WICK (The Spark Form Chronicles Book 1)

by Matt Doyle

  They gave me some knee high boots as well, ‘cause that’s apparently what’s sexy at the moment. I’m cool with that though, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, I always say. The boots are black like the swimsuit, and they zip up along the outer sides. They’ve even managed to recreate the hyperactive web thingy by tying the laces at odd angles and dying parts of them blue and red.

  Yep, this’ll do nicely.

  “Good. I understand that Rebecca did your make-up. Any problems?”

  “Nope. Totally professional.” I reply cheerily, striking another pose.

  “That’s good to hear. Right then, you’re first on, so we’ll need you to report to the sound and lighting techs pretty soon. They'll run through any entrance specifics with you and you'll be able to pitch ideas during the meeting. They usually have something in mind but they're generally quite flexible if a competitor has an idea that's useable. You’ll be entering to some mid-paced Latin Dance Music by the way.”

  “Really?” I cut in. “Aren’t we bordering a bit on racial stereotyping with that?”

  He shrugs. “We’re playing to the lowest common denominator here. Stereotypes are easier to understand.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Anyway,” he continues, scrolling through the schedule on his phone, “after the tech meeting, you’ll need to register your deck at the main competitor’s desk.”

  Oh shit.

  “If you prefer, I can take you past there on the way through though. It's not a major detour and the invigilators should have everything up and running by now. Thinking on it, that may best. I'll call ahead before we leave and check that they're ready. The process is fairly quick, so …” he trails off, finally looking up long enough to notice my embarrassed smile. “What?”

  “I may have left my deck at the hotel.”

  Sean’s jaw drops open in shock. “You may have left it at the hotel, or you have left it at the hotel?”

  “OK,” I say, slowly, “I have left my deck at the hotel.”

  He stares at me in disbelief, his mouth trying and failing to work its way around an appropriate response.

  “C’mon,” I say, “it’s not that bad. You’ve got cards here, right? I know what cards are in my deck. I’ll just borrow some duplicates and use those today. It’s cool.”

  “It’s not that simple. We only keep a couple of basic sets and a handful of rarities on hand here.” He taps away at his phone a few times then looks up and asks, “What Spark Form were you using?”

  “The Ashen.”

  He sighs. “Which version? Actually, scratch that, we don’t have any Ashen cards on hand at all.”

  “Shit. OK, well, can you call me a taxi?”

  “A taxi?”

  “Yeah. I’ll go back to the hotel, grab the deck and come straight back here. I can register it as soon as I get back.”

  “That’s all well and good, but what about the sound and lighting meeting?”

  “Tell the techies to put something standard together. I was just planning to shake my booty anyway. Look, I won’t even get changed before I go, that’ll save some time, right?”

  Sean scrunches his eyes and takes a deep breath, exhales and uses his free hand to wipe the sweat from his face. “Fine, we’ll do that. Get yourself to the front desk and I’ll get the transport sorted out now.”

  And with that, he’s already out the door, his fingers flying over the screen of his phone.

  I shake my head and look back to the mirror, admiring how good my show gear looks again. All those hours in the office gym really paid off. I blow my reflection a quick kiss, then turn with a wink, glancing back just long enough to confirm that I look as good from behind as I do from the front before skipping out of the room and heading towards the main entrance.

  JOHN FORRESTER - 11:27

  It's nice to see the wardrobe department gaining some new blood this year. This guy's so jittery it’s great! I dunno, maybe this is his first proper job or something. All I know for sure is, it's hilarious watching him panic all the time.

  Right now he's fretting over trying to get my arm markings just right. See, Carnival's natural body markings glow electric blue. I think they're probably meant to do it all the time, but she seems to be able to turn them on and off as she pleases, which makes it a lot easier to skulk around when we need to. Anyway, I thought it would be pretty cool if we both glowed the same way when the lights go down for our entrance. So basically, this guys' job, whether he chose to accept it or not, is to use fluorescent paint to create matching markings on me.

  Now, the highlights under my eyes were pretty easy, even with me pretending that it tickled far too much and scooting about like a child on his first trip to the hairdressers, but my arms are a little bit more difficult. Not only are there a lot of marks to paint, but I've been kinda insisting that he attempt to get the shape right too. I've even given him a few of my best diva pouts if they aren't spot on or close to. I mean, I'm not really that fussed, but making him think I am ... well, that was just too hard to resist. It could be worst though. I could have neglected to mention that I’ll be wearing fingerless gloves and insisted that he paint my hands too.

  "OK, I think," he pauses, looking back and forth between myself and Carnival. "No, no, I think that's … yes, I think that's done. Yeah. We're done. I think."

  "Fantastic. But, um …" I intentionally draw out the trailing off, his expression getting more and more worried the longer it goes on.

  "Wh-what is it Mr Forrester? If you're unhappy at all, I can always redo anything you need me to. Again."

  "It's just," I say, my voice dripping with mock concern as I lift my arm up and down a few times. "Well, I can't really see all of it. That and, from here, the bits I can see are upside down. Not really upside down, I mean my view is upside down. Could you maybe take a photo for me?"

