by J Bennett
“Yes, very brutish,” I say, pleased with my handiwork. Course, Sequoia ruins the vibe when his expression shifts to uncertainty. He’s been glitching about this whole combat thing ever since we got our callbacks three days ago.
“I don’t know, Alice,” he says, taking a step back from me and pacing the living room of his home. Yep, this guy is renting an entire house. By himself. His Anders 3100 is top of the line, too. I checked the model number on my way to the bathroom earlier.
Now I drop onto his plush red couch. The heavy stitching makes me think this might actually be handmade, one of those “craft pieces” that’s so glam these days among the Captains of Industry. Hard to tell. The newer 3D printers can spit out all sorts of slightly askew, minutely imperfect “rustic” pieces that look and feel human-made.
Deciding to unmask myself to Sequoia was a risk – a big one. If I do well today and grab one of the coveted henchmen spots, my true identity will be valuable intel. Yet, I’m not worried. Sequoia is taking just as big of a risk as I am.
Living in a town where almost everyone is out for themselves hasn’t exactly made me the trusting type, but my gut tells me I’m right to put my faith in Sequoia. Or should I say, Chauncy-Steward-Rine. I still can’t say that fancy city name without giggling. Double hyphenations were all the craze among the upper classes two decades ago. Sequoia isn’t much of a fan of his name either. When I confessed my foresty nickname for him, he actually liked it. So, Sequoia he will remain, at least to me.
Now my new ally perches uncomfortably on the other corner of the couch, his face crumpling into uneasiness.
“You’re practically a judo master,” I remind him, you’ll do great. In fact, after watching all the judo vids on his Stream, I’m convinced he has a better shot at nabbing a henchman spot then me. That is, if he can find enough courage to actually use his skills.
Unlike me, Sequoia has no worries about whether he’ll get pummeled into shrapnel. Quite the opposite.
“I’ve never fought against another person,” he says softly.
“They won’t be giving us chainsaws or samurai swords or anything,” I promise him.
“I just… don’t want to hurt anyone.”
I sigh. I’m fond of Sequoia, but there’s an aggravating innocence to him. He’s city soft, and you just can’t survive that way out here. Not in a place like Biggie LC, where the City Council puts stickup guys like DeAngelo on the payroll just to keep things spicy.
“You’re trying out to be a henchman, not a hero,” I remind him. “You won’t be saving people. You’ll be threatening them. Scaring them. You might have to rough up some heroes and sidekicks.” I scooch closer to him on the couch, over the bumpy, uneven stitches. “You said that getting this gig was your dream. Is that still true?”
A red flush creeps into Sequoia’s cheeks. He nods mutely.
“You can’t win by being nice. By knowing the answers to all the science questions in the world. The only way you get to be a henchman for The Professor is by fighting for it. Literally. So look mean. Go hard. And kick ass.”
It’s not exactly a rousing pep talk, but it’s the truth, even if my words leave a stale film in my mouth. I’m tiptoeing closer and closer to becoming the kind of person I despise: a striver.
I refocus on Sequoia. When push literally comes to shove, I wonder if my big-hearted friend will have enough hardness to get the job done. I’m honestly not sure.
I glance at my Band. Almost time. “We should call a car,” I tell Sequoia. “How do I look?”
I stand up and give him a little twirl. Personally, I think Lysee overdid it with the shimmery skin powder and the white ribbons she wove into two braids down my back.
“You look, uh… fine,” Sequoia stammers. Did his cheeks just turn a brighter shade of red? Whoops. I didn’t mean to stir that particular pot.
“K, thanks.” I self-consciously pat down the white and blue tank top Lysee insisted I wear. It’s a pretty top with a web of complicated straps in the back and a line of triangle cutouts down my sides. My roomie wasn’t thrilled about the black workout pants I matched it with, but the white pleather leggings she suggested wouldn’t let me raise my leg more than two inches off the ground. Ripping the crotch of my pants isn’t exactly the lens time I’m preening for today, though I wouldn’t put it past some of the other competitors.
“Car’s on its way,” Sequoia says.
Why do my palms suddenly feel slick? My heart is clobbering too. I don’t feel ready for this. The idea of facing off against someone like Mermaid is enough to make my stomach offer up yesterday’s lunch. But, unlike Sequoia, I have no reservations about doing what’s required to win. I’m not about to kill anybody, but bruises can heal. It’s where this tryout process was always heading. And it’s not like I have much of a choice. I’m down to my last dollars. If I don’t get this gig, I’ll have to drop out of school. My entire future — and my ability to take care of Alby — is on the line.
“Car’s here,” Sequoia says.
I nod and swallow all my doubts. “Let’s go.”
This final tryout is in a familiar place. The big doors of the warehouse creak open as we approach, revealing an inner room that has undergone a serious change in décor. The tables and chairs are gone, replaced by a layer of black mats. A thick red line etches a large circle into the mats. I’m not thrilled by the rack of long wooden bo staffs standing at attention against the wall.
“See, no chainsaws,” I murmur to Sequoia.
