for his answer. If his drug-addled mind even registers her anger, he pays it no heed. His answer comes in the form of a pistol butt crashing against his temple. He collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, his limbs simply crumpling as if all the strength has left them in the space of a second.
“I have the information we require,” says Lu Bu, turning from the terminal. “The maps Wilex had access to were outdated, but I’ve stored the versions contained within the terminal in my memory banks.”
The five of you move away, leaving the man on his hands and knees – vomiting purple goo.
Lu Bu leads you through the streets of the sprawling city, and the rest of you are glad to follow his in-built navigation system rather than fumbling with datapads like lost tourists. His mechanical mind now contains an accurate map of the city, along with all the available information Wilex was able to provide about Drekchester’s kingpins and information brokers.
They seem easy enough to track down. You find the first three holding court in their neon and metal palaces, like lords awaiting tribute from peasants who have come in search of a boon, or fat spiders in the middle of vast webs. Credits change hands in each place, and inquiries are made. Asking questions costs money in Drekchester, even if you don’t end up with any answers. You learn nothing of value, and are left to roam the streets once more.
You find yourself passing through a bustling marketplace as Lu Bu takes you towards your next destination. Around you are stalls containing all manner of products, many of which defy identification at first glance. Some are littered with weapons, from jagged blades to monstrous blasters with immense barrels. Others offer local culinary delights, including mutated rats with tentacle-like appendages, appetizingly impaled on skewers or strewn atop piles of writhing noodles.
Your glance wanders from stall to stall in a casual fashion, taking in your surroundings and assessing the people around you as you’ve been trained to do. You see many curious things, though little of real interest. Then you stop moving, as something catches your eye.
“What is it?” Talia asks, she and the others coming to a halt as well.
“Over there.”
The others follow your gaze, which has fastened on a broad-shouldered woman in a thick blue jacket and helmet. She’s standing in front of a stall which sells protective clothing, an object clutched in her hands, making violent gestures as though she’s arguing with the merchant. Her words are inaudible, muffled by the noises of dozens of other shoppers and vendors. But the merchant’s lips are in full view, and your aural implant provides the sound to his words, in the accent which your subconscious imbues him with.
“Is junk! You think I buy junk? You stupid! Get off my stall!”
The words only register in passing, however. Your focus is on the thing she’s holding. It’s General Rahn’s faceplate.
Whether it’s by chance, some extrasensory ability, or because her instincts have been honed by life in the neon jungle, the woman turns her head with a sharp jerk, and casts a furtive glance straight at you. Her body shifts as she registers the five people staring at her. You break into a run only a fraction of a second after she does.
In spite of your eagerness to grab her, to find out what she knows about Rahn and the Princess, you turn round as you move – about to yell for one of the others to stay with Telemachus. If he were left behind here, there’s no telling what might happen to him. But even as you’re opening your lips, Ragnar lifts the boy off the ground, ignoring his yelp of protest. He charges after you with Telemachus under one arm, like a thugby player carrying the ball, scattering the men and women he barges into.
You look forward once more, catching sight of your prey’s blue jacket and helmet as they slip through the crowd.
Grand Theft Auto
You weave through the gaps in the throng of people where you can, and barge straight through them where you can’t. Some leap out of your way, and others are sent spinning. A thousand swearwords and insults rain down upon you, and even a few punches. You just bat them aside, or ignore them as they thud against your body. You can’t let the woman get away.
The crowd clears ahead of you as the rows of market stalls end, giving way to a broad street. The woman looks over her shoulder as you emerge from the press of people, and puts on a frantic burst of speed.
Then she swerves, and you spit out a curse as you see what she’s doing.
Across the road is a bar, with rows of motorcycles beneath its blazing sign. Groups of bikers are gathered round them in small packs. Some are in the street atop their vehicles, preparing to ride.
You run for all your worth, but you’re too far behind. She leaps at one of the bikers, lunging out with a flying kick that catches him in the side of his head and sends him tumbling across the ground. The same deft movement lands her in the seat. The engine roars as she hurtles down the road on her stolen bike, leaving the biker and his friends yelling in anger.
You’ll never catch her on foot. You run for one of the other bikers.
Road Rage
Ragnar, Talia, and Lu Bu are still brawling with the bikers, trading blows with those who aren’t already groaning on the ground, keeping them off you. By unspoken consent, none of your companions is using the lethal weapons at their disposal. Even Ragnar seems willing to refrain from slaughtering people who are understandably angry at having their vehicles stolen before their very eyes.
You get on the bike you procured, and reach for the throttle.
“Hey! Wait for me!”
Telemachus ducks under your arm, and climbs up in front of you. Then you’re off, zooming down the road after your target.
The lights of the city flash by in long streams of color, like lasers searing through the air. The road hurtles by, a rushing black river.
It’s been years since you’ve ridden a motorcycle. But as the woman and her bike grow larger and larger in front, you know that you’re a better rider than her. With a skilled pilot’s reflexes and nerve, the balance of someone trained to deal with disrupted gravity and ships rocking beneath the impact of explosions, you can push your vehicle to the limit.
But the arrogant smirk falls from your face as something lashes against your shoulder, causing you to grit your teeth at the sudden burst of pain.
Another bike pulls alongside you, its rider swinging a slender chain around his head as he prepares to deliver another blow. It seems the bikers aren’t going to let your theft go unpunished.
“Tel, help steer!”
You move one of your hands from the handlebars, the bike lurching as Telemachus grabs hold of it, and raise it to defend yourself.
Dangerous Driving
The biker yanks at the chain, either trying to free it from where it’s wrapped around your arm, or intending to drag you from the bike. Your hand closes around the metal links, seizing them in a death grip, and you yank in turn – hoping to deprive him of the weapon.
The bikes swerve back and forth as the two of you struggle, seeming as if they’ll crash at any moment but somehow returning to stability each time.
Your bike wobbles like a drunkard, and you see Telemachus reaching for something – leaving only one of his hands on the handlebar. The other hand reappears a moment later, clutching a small laser pistol.
He levels the weapon, pauses for a moment as he takes aim, and fires.
The beam lances your enemy’s dashboard, bringing forth a flurry of sparks. A second shot hits the handlebars, and a third. The biker hurls his end of the chain aside as his bike veers out of control, needing both hands to avoid a collision.
You shake the chain free from your arm, letting it fall into the rushing road, and take control of the vehicle once more.
The woman has gained ground, thanks to the biker slowing you down. But she’s still in sight, riding across an empty intersection. Then you notice the lights, and grimace. They’re changing. That means…
Sure enough, traffic begins to hurtle along the perpendicular road, a stream of vehicles hiding your quarry from sight.
“We won’t make it!” Telemachus screams. “Too many cars! Too many cars!”
But if you stop, she’ll get away. So you accelerate, your eyes darting left and right as you scan for gaps in the moving wall of multicolored death.
Death Race
“Open your eyes, Tel.”
The boy’s eyes flick open, and he looks in front of him with unconcealed surprise, as if he can’t believe you’re both still alive. He laughs, a manic, boyish laugh. What a childhood…
The road ahead of you is empty. There’s just you and the woman, as if it were built for no other purpose than for the two of you to race along.
You draw closer to her, and sense her frustration as she looks over her shoulder and sees you approaching. You both know she has no chance in a straight race.
She reaches a hand into her jacket, the bike rocking to and fro beneath her, and pulls out a laser pistol. You lean as low as you can, Telemachus doing the same, as she opens fire.
Nathanial Vorden
Somehow the woman manages to avoid crashing, or toppling into the street as her bike jerks from side to side. You dodge the last of her clumsy shots, and she lets the pistol drop from her hand as she focuses on steering once more.
There are buildings on either side of you now, bright lights that seem to encage you. People are thronging the sidewalks, and there are other vehicles zipping across the road. But she’s slowing down, instead of making use of the extra cover, or trying to dart down a side street.
She comes to a stop a short way ahead, in front of a building with a long line of people massed outside it. A club of some kind.
The woman leaps off her bike, and yells something to the two burly security guards outside the door. Then she runs inside, to yells of annoyance from the people at the front of the queue. The two bouncers look in your direction, and crack their knuckles in anticipation.
You glance down the road behind you, and see Talia in the distance.
“Wait for the others, and come in after me,” you say. “If anyone gets near you, shoot them.”
“Got it.” Telemachus nods, and draws his pistol.
