by A W Wang
The mass of confusion that is the enemy retreats toward the entrance.
My next swing connects with the helmet of a man locked in a deathmatch with another teammate, a stocky woman. The strike allows enough of a distraction for her to slip her sword into his ribs.
I stride after my routed foes.
The enemy leader stands huge between the broken doors, resolute in the pelting rain and gusting wind. The fleeing forms rally around his imposing figure. A crack of lightning glints off the line of their raised weapons.
I’m in trouble.
Thunder echoes as they step forward in unison.
I stand my ground, whirling my torches.
A sword blocks my attack, and an instant later, a tempest of swirling metal and dark shadows surges around me.
Engulfed by the mayhem, I fight with ferocious swings, but a blade slices across my midsection while an ax glances off my shoulder armor, cutting my left bicep.
Although the limb can barely function, I use it to ward off strikes and swing my right arm at anything I can hit.
The enemy leader shoves Cat to the ground.
Stings of metal pierce my armor as I charge at him and land a blow on his back.
As his hair sizzles, he turns and shoves his Claymore through my gut.
Stunned, I feel myself go limp, only being held up by the flat metal boring through my insides.
As his cold eyes stare, their fury enhanced by the glow of the orange flames, he twists the sword.
Pain, more excruciating than anything in my memory, shoots through my body. I groan, dropping the torches.
By the time he pulls the blade out, other sharp objects have stabbed into my torso.
Blood pours from many wounds as I slump to the wet tiles.
The fighting moves past with scuffles of boots.
We’re losing, but I can only stare at the patterns of the flames playing on the dark beams crossing the ceiling. I can’t even move a finger to help.
A gust flies through the open doors, spattering me with rain, and whips beyond the swirling figures to fan the flames burning the king.
I cough blood, laughing because the charred wooden face has the same bland expression. The king can handle pain better than I can. An irrational part of me wonders if torching the enemy’s objective is against the rules.
Why do I care?
Cat stumbles back into the fray, but there are too many.
We’ve lost.
The dark shadow of a man outlined by the torchlight looms over me, raising a sword.
I think of the image of the red-haired woman outlined against the sunlight. I hope I never forget her.
A giant ax flashes across my vision, knocking the man down and splitting his breastplate, chest, and part of the floor with a resounding clang.
“Cleave the meat!” Block shouts. The fighting stills as Block chants, “Pound the meat, cleave the meat, eat the meat!”
A soaking wet Jet rushes past him, screaming a battle cry with a long dagger in either hand.
Block charges and battles the leader, while Jet jumps on someone’s shoulders, stabbing and riding the poor soul into the ground.
Blood, streaked by the rain, drips down both their faces.
More sounds come from the fighting as blackness swirls at the edge of my vision.
With sadness, I realize that even though I’ve been successful and uninjured in these last scenarios, the fingers of darkness have never left. Death has been hiding, waiting for this moment and gathering its strength for this final push.
Armor rattles as the enemy leader falls dead at my feet. Then Jet dashes past, her hair on fire.
The room stills, and I vaguely sense running.
Something I’m supposed to be good at…
Cat’s face fills my fading sight, interrupting the odd thought.
When I speak, only blood gurgles from my mouth.
“Don’t talk. Save your strength,” Cat says. “Block and Jet are chasing down the last one.”
As she leans over me, trying to patch all the leaking holes in my body, my breaths grow ragged and my vision ebbs, shrinking against the growing blackness.
An icy cold leaks into my skin, and I shiver from shock.
Death is going to win.
Cat squeezes my cheeks hard. Concern covers her expression. Instead of slapping me, she shakes my face and says something.
The words get lost in the storm. As I gasp for air, fighting the fluid filling my lungs, my heart stops beating.
Cat’s rough touch fades.
Everything stills across my body, and my consciousness falls down a long tunnel.
I wonder if I’ll see a ray of light before the end.
Just as my vision dims, golden sparkles flare across the blackness.
A circle of light approaches, growing ever brighter and larger.
Is this the afterlife?
A hard slap strikes my cheek. A stronger one arrives a moment later.
The brightness fades into Cat’s pretty face. Surprisingly, her eyes are filled with worry.
Scents of lemon and honey register in my nose.
I’m in the prep room.
Another slap hits hard enough to rock my head.
I blink.
“He’s back,” Cat says with a strange happiness. “You lost a lot of blood. I could swear your luck was going to run dry. You’re one tough fucker.”
An involuntary shudder ripples through my body.
Although I want to say something, my mouth won’t comply.
I still haven’t accepted I’m not dead.
Jet says, “Sorry we were late. But you guys did an amazing job with the defense.”
My eyes jump to her, remembering the image of her stabbing people with burning purple-tipped hair. Restored to full health, she seems none the worse for the wear and more beautiful than ever.
I wonder why?
“That’s your relief from still being alive and not a zero,” internal me says, recovering from the wounds faster than I can.