  "Oh," he replies, obviously relieved. "Yes. Yes, of course I can."

  I stick my arm out and move into better light for him. It takes him a few attempts to get a decent shot on his phone, probably because his hand is shaking slightly, but he gets there in the end. Feeling particularly mischievous, I look back and forth from the screen to Carnival a few times then shake my head and say, "you know, it's hard to tell. It looks right but, I don't suppose you could hold the picture up next to her arm could you?"

  My current favourite plaything nods and wipes the sweat from his forehead. I really should get his name, but I'd feel kinda silly asking for it after all the time he's spent working on me. He walks over to Carnival and holds the phone up as requested, so I reward his obedience by leaning forward and tutting a few times before saying. "Hmm ... Can you zoom in?"

  "Zoom in?"

  "Yeah, you know, get the markings on the photo to the same size as the ones on her arm. Just so I can be sure," I add with a smile.

  He nods and does so, taking his time to make sure that I don't have any reason to say he needs to adjust the zoom, then looks at me for approval, his eyes pleading for mercy. Being a nice guy, I grant it with a happy, "You know, I think you've done it. This is some fantastic work."

  You can see him almost collapse with relief as he replies, "Thank you. Thank you, Mr Forrester." Just as I'm about to respond, a strange expression washes over his face and he glances back to Carnival, then turns back to me looking somewhere between confused and concerned.

  “You OK?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he replies, “It’s just that I could have sworn that … no, never mind. It’s stupid.”

  I burst out laughing. "I’m covered in paint so that I can go on TV, play a game of cards and pretend that that makes me a celebrity. Stupid’s fun.”

  "I, um," he says, nervously scratching his head, "some of the other staff said that, last year, they thought they saw Carnival walking around on her own. Like, without you and stuff."

  I nod. "I heard that too. Do you want to know something really freaky? Sometimes, when it’s just me and her, I swear I walk by her, look back and she’s … di
fferent somehow. Just subtly, you know? Maybe her hands were in a fist, then they weren’t, or her ears are hanging differently, her mouth’s slightly more open, stuff like that. I mean, really, it’s probably just a glitch, right? All that tinkering I did so that she could stay on this long without overheating the Wick and the stuff that gets her from one place to another, it all mucks about with the system, so you kinda expect it. What really gets me though, really freaks me out are the quiet times. Carnival’s on pretty much all the time, so when I’m in a changing room or a hotel, I’ll be sat there relaxing and I’ll hear this little sound coming from her.”

  “A sound?”

  “Yeah. I can’t even describe it, it’s just … there, ya know? Like those scenes in horror films where you catch something in the background but it’s too quick to really see? So anyway, I’ll get up and I’ll go over to check her out just in case something’s going wrong with the Wick, right? Every time, every single time, I swear it’s the same thing. I’ll look her over, I’ll run a scan or whatever and there will be nothing wrong. Nothing. Then, when I stand up and turn to walk away, I’ll feel it.”

  He swallows hard. “Feel what?”

  “It’s so creepy but,” I pause and tap the back of my neck. “Right there.”

  “What?” he asks, nervously rubbing his hands.

  “I can feel her breathing.”

  He opens his mouth to respond, but stops before he can start, his eyes suddenly widening in shock. Just as suddenly, he seems to shake himself out of the funk and quickly grabs his things, garbling a quick thank you as he flees the room.

  Once I'm sure we're alone again, I give Carnival a bemused grin and ask, "You blew on him, didn't you?" She responds by letting out a mock offended snort, her eyes the picture of innocence as she waves her arms as if to say "Who? Me? How could you think such a thing?"

  Nope, there's no way I can fight it. Here comes a good old fashioned bout of uncontrollable laughter.

  FAHRN - 11:30

  “Yup,” says Jeanine, looking my reflection up and down while she continues to braid my hair. “You’re right. They’ve done a much better job this year.”

  Jeanine is the supervising make-up artist for the championships. For the most part, her role involves matching up the various competitors with a suitable member of her team, but she does take on some of the jobs herself. Usually it’s the more complex work, but in my case I just trust her more than I do the other staff. She’s probably one of only two people here that I’d consider a friend.

  “Well, I won’t need to ask Maria to re-stitch anything at least,” I say with a smile, and Jeanine laughs.

  For the last few years, the wardrobe department have sent me out in old army boots, a cheap pair of camouflage combat trousers, an army style cap and a scrappy vest top. Last year, the trousers started falling apart half an hour before my final match with Forrester and Maria had to do a makeshift stitching job for me.

  This year, they’ve actually put something new together. The trousers are a fairly decent pair of black jeans with ten white leather panels running up the outside of the left leg. Each of the panels contains a single, black letter, spelling out the word ‘Starchaser’. The right leg has been cut off about three quarters of the way down my thigh, so that my knee prosthetic is on display. That’s something I’ve been requesting for years now, so I’m happy that they’ve finally taken that on board, but I don’t doubt that some bright spark probably claimed the idea as their own.