You walk over to the waiting bouncers, taking their measure. They’re big. But there’s a layer of flab around each of their midriffs that makes you suspect that they’re out of training. From the look of the queuing clientele, this is a respectable place – by Drekchester standards. They probably spend most of their time ejecting tottering drunks, not brawling with serious fighters…
They don’t even try to talk. The moment you step into their range, one throws a cross at you. Catching it on the point of your elbow and injuring his fist is child’s play. A knee to the groin finishes the job, and leaves him moaning on the ground. Pathetic.
The other one is just as bad. If he knew what he was doing, he would have been on you while you were fighting the first guy, instead of standing there looking dumb. But at last he steps into range, too late to do any good. He raises his leg for a kick, and you intercept his rising shin with a stomp. You don’t even bother putting your leg back down. A simple upwards thrust to the jaw with the same foot is enough to send him collapsing into the queuing club-goers, who send him to the ground with a collective, unceremonious shove.
You pass through the doorway, ready for an ambush. But if there are other security guards, they aren’t here yet.
The inside of the club is surprisingly tasteful and subdued. You expected a riot of neon and bright lights, like the street outside. But instead you find yourself surrounded by soft blues and whites, and hearing music which actually sounds intelligible. An upmarket place. That probably means…
You give a slight nod as you catch sight of the woman you’ve been pursuing. She’s at the far end of the club, talking to an elegant if outlandish figure wearing a top hat and leather coat. His outfit and long moustache seem familiar. If you’re not mistaken, she’s led you right to her boss – one of the people on the list Wilex showed you. You cast your mind back, and a name rises to the surface of your thoughts: Nathaniel Vorden. Yes, that was his name.
Vorden glances at you, and nods his head in a small bow. Then he turns to his right and makes a flourishing gesture with the glowing cane in his hand. You look in that direction, and see half a dozen more bouncers emerge from a doorway, clutching neuro-shock batons. Vorden returns his gaze to you, and twirls the end of his moustache in satisfaction for one brief moment. Then his hand falls to his side, and he seems taken aback. He’s not looking at you now. He’s looking behind you.
“We miss anything?” Ragnar appears at your shoulder, closely followed by the others.
“Nothing important.”
Nathaniel Vorden takes his hat off, and this time gives a low, sweeping bow. Then he turns, and heads towards a door in the far wall.
“Talia, Tel, with me,” you say, already moving after him. “Ragnar, Lu Bu, deal with the security. Let them live.”
The robot and the Niflung charge towards the bouncers and intercept them, as the three of you head out of the back door after Vorden.
You find yourself in an alleyway, facing a tall, graffiti and poster covered wall. You look to you left, then to your right. There’s no sign of him. It’s a long alley. He should still be in sight, unless he went into another building or…
You and Talia leap in opposite directions, the same thought occurring to you both. She’s closer to Telemachus, and pulls him along after her. A fraction of a second later, a blast of pink energy strikes the ground where you were standing.
All three of you whirl round, and raise your weapons towards a ledge – where Nathaniel Vorden is crouching, his glowing staff in one hand, a strange ripple around the other.
Vorden lies sprawled on the pile of trash that broke his fall from the ledge, somehow still managing to look the very picture of deportment as he reclines upon the refuse. Lu Bu and Ragnar emerge from the doorway behind you, and the Niflung strides towards his supine form as if in the mood to inflict more violence. But you wave him back.
“Nathaniel Vorden,” your vanquished foe says, in a cultured accent that has a slight twang to it. “Terribly pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“So pleased you set your guards on me and ran off?”
“From what my lowly and frankly idiotic minion told me, you seemed… dangerous. I never meet a dangerous stranger on their own terms.”
He gets to his feet, wincing in pain, and begins to brush the dirt from his coat.
“Now, I suppose you didn’t come here simply for the pleasure of causing me physical harm,” he drawls.
“We saw your ‘minion’ in a marketplace, trying to sell a piece of armor. That armor came from General Rahn of the Centurian Collective, and I want to know how she got it.”
“Funny…” Vorden glances around at your group. “You don’t seem awfully much like agents of the Collective. If you’re here to avenge that dead general…”
You grab him by the lapels of his coat, and shove him back against the wall.
“I don’t care if they killed Rahn, ate his kidneys, and stuck his head on a spike. What about her? The Princess?”
“Ah, of course… Well, I can assure you that she’s still very much alive. So, there’s no need for any murderous violence.”
You release him, and step back – your relief over what he’s told you quelling your urge to destroy him.
“Where is she?”
“The Blood Alley Gang took her. She and the general appeared right on the edge of their territory and my own humble dominion. My minions killed the general when he proved… less than cooperative. They were going to… aid the lady… when the Blood Alley vermin showed up. They claimed her, and I’m afraid they had superior numbers on their side. Of course, if I had known at the time how valuable… I mean, who that lovely lady was, I would have commanded my minions to fight for her. But by the time I found out, it was too late. A little border scuffle is one thing, but invading Blood Alley territory? Far too costly for my liking. Now those miscreants are trying to sell her to anyone willing and able to pay the exorbitant price they’re asking.”
Lu Bu steps forward as Vorden finishes.
“Based on voice stress patterns, and other indicators, he appears to have spoken the truth,” he says.
“Then he gets to live,” you reply.
“So delighted to hear it,” says Vorden. He stoops low, and picks up his top hat. After brushing it a few times, he places it on his head. “Now, I suppose you’ll want directions to the Blood Alley Gang’s base?”
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Drekchester (2)= Drekchester (2)
You ride back to the spaceport on your stolen bikes. When you emerge from the ship again, you’re dressed for battle. Telemachus is in his mech, Lu Bu has his sword and claw attached to his arms, and the rest of you are armed to the teeth. If the Blood Alley Gang is interested in making a deal, so much the better. TALOS would be willing to provide whatever ransom is needed for the Princess, and the Emperor to pay it back tenfold once the Sian Empire is liberated. But you can’t trust a Drekchester street gang to deal with you in good faith. You have to be prepared for violence.
The Blood Alley Gang’s territory is easy enough to find from the information Vorden provided. You end up in a dingy part of the city, a collection of rundown slums and industrial buildings pressed together like tottering drunkards trying to hold each other up. The neon-painted streets you’ve been through elsewhere in Drekchester seem like a realm of merriment and glorious opulence in comparison.
Throughout the back alleys that thread the place, groups of miserable looking people cluster around burning fuel canisters. Many of them bear obvious signs of chem-addiction, their flesh discolored or blotched, the whites of their eyes altered into unnatural hues. Some dart about the place like rodents, in short bursts of furtive speed, though it doesn’t seem like they’re going anywhere in particular. Others simply stare into their fires, as though reading the inevitable bleakness of their futures there.
The addicts and assorted street scum you saw earlier seemed amusing. But there’s nothing funny here. It’s amazing how much more depressing this world is when you strip away its mask of bright lights.
Back Alley Diplomacy
Vorden’s directions bring you to a vacant lot, surrounded on all sides by drab buildings. Piles of rubble lie strewn about its edges, all that’s left of whatever structure once stood there – perhaps destroyed in some long-forgotten turf war.
Dozens of people mill around this broken courtyard, members of the gang whose stronghold lies a short distance beyond it. Dozens of stares fix themselves on you and your companions as you approach. Outsiders aren’t uncommon here, from what Vorden said. They come here to buy their drugs, or sell their weapons. But children in mechs, and exquisitely decorated robots with vicious weapons on their arms, are probably a new experience for the denizens of this wasteland.
Several of them have weapons in their hands, and others are reaching behind their backs or into their jackets. If this goes badly, it’s going to get bloody.
“I’m fully programmed to deal with members of all manner of human civilizations and cultures,” says Lu Bu. “Might I offer to handle this situation?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think fancy words are going to work here. Leave it to me…”
You walk towards the wary gang members, your companions following. Time to deal with devils.
Armies of the Night
You manage to suppress the education in your voice, and fill your sentences with grammatical errors that would have earned you a caning during your schooldays. Over this you sprinkle profanities and bits and pieces of merc and pirate slang you’ve heard over the years.
Somehow this seems to work, as ridiculous as you sound to your own ears. There’s an occasional snigger from Talia, who’s doubtless amused to hear the captain of Princess Illaria’s personal retinue speak like a lowlife criminal. But several of the people in the crowd are also giggling, their drugs of choice turning the world into one big comedy, and they’ll probably just assume she’s intoxicated as well.