Cat says appreciatively, “It was mostly Vic. He used the torches. The fire dance was pretty impressive. Way, way outside of the box thinking.”
Jet points at me, snickering. “You were the one who burned the king! That’s awesome.”
Cat joins in the gaiety with a howl of laughter.
It takes a moment for me to realize the sound seems strange because I’ve never seen Cat truly happy.
Block says, “Meat!”
Respect underlies his tone. While I’m pretty sure my imagination isn’t playing tricks on me, I hope I haven’t reached the point where I’m understanding the nuances behind the oaf’s one-word vocabulary.
Jet crosses over and slaps me on the shoulder.
I try to react but only succeed in unclenching my mouth. No words follow.
Cat speaks for me. “That’s the best you’ve ever fought. You had them on the run.”
At least for a second.
A pop sounds and Lan appears.
Everyone returns to their seats.
“Felicitations are in order,” the miniature knight says, his English accent more ambiguous than ever. “You defeated incredible odds. This is certainly the finest group I have ever known.”
My eyes rove over the semicircle. Only Cat, Jet, Block, and I have returned.
Lan hovers in front of me. “And you, sir, have only survived by a miracle.”
Again, Cat answers for me. “I thought you said there was no room for luck in this place.”
“And yet, this man continues to exist. Every time he returns, it’s only more proof of his good fortune,” the avatar says as a backhanded compliment while speaking as if I’m a wooden mannequin like the king. “But, for all of that, I’ve never witnessed anyone so close to death who has returned. You are a marvel, sir.” The pennant waves in the stillness while he raises his lance for a salute. “To resilience!”
Still unable to speak, I answer by dipping my head and raising my li
ps into something resembling a grin.
Jet laughs, misinterpreting the malformed expression as swagger. “Don’t worry. There are plenty more battles to come. And if you keep fighting like that, we’ll be at ten sigmas in no time!”
“Meat!” Block chimes in agreement.
As Lan goes through the debrief, fear trickles into my nerves. Being resilient isn’t the reassurance I was looking for. Resilience won’t stop swords or bullets, and over the long run, only being resilient won’t cut it in this universe.
Even Lan announcing my score crossing over four does nothing to alleviate the puddle of dread filling my being.
When we’re plopped back into the barracks, I stare at the domed ceiling, unsure of what to do.
The mattress below creaks, and Cat’s head pops over the side of the bunk.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Just needed a bit longer to reacclimate from the scenario,” I say, surprised by my mind regaining control of my body and more surprised by her concern.
She smiles. “That’s good. You really impressed tonight. I wasn’t kidding when I said that was the best you’ve ever fought. And you made quite the jump. I never thought you’d make four, and two-tenths is the most I’ve ever seen anyone get in one scenario.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you are on the road to getting better,” she says hopefully.
Instead of vocalizing, I bob my head.
“Okay, see you in the morning.”
While Cat settles into the lower bunk, my thoughts whirl back to the fight.
The sad part is she’s right. This scenario was the most instinctive and best I’ve ever fought. However, I can’t afford another fight like this one. The next time…
I slam my head back into the pillow, shuddering.
The next time, just one more slash or stab in the wrong place, and instead of being the person who came closer to death than anyone, I’ll be just another dead person courtesy of the Ten Sigma Program.
How much longer can I count on luck? My bucket of miracles isn’t bottomless. And contrary to Lan’s laudatory remarks, resilience isn’t a trait to rely on to reach ten sigmas.
Unless I do something different, I’m not getting out of this place.
I need to get better.
But without help, that’s not happening.
I blow out a breath, hating the choice I have to make. When exhaustion overtakes me, I fall into a restless sleep, where muscle-bound men and women take turns skewering my body with exotic blades.
Thirty
Midday sunlight beats on my head as I hustle across the almost deserted Commons and toward the towering shapes of the eastern skyline.
The skin on the inside of my forearm begs to be cut.
I’ve got bigger worries…
Although I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been wounded, coming as close to death as I did clarified my standing in the Ten Sigma Program. While I might be getting better, any improvement is marginal at best. The team’s success has been due to Jet and Block and, of course, a huge helping of Cat. My lull from being hurt has only disguised the many inadequacies of my fighting abilities. I’m barely balancing on the tightrope above the sea of death, and it’s only a matter of time before I fall.
If I’m to survive and find the girl with the red hair, I need to get better.
Much, much better.
After stepping off the grass, I stop short of the narrow shadows of the skyline, eyeing a dark gap between two broad but garish towers.
“There has to be a different solution. This is a bad idea,” internal me says.
“Every choice is bad, and I’ve got to pick the least bad of them.”
As punishment for dawdling, I allow my sadistic desires to slash “RED” into my forearm.
Rather than starting on “HAIR,” I take a deep breath and step from the sunlight.
I tread down the lonely path, stealing glances at massive patios and other gravity-defying obstructions above the cave-like space. Although stray beams of daylight stab through the overhangs, the surroundings darken with each stride.