  I’ve also got a half skirt thing. It’s basically a triangle-ish of white material attached to a black belt that buckles up on my left side, leaving it to fall down my right leg and leave the audience guessing how far up my thigh the jeans are cut. It’s decorated with a copy of the Offland Barcode Tattoo from my left hand too. I thought that was a nice touch. The army boots have been switched for a comfortable pair of hard wearing work boots and instead of tying my hair in a ponytail and poking it out the back of a cap, they’re letting me have it braided and kept away from my eyes with a bandana.

  The vest top has stayed, but I’m OK with that. I’m not in the shape I used to be, my knee stops me from doing my old routines most of the time, but you wouldn’t think that I’m about to hit forty. The only thing I’m not so sure on is that it shows a bit more cleavage than the old one did. I’m not against sex appeal, but given my role on these shows, I’m not sure I should be aiming for any sort of positive reaction from the crowd at all. I worry about how Maria will feel too. I mean, she's not really the jealous type but I wouldn't want her to feel uncomfortable if people start taking notice.

  “Speaking of Maria,” says Jeanine, “She OK? I haven’t seen her about today.”

  “She’s fine,” I reply. “She’ll catch up a bit later. She was so tired this morning, I told her to go back to bed for a bit.”

  “Tired eh? Long night last night, I bet,” she says with a wink.

  I feel myself flush slightly and quickly change the subject. “Hey, do you have anything that would make my hair look like stars?”

  “Stars?” she asks, eyeing me curiously and starting on another braid. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I was at a club last week,” I explain, “and there was this guy on the dance floor. He had really long, dark hair and whenever the light caught it, it looked like he had stars in it. I thought that if it was a spray or something then maybe we could do the bottom half of my hair in it.” I pause, then quickly add, “You know, kinda play into the living among the stars thing.”

  Jeanine nods. “It was probably just a decent glitter spray. I can see what we have, but half your hair might be too much. Actually, I think I have a spray that’s like a UV tinted glitter. If we do a thick layer at the end then fade it out by, I dunno, maybe a third of the way up, it’ll look really good.” She finishes the last braid, smiles and says, “Maria thought he was cute, didn’t she?”

  I blink. Have I really become that transparent? I sigh. “Yeah.”

  Jeanine laughs again. “Love is a wonderful thing Fahrn.”

  CONNOR FORD - 11:47

  Thoroughly depressing is what it is. Every day, I swear my reflection looks a little older and every day my hands find some new bump or crevice.

  “Oh to be young again,” I sigh.

  My eyes scan the room as the mirror sees it and I catch sight of my new robe hanging on the rail by the door.

  “Awkward bloody thing”.

  It’s actually a replica of my original robe from the first championships. All red with white fur trimming and some sort of ridiculous feather motif embroidered in silver all over the front of the monstrosity.

  “Third I finished that year, third, yet what do they remember me for?” I ask my reflection. “The bloody robe.”

  The worst of it is that I threw the damned thing on at the last minute because no one told me that I was supposed to have a costume until ten minutes before my first match. I found it in a bloody closet and the sodding thing became so synonymous with me that I was stuck with it after that.

  I looked ridiculous in the thing in my 20’s and I look infinitely worst in it now that I’m in my 60’s.

  “Bastards”.

  I catch the light at the bottom of the door becoming obscured just before the inevitable knock comes. Feeling as cantankerous as I do, I wait for the shadows to start shifting awkwardly before responding with a suitably gruff, “Well open the bloody door then”.

  The young lad that pushes the door open looks petrified. Good. He can suffer my indignation the same as every other …

  “Sorry Mr Ford sir, I’ve been sent to give you these,” he says, holding out a small wad of papers. “They, um, they want you ready for filming in fifteen minutes”.

  “Interrupting my train of thought are we? Well you presumptuous little shit, you can tell them I’ll bloody well be there when I’m ready and not a damned second earlier. Are we quite clear?”

  He puts the papers down and starts to fidget awkwardly, clearly uns
ure what to do next. I wait for signs that he’s about to say something then cut him off with a hate-filled glare and a cry of, "Well fuck off then," sending him fleeing from the room, pale as a sheet.

  Now that made me smile.

  SPARK FORMING: A HISTORY OF THE BEASTS

  Words fade in onto the plain black screen, the simple, bold white font making them clear on the screen. They read:

  Following the 2916 World Championships, Emblem announced a new competition to create the opening video package for the 2917 World Championships. The competition was open to all first year students in Arts based Colonial Colleges and Universities. The grand prize for the winners would consist of VIP tickets to the 2917 World Championships and an additional £3,000 bursary for each participating student.

  After a long deliberation process, the judges awarded the prize to the students of the Quadro University of Killer Kreative Arts, the popular centre of learning in the Quadro Colony’s Alternative Quarter.

  The video was created as a collaborative piece between several departments and features a retelling of the fictional history of the various Spark Form characters, as originally published in the first official Spark Forming Rulebook.

  As the last words fade out, the musical score kicks in and the title appears on the screen reading, ‘A History of the Beasts’. The words soon fade out and we are treated to an impressive animated trip through the Spark Forming back story, the narrator reading the original text word for word.

  “There are many worlds beyond our own, or so the stories say, and each follows its own destiny until such a time that, like all things, it comes to an end. Sometimes however, ‘the end’ becomes something other than final.