A handful of people mill around, most stretching or pantomiming punches and kicks. I check the corners. Yep, the cam drones are already floating around, their lenses drinking in our nerves and bravado. I try to look confident and hope Sequoia is throwing off at least a little intimidation.
My eyes drift to a small knot of people clustered near the edge of the mat. Of course Gold is in the middle of the conclave. It’s hard to miss him in his shining gold jacket and pants that are accented with slashes of black. The material looks expensive and printed exactly to his measurements. I pon if he commissioned his own schematics. He’s also wearing a new mask, this one made of glinting gold lightning bolts that zig and zag all the way up his forehead and disappear into the cluster of his dreads. The whole outfit must have cost serious dollars, but the effect is impressive.
Gold is probably the smallest guy in the room, but something tells me that he built his wiry muscles the hard way. I tally the contestants and count eight of us. We’ve got Chin Spike, Cowl, a guy with a jeweled green Mohawk, and a handsome guy wearing a black vest that prominently showcases his sculpted pecs. I’m pretty sure he was the one checking his teeth in the bus window during our last tryout. The angry giant in the horned mask is off by himself in the corner glaring at each of us.
I was hoping Horns wouldn’t be invited on this fun little adventure, given that he didn’t finish the obstacle course, but I guess the producers want some splintered bones for the masses. No pain, no fame, as they say. NPNF.
As if on cue, Horns loudly cracks his knuckles. The glowing skull tattoos across his bare chest are a little overkill, in my opinion. Mermaid is conspicuously missing, but I’m sure she’s just timing her entrance.
I take Sequoia’s arm and steer him to the last empty corner of the room. Poor kid looks like he’s going to throw up and then pass out in that order.
“Face,” I hiss at him. It’s our little code word. Sequoia tries, he really does, but his mean expression only makes him look like he has painful gas.
“All you have to do is get ‘em to the ground, force ‘em to tap out, and look like a badass while you’re doing it,” I remind him for the millionth time. “It’s all about showing that you can hold your own. Not about hurting anyone.”
Sequoia scowls and puffs up his chest. The black makeup gives him an admirable amount of menace.
I try not to look at the mat and the blood-red circle. My muscles are tight, coiled. Fighting is mostly about the head, not the body. I have the m
oves, but I’ll need to let my body work, and rely on the muscle memory I’ve built up over endless classes and sessions with Anthony.
The big front door opens, releasing a bright slice of sunlight. Mermaid makes the most of her grand entrance. She wears an electric blue dress, made up of ribbons of different shades. Shining white boots climb to her knees, and her hair is tied up in more bright blue ribbons. She wears a satin white ribbon over her eyes, a retro look that was popular with heroes in the first years of the town. The white color sets off her deep brown eyes. Her skin sparkles with a shimmering overlay.
She looks taller than I remember, her legs stronger and longer. She stalks across the room, gorgeous and lethal. Two guys take a step back as she makes her way past them. Pausing in front of the weapons rack, she selects a staff and swings it so fast the whoosh of air is audible. It probably helps that everyone stopped talking the moment she stepped inside the warehouse.
“So that. Do that,” I whisper to Sequoia.
An inner door on the other side of the warehouse opens. Two cam drones respond, turning their lenses to the door. The third cam continues its slow circuit of the room, probably grabbing B-roll footage of the competitors. Look tough, I tell myself. Focused. Ready… even if I suddenly have to pee and every drop of moisture has evaporated from my mouth.
“Hello, my little elements,” a voice calls. Today, The Professor’s bowtie is green. His voice is a rough growl. “Every experiment carries risk. When elements combine, the reactions can be… quite explosive.”
He pauses, and I can practically hear the dramatic music the producers will add to this segment. Around me, most of the other competitors have adopted hard, focused expressions. Mermaid looks relaxed, a small, confident smile on her pink lips. Gold leans against the wall, an easy smirk on his face.
“Today, we will discover how each of you reacts when facing off…”
The front door suddenly swishes open, and a slight girl with feathers and beads knotted in her hair scurries inside and tucks herself against the wall.
“Sorry,” she croaks. Beneath her mask, I can see that her eyes are puffy with tears. Guess I’m not the only one battling a serious case of jitters.
The Professor scowls. Without a word, our great vil promptly turns around and retreats back behind the inner door. We watch him go. I count the heads again. Ten of us have made it to the final round: six men, three women, and the unknown person under the black cowl.
The inner door slams open, and The Professor stalks out again. His limp is def more pronounced.
“Hello, my little elements,” he says dramatically. “Every experiment carries risk…”
He goes through the entire spiel again, and this time he gets to the end, which includes an overview of the match rules. I feel myself relaxing as he explains that each match will be three minutes long. You can only win in one of two ways: getting your opponent out of the red circle, or persuading them to tap out.
“No weapons this first round, elements,” The Professor says, “and no strikes to the head or face.”
Horns groans, but I’m sighing out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. After my convo with Gerald the other day, I know my landlord/potential villain boss has little control over the proceedings. I suppose I have the mysterious producers to thank for trying to keep us at least moderately safe.