The gang members treat you as a potential customer, one of their own disreputable ilk, and when you finally start asking them about the Princess they open up.
“Twocked her off Vorden’s scavs,” your main interlocutor says, whom you’ve begun to think of as Chief Goon. “Boys wanted to rumple her. Some of the girls too. But I noosed that bitch weren’t some street-scav or prosser. Took her to the bosses. See – smart. Proper noosing. That’s why I’m mega out here. Maybe mega in there one day.”
The barely intelligible goon gestures behind him with his thumb, towards his bosses’ stronghold. Though you don’t quite understand all of his words, you have to struggle to keep your hands off his throat when he talks about Illaria. But you keep your feelings in check. You don’t have the luxury of doing anything else.
Instead you laugh, and nod along with him – as though you’re as impressed with his cleverness as he is. And then you make your move, saying you’re interested in buying her.
“Too late, chummer.” He clicks his fingers in the air. “Bosses kaufed her.”
You feel your fists clench and the forced joviality slip from your face. The goon’s eyes widen at the sudden change he sees there.
“Who?” you ask. “Who bought her?”
“No rees to be mashed,” he replies. “We got other girls. And boys. You got the creds, make you a deal.”
“Who bought her?” you repeat, a threat slipping into your tone.
Now it’s his turn for his features to harden. His eyes narrow to slits, like knife blades. You sense the subtle shifting of his weight as he moves into a ready state that could foreshadow violence. As slight as the movement is, tension seems to radiate through the crowd, and animosity descends over them like a mantle.
“Bosses’ kaufing isn’t for some new-flesh street-scav to noose. If you’re not spending creds, chummer, wreck off.”
“Take us to your bosses then. But someone’s going to tell me what I want to know.”
The goon spits on the ground.
“Think you’re some mega? I’m mega here, not you. Leggie me like that, gonna be rumpling your carc.”
“I don’t understand what you just said, but I’m done asking nicely.”
Two seconds later, you’re in the middle of a whirling melee.
Trouble With turrets
Gang members litter the ground. Some are battered and groaning, others bleeding and dying. A few are laughing as they lie amongst the broken bodies of their brethren, as though the brutality which smashed their bones and ruptured their organs was nothing more than an aggravated form of slapstick.
To your satisfaction, you see that the Chief Goon is one of the groaners. You’d tried to keep him alive during the fighting, but when laser-edged chainsaws and Niflung axes are swinging around the place, such things are never guaranteed.
You crouch down beside him. Then you pull a red syringe from your belt pouch, uncover the needle, and jam it into the side of his neck. You press the end with your thumb, and watch the red substance disappear into his body. He needs to be well enough to talk.
A few shakes and slaps cause him to stop groaning, and a few more start him talking.
“Don’t noose! Don’t noose who the bosses kaufed her to! I’m just mega out here. They don’t leggie me inside mega talk.”
Your fist crashes against his jaw, knocking his head against the unforgiving ground, throwing him back into the grasp of insensibility. You consider finishing him off, but his death is of no more consequence than his life.
“The stronghold?” Talia asks.
“Yes,” you reply.
The five of you head through the lot, and down a passage flanked on either side by squat, graffiti-covered structures. In front of you is a tall, industrial looking building that might once have been a factory. No paint or posters mar its dark walls. It’s like an imposing fortress, alongside the rundown and dilapidated edifices around it.
Your eyes scan its surface for defense systems or other dangers. There are no windows on this side of the building. But…
“Turrets!”
The shout seems to come from all your mouths at once, as panels slide away in the upper reaches of the wall, revealing two swivel-mounted laser cannons. When they fire, the green light cast by their beams illuminates the forms of the gang members who stand at each of them, aiming the weapons as they try to cut you down.
Knock, Knock
One gang member collapses into the building, disappearing from sight. The other tumbles out, and hits the ground a moment later with a satisfying splat. But you and your companions keep shooting until the turrets are little more than scrap metal. No sense in leaving them there for other enemies to come along and use.
Ragnar strides up to the large metal door leading into the building. He kicks at it with one of his hefty boots, and there’s a dull thud. But it remains fixed in place.
“It’s locked,” he says. “Looks like a strong door, too. We’ll be blasting at it for a while.”
You move beside him, and examine it in turn. He’s right. It’s a security door, much newer than the rest of the building from the look of it. A recent addition to help safeguard their base. Then your gaze travels a little way to the right.
“It’s a good door,” you agree. “This wall, on the other hand…”
Blood Alley Gang
The grunts inside the building are better trained, better armed, and more organized. Those things flash into your mind in a single moment, as you process the scene and plan your attack. You see what might be traces of military training in the way they handle their weapons, or at least the skill that comes naturally to veterans of hard fighting.
But even so, there’s little they can do as a mech smashes through whatever furniture they take cover behind, and drives a laser-edged chainsaw through their flesh.
And whatever training and skill they possess, they’re not your equals. You and your companions fight alongside each other as if you’ve been doing it your entire lives.
Ragnar turns to the right, his blazing machinegun transforming the passageway there into a charnel house as ill-fated reinforcements arrive to defend the hallway, and find their deaths instead. On the left Lu Bu holds the mouth of another corridor like an ancient warrior defending a mountain pass, his blade and claws performing a symphony of slaughter, each movement bearing the perfection that could only come from a robotic mind and limbs. Talia flits after Telemachus, her pistols picking off anyone who survives the young prince’s charge.
It’s magnificent, like the intricate workings of an exquisite old-fashioned clock. When you find her, and complete your little group once more, it will be perfect.
You lend your own fire wherever it’s needed, until only the five of you are left standing. Then you move through the building, a mobile engine of destruction. Several enemies come into your path, and are left in pieces.
Large as the place is, it’s sparsely inhabited. Some of the sections have been sealed off, perhaps where the large manufacturing or processing chambers were, back when it was a factory. Only a portion of the building seems to be lived in, and before long you work your way to a corridor with several large rooms opening from it.
You kick each door open in turn, your weapon held at the ready, and are greeted by the sight of a series of bedrooms. Each one is expensively if tastelessly appointed, filled with electronic equipment and assorted curios. They look like they belong to high-ranking members of the gang.
All seven rooms on the sides of the corridor are empty. But an eighth door stands closed at the far end, and you hear the sound of muttering voices coming from behind it.
You gesture for your companions to move aside, and they press themselves against the walls to the left and right. Then you push the door, darting away as it swings open – avoiding the assortment of missiles that flies past. You see a throwing knife, a shuriken, and what looks like a playing card.
You step into the room, weapon raised, and find yourself face to face with seven people dressed in the outlandish fashions of Drekchester, holding a range of bizarre armaments. These must be the bosses of the Blood Alley Gang, and you’ve never seen a stranger set of misfits. Your eye is drawn to the one in the middle, whose muscular torso is twice as wide as anyone else’s in the room. He almost rivals Telemachus’ mech for girth. Another is clutching an electric guitar, held up by the neck as if it were a club. A third is levitating a pack of laser-edged playing cards, which dance in the air as they await their controller’s commands.
As if to make the scene seem even more bizarre, holographic videogame screens are arranged around the room, each one bearing a pause message and blaring out a different piece of music. Were they actually gaming whilst their gang was being attacked, like Nero playing his lyre as Rome burned?
“We want the Princess,” you say. “Tell us where she is – using words which can actually be found in a dictionary – and you’ll save us the trouble of beating it out of you.”
You can see the hesitation written on six faces. They know you’ve beaten a path through the rest of their gang, and they don’t seem eager to suffer the same fate as their minions. But they look to the big man in the middle, and his face shows only violent rage.
“Kill them!” he yells.
“You may have noticed that you’re all still alive,” you remark, as the gang members writhe in pain or nurse their injuries. “That gives us seven chances to ask our question.”
“Start with the tubby one,” Talia suggests.
You nod. The others followed his lead. If they’re scared of him, they might not break while he’s still around.
“Whom did you sell the Princess to?” you ask, walking over to where he sits on the ground, a large red hand pressed to a wound on his shoulder.
“Wreck off,” he says, punctuating the words with a ball of spit. You casually slip aside, and let it land on one of the other gang members. “Think we’re phobed by you, chummer? We’re the Blood Alley Gang! We’ll die before we leggie!”
“Ragnar,” you say, turning to the Niflung, “chop his leg off.”