When I loop past an arched column, familiar sounds echo, adding to the eerie atmosphere.
My footsteps slow as I explain to internal me, “This is something I have to do. You understand, right?”
After a silent moment, I say with more urgency, “Hello, are you there?”
“I’m shaking my head with disdain.”
“You know physical gestures don’t work in mental conversations.”
Faint claps echo.
“Bravo, that’s the only thing you’ve said today that makes any sense.”
I roll my eyes because arguing with some imaginary version of me isn’t helping the situation. With the gnawing feeling of heading to the gallows, I keep going. Only my future is at stake.
“And your soul, dummy.”
Internal me receives slow head shakes as an answer.
Before many steps, a musky yet appealing odor seeps through the citrus scents of the sanctuary.
Jet.
Hurrying, I turn the final corner and exit the shade of the towers, passing carved stone walls that widen into an oval garden.
My breath catches, and I stop.
While cool air flows from a waterfall near my side, my attention stays riveted on the center of the ornate space. Under an artistic lattice of metallic birds swaying in the gentle breeze kneels Jet. Splotchy patches of sunshine glisten across her sweaty shoulders.
She’s bottomless.
Her green eyes meet my stare, and she brushes aside loose strands of purple-tipped hair. A sly smile crosses her face.
A breath rushes down my throat as my body decides that air is important.
“Meat,” Block says from between her thighs.
I blink, realizing what he’s been doing.
“Well,” she says coyly, “this is a pleasant surprise.”
After I expend several moments forming rational thoughts, I reply, “I wanted to talk more about your offer.”
“You mean you want to be more like me and Blockie.”
“Meat,” Block adds.
“I’d like to learn more.”
Her smile widens as she lowers herself onto his mouth.
“Well?” I ask.
“Are you afraid of dying?”
I nod.
“Liar,” she says with a chuckle. “You’re afraid because you might not get to what you’re cutting into your arm.”
“What difference does that make?”
She responds by pushing her arms through the band covering her chest and lifting the thin material over her head. After tossing the garment away, she arches in a sexy posture, thrusting her chest at me. Although she’s not well-endowed, her breasts are oversized for her thin frame and shaped like perfect teardrops.
“Oh, you haven’t seen me completely naked yet?” she says.
Not trusting my voice, I shake my head with small motions.
“Didn’t you watch us during that first night?”
“It was too dark.”
She smirks as her bottom rises from Block’s mouth. “Then I guess this is more of a treat.”
As she scoots down his gargantuan torso, I remind myself that sex means nothing. However, while I remain flaccid, my gaze never leaves her perfect form. Some unexplainable magnetism radiates from her persona.
Another breath halts in my throat as she rises and grabs his thick erection, adjusting herself above him.
As a soft breeze tinkles the metal birds, heat touches my loins. My thighs shift.
Somehow, her presence electrifies everything.
Jet laughs at my discomfort with a malicious twinkle in her eyes.
I blurt, “You mentioned having me join up with you?”
“Meat,” Block says with anger, his muscles rippling and head tilting back to glare at me.
“Be quiet, the adults need to talk,” Jet says, placing her hand over his lips.
A muffled sound, which I assume is the word “Meat,” comes through her fingers.
“Blockie,” she says with irritation.
When he nods, she straightens, pushing her shoulders back, once again drawing my attention to her breasts.
“Do you want me?” she asks.
Unwilling to surrender, I point at my privates, which are anything but ready for sex.
Her lips curl. “But that can change. Don’t you want it to?”
“I just want to learn how to fight and survive.”
She makes a pouty expression, which manages to come across as sexy.
To fill the uncomfortable silence, I add, “Obviously you’re attractive, even perfect, but I’m not getting excited.”
She answers by using a squirming motion to lower herself onto Block. A wince interrupts the pleasure erupting into her expression, and she lets out a painful moan.
“I’m a little tight down there. But pain always helps the enjoyment, don’t you think?”
In an effort to be witty and nonchalant, I answer, “I’d think with all the practice you’d be used to it by now.”
“Bravo, that will show her,” internal me says with an extra helping of sarcasm.
I frown.
An innocent chuckle oozes from Jet. “After every scenario, I return in a new body. A new pristine, virginal body.”
My expression flattens as all activity in my brain freezes. Helpless, I allow my blinking eyes to trail down the curves of her flawless form, stopping where the junction of her thighs engulfs Block.
“That can’t be true.”
Jet traces her hands over her breasts and down her flat stomach. When she reaches her sex, she pulls off Block. After a moment of pushing into herself, she holds up a finger. “See?”
My stare focuses on the virginal blood covering her fingertip.
Besides not wanting to die, how bad could it be to team up? They’d certainly form a strong partnership. And I can’t argue with their success.
With her eyes alight with desire, she demurely asks, “Is this what you want?”
As my head bobs, she dabs the blood under her chin. The red streaks look sexy on her because everything looks sexy on her.
I think back to the scenario in the dusty brownstones when Block’s face was painted.