Editing LotS/The Story/The Search for the Princess/Hyperia (1)

“Hyperia isn’t like Drekchester,” says Wilex’s voice, over the ship’s communicator.

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“Very well. I accept.”

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“I have to make my own battlesuit?”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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But the section you just came to took you by surprise, and caused your outburst.

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“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.”

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“Great.” Talia sighs. “Anyone here know how to make a battlesuit?”

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“I do.”

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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.

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“You don’t become a Chief Assembler without being able to throw a little tech together,” Wilex continues.

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He strides up to the desk, where the receptionist is casting an irritated stare at him, and holds out a datapad.

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“Here’s our completed requisition sheet, showing which parts from your list we require. Please have them sent to our workshop.”

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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.

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“Your parts will be waiting for you, sir,” she says – managing to fill ‘sir’ with such venom that it sounds more like ‘you bastard’.

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Wilex simply smiles, nods in thanks, and comes over to where the rest of you are sitting.

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“I took the liberty of perusing the material myself,” he explains. “And it came to my attention that I might be needed.”

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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.

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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.

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“As a Chief Assembler, I don’t have many opportunities to get my hands dirty these days,” he explains.

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In a few moments he’s issuing orders to the five of you, assigning tasks which will bring your battlesuit to fruition.

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“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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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.

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“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.

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“Showtime, captain!” Talia pats you on the shoulder, though you barely feel it through the armor.

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Then you almost pitch forward, as Ragnar thumps you on the back.

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“Remember – keep beating on them until the referee pulls you off,” he says. “It’s the only way to make sure.”

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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.

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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.

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The doorway slides open, revealing a long aisle that splits two great mounds of screaming men, women, and children, and ends at the ring.

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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.

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There’s an immense howl over the stadium’s sound system, like that of an animal, followed by a roaring, clashing, feral-sounding tune.

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The theatrics are crass, ridiculous. But somehow a tingle runs up and down your spine.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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It flashes into your mind that their clothing matches your opponent’s battlesuit in color. Then the punches start flying.

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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.

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“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.

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“You’re up next!” he says.

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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.

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“Up next?” the Niflung growls. “We just had a match!”  

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The man splutters again, and Ragnar releases him – allowing air and words to return to his mouth.

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“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!”

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Ragnar turns to you, and the man seizes the opportunity to escape.

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“He’s trying to screw us over!”

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Then the cat-girl’s fist crashes into your armored face, and bright lights explode in your eyes.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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