“Sure.” He stomps over to the big man, bringing a squeal of pain from one of the others as he treads on their injured leg, and brandishes his weapon. “Which one?”
“Surprise me.”
A look of horror crosses the man’s face, as he realizes that Ragnar really means to hack his leg off.
“Vince Vortex!” he screams, his voice shrill like a girl’s. “We sold her to Vince Vortex!”
“If you’re going to make up a name,” says Talia, “at least make it sound real.”
Ragnar grunts, and raises his axe.
“No! Wait!” the man screams again.
“There really is a guy called Vince Vortex,” says Telemachus. “Don’t you ever watch Twisted Steel?”
“The sport?” Ragnar asks. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. People in battlesuits beat each other up in a ring. I tried to sign up, but they wouldn’t let me fight without armor.”
“Vince Vortex runs it,” the boy says. “He used to be a fighter. All the fighters have funny names like that.”
“Yes! Yes! That’s him!” gasps the burly gang member, evidently pleased beyond measure to have his words backed up instead of his leg hacked off. “The off-world mega. He had the most creds, so we kaufed her to him, and shoved her on his shuttle.”
“A shuttle?” Talia says, her face a picture of dismay that’s soon eclipsed by anger. “Then she could be anywhere!”
“No!” the gang member says, as she raise her pistol. A stream of desperate words flies from his lips in rapid succession: “He bios on Hyperia! Hyperia! In this system! Next world along! Right there!”
“Hyperia?” says Telemachus. “That’s the planet where they broadcast Twisted Steel from.”
You turn to Lu Bu, but there’s really no need.
“I detect no indications of deception,” the robot says, understanding what you’re after.
You nod, and head for the door.
“We’re going to Hyperia,” you say over your shoulder.
“Should I still chop his leg off?” Ragnar calls from behind.
“No,” you say, after a moment’s hesitation.
The Niflung grunts. Then he and the rest of your companions follow you, leaving the leaders of the Blood Alley Gang almost sobbing with relief.
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Hyperia (1)= Hyperia (1)
“Hyperia isn’t like Drekchester,” says Wilex’s voice, over the ship’s communicator.
The words seem superfluous. The planet is there before you, nestled in the middle of the view through the flight cabin window, and the contrast couldn’t be more obvious. Hyperia is beautiful, its surface one of verdant green continents framed by glorious blue oceans.
“It’s a more valuable world to the Contella Consortium,” he continues, “and they won’t allow you to…”
“Wreck the place up?” asks Ragnar.
“Precisely. A famous and wealthy citizen like this Vincent Vortex will have the protection of local law enforcement.”
“But he’s got the Princess,” Telemachus says. “Can’t we go to the police?”
“In this system it’s legal to enslave anyone who lands on a planet illegally, and bypasses the security checks at the spaceports. Unfortunately, that applies to Princess Illaria. The law would be on his side.”
“Based on my understanding of Contella law codes, it’s possible I could construct a valid legal argument that Princess Illaria should not be a valid subject for enslavement, since she was brought to Drekchester against her will,” says Lu Bu. “But going to the courts would be a last resort.”
“How come?” asks Talia.
“A wealthy man could afford a strong enough legal team to tie the case up for years,” he replies. “And that doesn’t even factor in elements such as local corruption and biases.”
“We’ll have to negotiate,” you say. “We can offer Vortex-”
The communication terminal begins to bleep. You press the button to answer the hail, and a holographic image appears on the main screen – showing the face of a lantern-jawed, middle-aged man whose iron-grey hair rises at least three inches above his head.
“That’s Vince Vortex!” says Telemachus.
“Then you know why we’re here,” you say.
“That’s right!” His face grows slightly red as he talks, his eyes widen to almost manic proportions, and he seems to be snapping at each word with his jaws. You get the impression that he’s used to exaggerating his facial expressions for the benefit of an audience. “My secretary got a transmission from a certain party on Drekchester. They said a band of lunatics tortured them until they exposed the details of a recent business transaction.”
“We didn’t even get to the torture part,” says Ragnar. “They just started squealing.”
“Figures. They don’t make lowlife criminals like they used to.”
“TALOS is willing to come to a generous arrangement to secure Her Highness’ release,” says Wilex.
“Ha!” Vortex’s laugh is as overstated as his other mannerisms, that of a performer trying to rile up an audience. “Do you know how rich I am? I once bought two luxury cruisers and had them crash into each other so I could watch them explode!”
“Really?” Talia asks.
“Well… no. But I could have done, if I wanted to. You’re not going to buy her from me.”
“The Sian Empire-” you begin.
“Has been conquered,” he interjects. “Your broken little empire’s friendship or hostility means nothing.”
You hold up your hand to forestall Ragnar, who looks as if he’s about to yell a bloodcurdling death threat of some kind.
“You didn’t contact us just to tell us that,” you say.
“No.” He nods, and his eyes glitter. “I’m going to make you an offer of my own. You know who I am. Do you know what I do?”
“You run Twisted Steel,” says Telemachus.
“That’s right! The greatest combat sport in human space! The pinnacle of sports-entertainment!”
His picture disappears from the screen, and for a moment you think he’s severed the connection. Then a new image appears, showing two people in battlesuits brawling in a ring, in the middle of a packed stadium. He’s actually playing a Twisted Steel promotional video over the communication channel.
“Since I’ve been promoter,” continues his voice, “I’ve doubled our viewership by bringing in exciting new fighters and thrilling new matches!”
The video becomes a montage, showing clips from a series of different bouts. There are fighters dressed in battlesuits that make them look like monsters, others in armor that resemble the panoplies of ancient heroes. It’s a procession of images that makes the clothing you saw on the streets of Drekchester seem tame in comparison.
“And now I’ve come up with the most exciting event yet!”
The Twisted Steel footage disappears from the screen. And she appears there instead. Princess Illaria.
There’s a collective intake of breath as you see her. She’s standing on a balcony, wearing a long, flowing gown that flutters around her body as though at the touch of a gentle but insistent breeze. Her head is tilted upwards, gazing into a bright blue sky decorated by drifting wisps of cloud – so like that of your dream that it seems unreal. The camera is behind her, and you can only see a sliver of her face. But it’s enough.
She raises her hand, and extends her palm towards the air above the white stone balustrade on which she leans. It meets resistance, the seemingly empty space around it shimmering to reveal the energy of a force-field.
She turns slightly, and you can see the sorrow and frustration written on her profile. Then she turns further, and seems to stare straight at the camera. He face becomes cold, filled with anger. She rushes as if towards you, and her fist arcs through the air. The world of the image spins and tumbles. Then it comes to rest, and you’re looking at a man with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, lying on a plush carpet that’s turning crimson under his head. A moment later the image is gone, replaced by static.
Vince Vortex’s face reappears.
“Apparently Her Highness isn’t satisfied with my hospitality,” he laughs.
Your hands twitch, and you yearn to drive a sword through his skull. But he holds all the cards, and your anger won’t help her.
“But she won’t have to endure it for long,” he continues. “I’m arranging a special tournament. And the winner will receive the most valuable prize in the history of Twisted Steel: the Princess of the Sian Empire!”
His face is so red he seems on the verge of exploding. His eyes are almost bulging out of his head. Either he’s a dedicated showman, or a complete lunatic. Perhaps both.
“This is monstrous!” shouts Wilex. “Despicable! Vile!”
“Genius!” Vortex retorts. “Think of the ratings! And that’s where you come in.”
“Me?” you ask, sensing where this conversation is about to turn.
“They sent me footage of some of your exploits on Drekchester,” he says. “And I had my people read up on you. Turns out you’re one hell of a fighter. So what could be more dramatic than throwing you into the tournament, and giving you a chance to save her? The audience will go insane!”
Speaking of insanity… But what choice do you have?
“If I win, you’ll let the Princess go?” you ask.
“Of course! I have my reputation to protect! I can’t just offer a prize and then take it away. I’d be ruined if I ran my business like that! If you win the tournament, the Princess leaves Hyperia with you.”
“Very well. I accept.”
Building the Battlesuit
“I have to make my own battlesuit?”
The absurdly proportioned receptionist glances at you over her desk, frowns, and returns to painting her nails. You’re the only competitor who needs to be registered, the only newcomer permitted to enter this tournament. So this waiting area is empty but for you and your companions, and the receptionist seems to resent that your presence is forcing her to be there.
Since you landed on Hyperia, you’ve been going through the information package Vince Vortex sent you – explaining the nature of Twisted Steel, and preparing you to take part in the sport.
Most of it is fairly straightforward, and a large portion of the material consists of disclaimers explaining just how thoroughly indemnified Vortex is in the event of any loss of life or limb you suffer. Apparently the very act of stepping into a Twisted Steel ring constitutes an assumption of risk on Hyperia, and is tantamount to suicide under local law codes.
But the section you just came to took you by surprise, and caused your outburst.
“All fighters have to make their own suits,” Telemachus explains. As a fan of the sport, he’s been providing a running commentary. “Or their teams do. Most people in Twisted Steel have teams to build and repair their battlesuits. But they all have to be made from parts supplied by Twisted Steel. That means no one has an unfair advantage, and it makes the fights more exciting.”
“Great.” Talia sighs. “Anyone here know how to make a battlesuit?”
“I do.”
You turn to the doorway, and it takes you a second to recognize the man outlined against the bright sunlight. You’re used to seeing him in robes, not a mechanic’s jumpsuit.
“You don’t become a Chief Assembler without being able to throw a little tech together,” Wilex continues.
He strides up to the desk, where the receptionist is casting an irritated stare at him, and holds out a datapad.
“Here’s our completed requisition sheet, showing which parts from your list we require. Please have them sent to our workshop.”
The receptionist gives an outraged sniff, and swishes her blonde tresses over her shoulder as if to emphasize just how aggrieved she is at having to work. But she takes the datapad from his hand, and begins to transfer its contents into the terminal in front of her.
“Your parts will be waiting for you, sir,” she says – managing to fill ‘sir’ with such venom that it sounds more like ‘you bastard’.
Wilex simply smiles, nods in thanks, and comes over to where the rest of you are sitting.
“I took the liberty of perusing the material myself,” he explains. “And it came to my attention that I might be needed.”
A few minutes later, an attendant arrives and leads you to one of the workshops that have been set aside for each of the competitors in the tournament.
It’s a drab, oily, and messy chamber, marked with the stains of years of toil and cluttered with equipment of indeterminate purpose. A room for hard labor, far removed from the elegance of the rest of the complex. But when Wilex enters, an expression of pure joy crosses his face.
“As a Chief Assembler, I don’t have many opportunities to get my hands dirty these days,” he explains.
In a few moments he’s issuing orders to the five of you, assigning tasks which will bring your battlesuit to fruition.
“I don’t presume to tell you people how to break things,” he says when Ragnar grumbles at the instructions he’s given. “So don’t try to tell me how to make them.”
Werewolf
It’s almost miraculous, the way the piles of mechanical parts and metal plates slowly transform beneath your ministrations. Yet with Wilex’s expertise, and the rest of you doing as he bids, the battlesuit takes shape. By the time it’s ready you’re all exhausted. Even your body, honed for long hours of battle, is weary from this unaccustomed form of labor. But the suit stands ready, magnificent and powerful, along with an impressive sword – in case you get placed in a weapons match.
Competitors aren’t allowed to take their suits or ring weapons outside the arena building, to prevent unauthorized modifications. So you spend the rest of the day there, wearing and testing the suit, handling the sword. You can’t afford to make any mistakes in the ring. And to be most effective, a battlesuit has to seem like a second skin – something you’re completely comfortable in. You even eat wearing it, albeit with the helmet set aside. Using chopsticks proves a good test of the actuators in the hands and fingers. Your skill, not to mention your table manners, suffers at first, and your companions have to duck to avoid flying pieces of food. But it doesn’t take you long to master it.
After you’ve eaten, you continue to test and train your dexterity by folding a hundred origami cranes whilst wearing the suit’s gauntlets. This proves trickier, but in time your fingers become suitably accustomed to the suit, and you manage it.
Then you perform lengthy kata, routines of martial motions – punches, kicks, and sword swings – to feel how well your movements flow. To your satisfaction, everything seems to work perfectly. The suit is fast and agile as well as strong and sturdy. It responds well to your body.
At last you leave the arena, and spend the remainder of the evening in the suite of rooms Vortex has set aside for your group elsewhere in the complex. He’s thoughtfully provided you with a stack of holo-vids showing previous Twisted Steel events, so you relax by watching your rivals’ matches. You analyze their skills and styles, and try to anticipate how you would fare against each one.
“You’re up next!” says the man in the headset. Then he leans back out of the workshop, which also serves as your staging area, and scurries off to deal with whatever myriad other duties demand his attention.
“Showtime, captain!” Talia pats you on the shoulder, though you barely feel it through the armor.
Then you almost pitch forward, as Ragnar thumps you on the back.
“Remember – keep beating on them until the referee pulls you off,” he says. “It’s the only way to make sure.”
Wilex gives your suit one last inspection. Then the six of you leave the workshop, walk up the ramp leading to the main corridor of the backstage area, and make your way to the doorway that opens onto the floor of the arena.
The roaring of the crowd and the blare of the music are almost deafening here, far too loud for any further talk. But your companions’ presence is enough. You draw strength from their nearness, from their touch upon your armor. And as the image of the Princess flits into your mind, of her standing on the balcony, the grim determination of battle fills you.
The doorway slides open, revealing a long aisle that splits two great mounds of screaming men, women, and children, and ends at the ring.
A moment later you’re inside the ring, the walk swallowed up by the intoxicating flash of the lights, screams of the spectators, and crashing crescendos of the music. You’ve fought many battles, but you’ve never experienced anything quite like this before. It seems almost surreal. You gaze around you at the thousands and thousands of people who are here to see you fight, to bay for blood, to celebrate victories, or mock defeats.
Then the arena is plunged into darkness, punctuated only by tiny flashes of light from the stands, and the music stops. The crowd gives a collective scream, and you understand that it’s one of anticipation. A moment later a silver holographic orb appears above, glimmering in the blackness. A beam of light falls from it, illuminating the doorway at the end of the aisle.
There’s an immense howl over the stadium’s sound system, like that of an animal, followed by a roaring, clashing, feral-sounding tune.
The theatrics are crass, ridiculous. But somehow a tingle runs up and down your spine.
An armored figured emerges into the pool of synthetic moonlight, into the lunacy of the arena and its screaming thousands. He looks like a wolf. No… a werewolf. He raises his snout in the air, and howls. The crowd howls with him, filling the place with the absurd, animalistic noise. Then he lowers his head, and runs down the aisle.
Backstage Brawl
Your opponent lies on the mat, lupine whines and snarls falling from his metal jaws. The referee takes hold of your arm, and you raise it into the air in response to his insistent tug.
The music which played when you walked down the aisle starts up again, and you notice for the first time that it’s an atrocious adaptation of the Sian Empire’s anthem – butchered almost beyond recognition, rendered with a range of electronic instruments and synthesizers which should have no business touching that celestial music.
Thankfully the noise from the crowd rises to drown it out. You stare at the mass of humanity, and feel their approval wash over you. Dozens of people are taking off wolf-shaped masks, or tearing signs in half – their fickle support sundered by your triumph over their former champion. They’re like parasites…
You vault over the ropes, the plates of your battlesuit giving a soft clunk as you land. Your companions surround you, their faces bright with the thrill of your victory – which brings you all one step closer to saving Illaria.
The aisle and backstage corridors lead you back to your workshop. There you shed your battlesuit, feeling the usual curious sensation that comes from removing armor after wearing it for any significant length of time, and stretch to remove the tightness from your body.
Wilex and Lu Bu are tending to your suit, Talia touching up its paint job, Ragnar and Telemachus discussing the fight blow by blow, when the workshop door flies open. A group of people in jumpsuits rush into the room, their faces twisted in rage.
It flashes into your mind that their clothing matches your opponent’s battlesuit in color. Then the punches start flying.
Sabotage
By the time the arena’s security personnel turn up, the members of the opposing crew are glad to see them – their attempt at revenge having gained them nothing more than a brutal beating. Those who are able to stand are escorted away, and the others dragged from your workshop.
“They’ll be thrown out of the arena,” one of the security officers tells you before leaving. “They won’t bother you again.”
The door closes behind her. When it opens again a few seconds later, you assume that she’s come back to tell you something else. But instead it’s the man wearing the headset.
“You’re up next!” he says.
He begins to slip back into the corridor. But Ragnar bounds over and drags him back with a beefy hand on his collar. The man gives a spluttering gasp as the material squeezes his throat.
“Up next?” the Niflung growls. “We just had a match!”
The man splutters again, and Ragnar releases him – allowing air and words to return to his mouth.
“One… One of the fighters from the final first round match injured himself backstage. We’re bringing your match forward to fill the gap. Mr. Vortex’s orders!”
Ragnar turns to you, and the man seizes the opportunity to escape.
“He’s trying to screw us over!”
“Maybe,” you reply. “But it’s his game, and his rules.”
You suit up once more, and a few minutes later you’re walking down the aisle – as if you had never left the cheering crowd, and the atmosphere of impending violence.
You climb into the ring, and turn to see which opponent they’re going to throw at you. In a tournament without fixed brackets, where the match-ups each round are determined by lot, it could be anyone.
Multicolored spotlights appear in the stands, and begin to dance around the arena. A merry jingle starts to play. You smile as you recognize the entrance music, from the matches you watched the previous night. It could be worse. She shouldn’t give you too much trouble.
A woman in a battlesuit resembling a large red cat tumbles through the doorway, and flies down the aisle in a series of backflips, summersaults, and forward rolls. From ringside she leaps up onto the top rope, then corkscrew jumps high into the air – coming to land in the middle of the ring. She pirouettes, faces you, and blows you a kiss. The crowd goes wild.
She’s quite the performer, and a gifted gymnast. But you’ve seen some of her fights. If you go in hard and fast, you can finish this quickly.
The bell rings, and you begin your rush. Then there’s a loud, piercing whirr, and your left leg locks in place – the metal around the limb becoming as immobile as a lump of iron. You glance down, and see blue crackles of electrical energy. The brawl in the workshop… One of them must have had a chance to plant something on your suit, while the rest of you were distracted in the melee.
The cat-girl hits you a moment after the epiphany does. She leaps at you, all four limbs striking your chest. Your one good leg gives way, and you slam against the canvas with her on top of you.
In that moment, the images on the huge holographic screens at the apex of the arena shift. You and the cat-girl disappear, and she’s there instead… Princess Illaria. There’s worry and sorrow on her face, and you know that she’s watching the match, watching you on the verge of failure.
Then the cat-girl’s fist crashes into your armored face, and bright lights explode in your eyes.
Kelovar Assassin
The noise of the crowd is like that of a billion banshees. It seems to pierce your brain, flood your thoughts. But it heralds your victory. So you smile, and raise your arms in victory as you lie on the canvas.
You blink your eyes, trying to clear your groggy vision, and focus on the screens above you. Illaria’s face is a picture of pure joy, her smile so radiant it seems to sear away all your aches and pains. Then the image disappears, replaced by one of the arena. But you saw enough. You’ve given her hope.
Your companions appear over you, dragging the unconscious cat-girl aside. Ragnar grabs you by the arm, and yanks you up to your one good leg. Before you can protest, he hoists you into the air, sits you on his shoulders, and parades you around the ring as though your battlesuit weighed no more than paper.
Ragnar somehow manages to get you out of the ring without putting you down, and carries you all the way back to the workshop.
You struggle out of the armor, and Wilex examines the suit’s damaged leg.
“It’ll take a little while to repair,” he says. “It’s just as well the next round isn’t until tomorrow.”
You offer to stay and help the Chief Assembler work, telling the others to go have lunch and see some of the city – after making sure that your opponent and her team have already left the building, so you know you won’t have to face another workshop invasion.
The two of you start to repair or replace the damaged components in the suit’s limb. It’s a time-consuming process, as Wilex warned that it would be. When the door to the workshop opens over an hour later, you assume that your friends have returned to keep you company and alleviate some of your boredom.
Instead you’re greeted by the sight of a gorgeous brunette wearing a short skirt and crop top. Your first day in Twisted Steel, and you’re already getting backstage visits from admiring fans?
“Can I help you?” you ask.
She flashes you a dazzling smile as she sashays into the room.
“I-” she begins. Then she breaks off, as you grab a bolt from a nearby table and toss it at her.
She stops in mid stride as it hits her left shoulder, and the smile slips from her face. There’s no thud, as you’d expect from flesh. Instead there’s a shattering noise, and her entire body flickers.
“Nice disguise,” you say. “But the clicking of your heels wasn’t quite right.”
The hologram begins to fade, the woman’s legs disappearing into nothingness whilst the rest of her remains motionless – a frozen frame. A second form appears, as if unfolding from the very same space she occupied, slipping away from the hologram and dropping into a low fighting stance.
He’s wearing a dark bodysuit, studded with glowing circles that resemble eyes. Wispy trails of light drift from some of these, still attached to the floating image of the vanishing woman. One of them, that on his left shoulder, is dark – the eye blinded by the bolt you threw.
You shove Wilex behind you as the assassin raises his pistol.
You saunter over to the red button on the wall, and press it. A few moments later the door opens, and the man with the headset appears.
“Yes?” he asks. Then his eyes widen, as he sees the man on the ground.
“Someone left this dead assassin in my workshop. Get rid of him.”
Then you turn your attention back to your damaged battlesuit, leaving him gawping.
As you expect, the assassin has nothing on him which identifies his client. Such incredible sloppiness would be far too much to hope for. Perhaps it was one of the opponents you defeated. Or else someone still in the tournament, who wants to get rid of their toughest competition. For the benefit of your ego, you hope it’s the latter.
Either way, after a backstage attack, sabotage to your suit, and an assassination attempt, you realize that people take Twisted Steel very seriously. And if you intend to win the tournament, you have to be on your guard on both sides of the ropes.
You ask Lu Bu to spend the night in the workshop. Since he doesn’t require sleep, he makes the perfect sentry. That should put paid to any nocturnal visits. The rest of you return to your living quarters, where Talia and Ragnar tell you that they’ll keep watch – leaving you to get a good night’s sleep before the following day’s matches.
|-|
Hyperia (2)= Hyperia (2)
Ragnar and Wilex are having breakfast when you emerge from your bedroom. Or at least Ragnar’s having breakfast. Wilex seems to be watching him intently, as though wondering how much red meat he can consume before even his cybernetic guts give way. Telemachus and Talia are sat in front of a huge holo-screen, watching one of the matches from yesterday.
“Anything happen last night?” you ask.
“Window,” says Ragnar. That laconic response given, he returns to munching on the pile of bacon before him.
You move to the large window that dominates a wall of the room, and look out into the sunlit park below.
Several men and women wearing police uniforms are milling around down there, most of them standing near to a group of glowing shapes drawn on the grass. Each resembles the outline of a human figure – though some appear to be missing limbs, or in one case a head.
“Didn’t want to wake you up,” Ragnar says. “So I used my axe instead of my gun.”
“One of them was part of a fighter’s crew,” Talia says. “The police identified him from his head.”
“Then they confiscated it for evidence,” Ragnar grunts. “I was going to stick it outside our workshop as a warning to the other bastards.”
“Is Twisted Steel always like this?” you ask.
“Not usually,” Telemachus replies. “But everyone wants to get the Princess.”
You remember seeing him backstage when you were returning from your first match. He was interviewing one of the other fighters.
“I asked some of our leading superstars what they plan to do if they win the lovely Princess Illaria,” he says.
Several faces appear on the screen in succession, each belonging to one of the fighters left in the tournament, and they give their answers to the question. Most are predictably vulgar, and Talia clamps her hands around Telemachus’ ears to avoid corrupting his young mind any more than his spoiled upbringing and your adventures together have already done. The two of them struggle on the couch, as he tries to pull away from her grasp.
You note each face, and each name displayed at the bottom of the screen. At least now you’ll know which ones you should make suffer.
An attractive blonde woman appears on the screen, the text below naming her as ‘Natasha Cybersmash: Twisted Steel Champion’. Her face seems somehow predatory, her cold blue eyes those of a serpent mesmerizing its prey, the redness of her lips bringing to mind the stains around a tigress’ mouth after she’s torn into her prey.
“When I win the tournament,” she says, “I’ll sell that prissy bitch to the Centurians.”
You head to the arena building long before the day’s matches are set to begin, and enter your workshop to find Lu Bu standing to attention, his weapon attachments on his arms. He bows.
You glance down at the large red stains on the floor. Lu Bu follows your gaze.
“There were two different groups of intruders over the course of the night. But the security personnel were kind enough to remove their corpses.”
“Seems like no one wants to play fair around here,” Talia says.
“Apparently not,” you reply. “But if that’s the way they want to do things…”
Playing Dirty (1)
Some of the other crews and fighters are already in their workshops as well, seeing to their battlesuits or making other preparations. They’re beyond your reach for the moment. If you started brawling in a workshop, there’s too much risk that someone would be able to summon security. You don’t want to get booted from the arena, like your assailants were yesterday.
But some workshops are uninhabited at this early hour, and one of those is your target.
“There’s a guard outside the door,” says Telemachus, returning from a reconnaissance mission.
“Man or woman?” you ask.
“Man.”
“Think you could get him out of the way?” you ask, turning to Talia.
“No problem. Guns or breasts?”
“Breasts. Don’t start any gunfights in the corridor.”
Talia nods, and slips out of the room. You and Telemachus wait for a minute or so before following.
Sure enough, the guard is further down the corridor from his post. His attention is on Talia, who gives a musical giggle as you approach. His back is to the section of corridor containing the workshop door he’s supposed to be guarding. It’s almost too easy. But if the team didn’t want their battlesuit tampered with, they shouldn’t have hired such an idiot to guard it.
The two of you creep down the corridor, each making your tread as stealthy as possible. You note with approval that Telemachus is a natural when it comes to sneaking. He barely makes a sound as he moves. You’d thought about bringing Wilex for the technical knowledge which will be required, but the boy is proving much better suited to the task.
Playing Dirty (2)
Your timing proves fortunate. Less than fifteen minutes after you return to your workshop, you hear the explosion.
You step out into the corridor, and saunter along to the room you and Telemachus slipped into earlier. Several security officials and a few members of other teams have gathered outside it, filling the air with an excited babble.
Peering between the press of people, you catch sight of a helmet lying on the floor. A single glimpse of the red mess at the neck end confirms that it was tenanted at the time of the explosion. You saunter back to your own workshop to relay the good news.
Your next stratagem requires a little patience. But at last the opportunity arrives. Another fighter, along with a crew member, is heading to the toilets at the end of the corridor. What better place to catch someone with their guard down?
You and Ragnar enter a few moments later, and approach the two men as they stand at the urinals.
Cage Match
When you leave the toilets, one man is lying in the middle of the floor, the wall above the urinals reddened by contact with his head. The other was perhaps less fortunate. Ragnar dealt with him, and he drowned with his head wedged into a toilet. Still, it was no more than he deserved for what he said about the Princess.
Back in the workshop you don your battlesuit, and listen to the sounds of commotion from further down the corridor.
As expected, your door opens a short while later. With fighters dropping like flies, you knew it wouldn’t be long until it was time for you to step into the ring again.
“You’re up next!” the man with the headset says. He seems flustered, but you’d hardly expect him to be thrilled about two fighters being slaughtered on his watch.
You make your way to the arena’s floor, the screams of thousands ringing in your ears as approach the door. Again the terrible rendition of the imperial anthem plays, and the six of you make your way down the aisle.
You glance up at the big screens, and see the pictures of two men. Each one has a large red X flashing on top of them. Ragnar laughs, his bellow audible even over the immense wave of noise from the crowd, as he recognizes the man he drowned. The other one was wearing the battlesuit that exploded.
Fans are crying in the stands, distraught over the news that they’ll never see their heroes fight again. Others are laughing. Some are even holding up pictures of you, and somehow that makes you feel ever so slightly unclean. But you draw solace from the fact that once you have the Princess back, you’ll never set foot on Hyperia again.
A gong sounds as you stand in the ring, an immense crashing noise that reverberates throughout the stadium. It crashes once more, this time giving way to the melodic strains of a zither.
A tall, burly figure appears at the end of the aisle. He drops into a broad squatting stance, and hurls something over his shoulder. He’s too far away for you to see what it is, but you remember him from the holo-vids. He’s a sumo wrestler, throwing salt in the ancient custom of his art.
The man rises out of his squat, and thunders down towards the ring. Each footstep is accompanied by a fresh crash from the gong, as if the ground is shaking under his great bulk. He clambers up onto the ring apron, and steps over the top rope. He’s even bigger than he looked on the vids, towering head and shoulders above you, a juggernaut in his imposing battlesuit.
Something catches your eye, and you glance above your opponent to see long metal rods emerging from the tall corner posts. Each one extends until it meets that projected by its adjacent number, forming a square in the air overhead. A feeling of unease fills you. Then beams of electric energy flash into life on all four sides of the ring, like the bars of a cage. That’s not good…
That’s not good…
The bell rings, and the sumo wrestler charges, moving incredibly fast for someone with that much bulk. He’s on you before you can dodge, absorbing the punch you throw at his face as if it were nothing. You find yourself driven across the ring in his grasp, towards the dancing electricity.
Handicap Match
The sumo wrestler twitches as the electricity surges through his suit, dozens of tiny sparks from fried systems sputtering in the gaps between the metal plates. His limbs and head shudder against the mat as his suit goes haywire, making him look like an immense fish left flopping on the beach.
Talia catches your eye at ringside, and she points skyward. You look up, and see the Princess on the screens. As before, her face is radiant with the thrill of your victory, at the knowledge that you’re reaching out for her, drawing ever closer.
You look back down, as you see the dark mass moving in the corner of your vision. The sumo wrestler is struggling to his feet – the lights of his damaged suit flickering, reminding you of a dying man’s shallow breaths. His suit’s actuators must be fried, and yet he’s moving the metal around his limbs by raw muscle power.
He totters for a second as he stands, looking for a moment as if he’ll collapse once more. But he manages to keep his balance, and stares down at you through the faint red glow of his vision slit.
You slip into a combat stance, ready for the behemoth to hurl himself at you. But he doesn’t attack. Instead he bows to you. Then he turns, looks up at the monitor, and bows as if to the Princess.
The electric bars disappear from around ring, and the metal rods that generated them retract into the corner posts once more. The sumo wrestler’s crew members help him out of the ring, all of them working together to bear some of his immense weight, and together they walk down the aisle.
You’re about to jump over the ropes, to join your companions at ringside, when a hush falls over the arena.
“Not so fast!” comes a voice, from the stadium’s speakers.
You look up at the screens, and see the face of Vince Vortex – as red and wide-eyed as before.
“It seems we’ve had a few unfortunate accidents today…”
The pictures of the two men you killed appear on the screens again, each with the flashing red X to indicate their elimination from both the tournament and the mortal realm. Then they’re compressed, shoved over to the left of the screens, as another picture moves in from the right to take up that third of each image. This one shows a woman you’ve never seen before. A fresh red X appears, flashing over her face in harmony with the others.
You look to your companions, and they respond with gestures of confusion. No, doesn’t look like any of you killed this one. Must have been someone else.
The three pictures disappear, replaced by Vortex’s face, with its manic grin.
“That means we now have an odd number of competitors in this tournament!” he says, his eyes growing so wide as he reaches the last word that you expect his eyeballs to simply pop out from the sockets. “So, what do we do?”
There’s an incomprehensible roar from the crowd. But it evaporates the moment Vortex continues.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do! We’ll have a handicap match! The Princess’ champion against not one, but two opponents! If they win, they get to battle each other to see who advances to the final round!”
Vortex’s grin grows even wider, splitting his entire face from side to side.
“Welcome to Twisted Steel!”
His image disappears, and the screens show a close-up of the entranceway. There’s a cacophony of sound, a mutated abomination of music. A man and woman wearing black and red battlesuits emerge into a flashing spotlight.
Their suits are color-coordinated… Has Vortex been planning something like this from the start? But you force that thought from your mind as they run down the aisle, and slide into the ring. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you have to beat them.
“Oh… One more thing!” says Vortex, flashing back onto the screens. “This match… is a weapons match!”
The crowd screams in delight.
A weapons match? The Twisted Steel information package said that weapons matches would be announced in advance, and that you’d be disqualified if you brought a weapon to a regular match. You’re unarmed, and so are your opponents. Then you see that they’re looking upward, and you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
Two hover drones, like the ones that contain the arena’s cameras, descend from the darkness. One has a huge, orange-bladed axe hanging from a cord beneath it. The other has a pair of nunchuks dangling there. Both of them swoop down towards your opponents, until they’re low enough for the man to grab the axe and the woman the nunchuks.
You look to your companions, and see that Talia and Lu Bu are missing. Telemachus and Wilex are pointing, gesturing – and you understand. They’ve gone to get your sword. Ragnar holds up his axe, and shrugs his shoulders as though in confusion. You shake your head. If you use a weapon made from unauthorized parts, you’ll be disqualified.
The Princess flickers into being on the screens high above your opponents, and you see the fear in her eyes as the bell rings and your enemies advance, brandishing their weapons.
You have to avoid them, until your friends bring your sword…
Natasha Cybersmash
You dive aside as the axe chops at you, breaking into a roll that sends shudders of pain through your body from a dozen places. You complete the motion and rise to your feet, but your body whines in protest.
Somehow you’ve managed to avoid taking a solid hit from the axe, but the nunchucks have done their harm. Your suit’s dented and cracked, the responses of the actuators slow and sluggish where systems have been damaged.
“Sword!”
The cry is piercing, cutting through the roars of the crowd. It couldn’t have been made by a human throat. You hazard a glance to the left, and see Lu Bu and Talia. She’s holding your weapon.
Your adversaries see them too. When you twitch, as if about to dart to that side of the ring, they rush over there to cut you off. But Talia knows what you intend. A second later the sword flies through the air, arcing above their heads, the blade flashing in the arena’s lights as it spins end over end.
When your hand closes around the handle, the cheers of the crowd are deafening.
The woman reacts first. She leaps at you, swinging her nunchucks, trying to bring you down before you can bring the weapon to bear. But she’s not quick enough. The sword flashes, and takes her in the throat. She falls to the mat, blood spurting from the crack in her armor.
The axe cleaves at your head, and you move into a side-step. But your leg is stuck, and in that frozen moment, as your gaze is fixed upon the orange blade, you realize that the dying woman has wrapped her arms around the limb.
Your sword comes up just in time, and there’s a flash of sparks as the blade breaks beneath the heavy axe head, the end whirling away through the air. The man howls in triumph. His blow is thwarted, but your weapon is ruined. He has the advantage.
The howl ends along with his life, as you grab the shaft of his axe, and jab the broken fragment of blade at the end of your sword hilt through his eye. The lens of his helmet gives way with a crunch, and the metal pierces the soft tissues beneath – all the way to the brain.
The hilt is stuck, embedded in his skull, and you let it fall along with his corpse – a souvenir of his final match.
On the screens the Princess cheers. There’s no sound from the transmission, but that generated by your aural implant is like the music of the spheres.
Then she’s gone, and Vince Vortex’s deranged grin is back.
“Congratulations!” he booms, filling the sudden silence of the crowd. “A hell of a fight! But it seems you’re not the only one who’s been fighting. One of our remaining three contestants was found dead backstage…”
The image of a workshop – your workshop – appears on the screen. A woman in a pink battlesuit is sprawled on the ground, a gaping hole in the middle of her chest.
“Now how could that have happened?” Vortex asks, his eyes glaring with inhuman intensity.
You turn to Talia and Lu Bu. She makes an apologetic shrug of her shoulders, and mouths the word ‘sorry’.
“Well, that means we only have two competitors left in this tournament: Natasha Cybersmash and the Princess’ champion! So why don’t we let them settle it right now?”
The crowd bellows their approval, as a series of power chords sound over the stadium’s speakers. You look to the entrance, and see a woman in green armor striding down the aisle, a long metal whip dangling from her hand.
“And it will be a weapons match!”
Attendants crawl into the ring, and start dragging your late opponents away. One of them reaches down for the dropped axe, and you shove him aside – sending him tumbling through the ropes.
You snatch up the weapon as Natasha Cybersmash jumps onto the ring apron, and vaults over the ropes – her metal whip lashing through the air and slashing against the canvas.
Just one more match…
Axe and whip lie forgotten across the ring, entangled and discarded in the middle of a struggle at such close quarters that they proved a hindrance rather than an advantage. Now the two of you grapple, knees, elbows, clawing hands, and sweeping legs forming your arsenals.
She manages to pull free from your grasp, and takes a step – almost a skip – backwards. Then she shoots in low, the space created only to set up her takedown. Her arms reach for your legs, to take them out from under you.
But you’re not going to fall for that. Not with her watching, her fate intertwined with yours.
You sprawl, your legs spreading as you widen your base to thwart her tackle. Your arms hook under hers, and your fingers meet in a clasp on her back. You stomp against the mat, forcing yourself upright, dragging her along with you as she thrashes to break free. Then you leap into the air – your legs swinging upwards like a pendulum – and drive her head into the canvas.
She’s motionless, out cold or dead. The difference is of no consequence. You rise to your feet, and lift your arms in triumph. The match – the tournament – is over.
You look up at the screens, but they’re blank. There’s a twinge of disappointment that you can’t meet her gaze in that moment of victory.
Your companions rush into the ring, and surround you. Talia leans in close, to be heard over the apocalyptic din of the fans.
“Had to kill her! Wouldn’t let us get your sword!”
You nod. It doesn’t matter now.
Darkness fills the arena, the lights swallowed in an instant. The crowd gives a soft howl of anticipation.
A spotlight shines at the entrance to the backstage area, a single bright pool of light in the void. The door slides away, and she steps into the light. Illaria. Your Princess.
It takes you a moment to register the others. At first your gaze, your mind, are filled with her and her alone. But then you see the person standing next to her, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a manic expression on his face. Behind the two of them are four of the Twisted Steel security personnel, clutching laser rifles.
Part of you wants to leap over the ropes, to run to her. But you keep yourself in check. Now isn’t the time to screw things up with a moment of rashness. Wait for him to hand her over…
They come down the aisle, the spotlight following them. When they reach the ring it disappears, and the stadium’s lights return – driving away the darkness, bathing everything with glorious light.
The four guards enter the ring first, three of them forming a line between your side of the ring and that nearer the aisle. The other one moves to sit on the bottom rope – lowering it for the Princess and Vince Vortex as he leads her up the small staircase, onto the apron. The two of them duck between the ropes, Vortex with a swagger, the Princess with all the grace of the imperial court.
“What a tournament!” says Vortex, and his voice comes from stadium’s sound system. It occurs to you that he’s not carrying a microphone. He has one built into his throat. “We saw a fighter…”
He strides across the ring, past the guards, and clasps you by the shoulder.
“…a fighter walk through the fires of hell!”
There’s a burst of applause from the crowd, and you’re almost certain that Vortex’s enormous grin grows wider as it increases in volume.
“We saw a champion risk everything for the most beautiful jewel in the universe!” He turns to Illaria, whose expression bears a warring mixture of anger and relief. “The Princess of the Sian Empire!”
Vortex gives a sign, and at last the guards part – allowing her past. She darts across the ring, and then she’s in your midst, her arms around your neck, Talia’s neck – drawing the two of you and the others into one great embrace.
“To the victor the spoils!” bellows Vortex.
The Princess’ face flushes in anger, and you read her thoughts as if they were your own. The dishonor, the insult… A member of the imperial family taken as a slave, made a prize in a madman’s game.
“One moment,” you whisper.
You pull away from the others, and stride towards Vince Vortex. His guards move, their hands twitching on their weapons. But he waves them back. You come to a stop right in front of him, so close that his wide eyes and absurd smile seem to dominate your entire field of vision.
You sense the movement of your companions as they take up their positions behind you, awaiting your lead. Again silence descends on the crowd.
Vortex gives a deep, powerful laugh.
“Before you do anything rash, let me remind you of rules of Twisted Steel! If a fighter or one of their teammates performs an act of violence against a referee or promoter, all that fighter’s victories are considered null and void. All prizes forfeit.”
He laughs again as he sees the hesitation on your face.
“That’s right – all prizes forfeit. If you or any of your friends attack me, the Princess becomes the property of Twisted Steel!”
You turn to your companions.
“Ragnar…”
“Yes?” He comes towards you.
“You’re fired.”
“Heh.”
The sight of the grin vanishing from Vince Vortex’s face might be the most amusing thing you’ve ever seen. But if so, a close second place would be the sight of Ragnar’s axe cleaving his skull in half.
“A dead man can’t reward you for your bravery, can he?” you say to the guards, who seem trapped in indecision, their weapons half raised.
They look to each other in silent conference. Then they nod, and move out of your way.
The Princess comes to your side, along with the rest of your companions. Then you walk down the aisle, to the cheers of the crowd.
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