Sadly, more than a few contestants have died in similar types of matchups, especially on the street fighting and ultimate warrior shows that come out of Media Sector Six. The producers always insist that they try to keep things as safe as possible, and yet, somehow, they always seem to accidentally pair a weak, unqualified contestant against some muscle-jacked super fighter in the first round. These mayhem matches keep the early rounds interesting, even if they usually end with a fractured spine, coma, or smashed skull.
That hasn’t happened in Biggie LC. At least not yet. Once the Supreme Court rules against PAGS in Castillo v. Pepsi-Amazon-Goldman Sachs, the media companies will finally be liable for the serious injuries their shows promote, and especially for the deaths of contestants. That ruling will change everything. What happened to Alby and me in that desert ten years ago will never be allowed again.
I tune back in to The Professor. He’s going all in on the big, motivational speech, waving his arms in the air.
“My elements, I want to see what you’re made of. Your heart, your mind, all the little atoms inside of you.” The Professor’s voice booms. He’s clearly loving every bit of the performance, and especially the hungry attention of the competitors around him. I remember what he told me the other day about how he couldn’t abide irrelevance. That’s not a problem right now.
“Give me your best,” The Professor says, and then wags his finger. “And remember, some of the most benign elements become the most dangerous when placed under pressure. Let us begin!”
He steps back, and a large holo-screen flickers to life from a Pod sitting at the front of the mat. Images of two contestants hang in the air.
The lanky guy with a prominent metal chin spike jogs into the ring. Sequoia steps in on the opposite side. The rest of us back off. The holo-screen switches to a clock set for three minutes. Two cam drones float above the mat, training their lenses on the competitors, while a third hovers farther away, probably grabbing reaction shots from us. The sound of a sharp crack splits the air, like an old gunshot. The clock begins counting down. The match has started.
Both competitors circle each other warily. Chin Spike is tall and agile, but Sequoia looms over him. Chin Spike acts first, moving in for a swift punch. Sequoia blocks the move and stumbles back, his heel almost hitting the red tape. I gulp but try not to show my nerves. My friend takes a half-hearted swing, but Chin Spike easily dances away. I stifle my groan. Sequoia is holding back. I’ve seen his judo vids. He could easily handle this guy.
Chin Spike strikes again, going low, his foot making solid contact with Sequoia’s knee. Sequoia cries out. He turns to me, and I mouth as clearly as I can.
Berserker!
Sequoia nods. When Chin Spikes comes at him again, Sequoia moves with surprising speed. Somehow, he’s suddenly behind Chin Spike. He grabs the smaller man in a huge bear hug, rips him off the floor, and violently throws him. You’d think someone cranked down the planet’s gravity for a second the way Chin Spike sails out of the circle and lands in a heap. The clock stops, and Sequoia’s image fills the screen along with a triumphant swell of music.
“Very good, very good!” The Professor calls. He stares into a cam hovering in front of him. “It looks like the heart of a berserker may beat inside that big chest.”
I turn back to Sequoia. Now would be the perfect time for him to unleash the big bellow we’ve been working on. Instead, my friend rushes out of the ring to check on Chin Spike, who gasps for air and tucks his wrist into his body.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?” Sequoia bends over his opponent as the cams hover just above him. Chin Spike shrugs him off and gets shakily to his feet. I bite my lip. The cams are taking this in, and so are the mysterious producers. Sequoia, despite his size, looks weak.
“Uh…” The Professor says, “It seems the flames of rage have guttered quickly, bringing remorse in their wake. He is obviously a man burdened with a conflicted soul.”
When Sequoia returns to my side of the ring, he looks about one burnt pancake away from bursting into tears.
“I didn’t bellow.”
“You didn’t bellow,” I agree. I put my hand on his arm. “The producers can’t see you as soft or they’ll never pick you.”
Sequoia looks down at his feet, a slight flush darkening his freckled face. “What do I do?” he whispers.
I know the answer. “You’ve got to be merciless in your next fights. Toss them out of the ring like rag dolls. Bellow. Got it?”
Sequoia looks away, but he nods again.
The holo-screen lights up with two more images. Gold steps onto the mats and faces the hunk of muscle wea
ring the black leather-like vest.
“At least the rules protect that beautiful face,” Gold says as he hops from foot to foot.
Pretty Boy thinks on this. “Yeah… you too,” he says with epic levels of lamitude.
Bleh. I almost want Gold to win. Almost.
When the match starts with the sound of the gunshot, Gold flits around the circle, keeping right on the edge. Pretty Boy chases him, throwing fast kicks and punches. Clearly his mom took him to karate as a kid.
“Whoa, you’re fast,” Gold comments as he dives out of the way of a kick. He executes a needless forward roll, obviously glamming for the cameras. “How many years have you been training?”
“Eight,” the guy replies. “Wado-Ryu, Taekwondo, and boxing.” As if to prove his point, he delivers a heavy hammer blow that glances against Gold’s shoulder.
Gold stumbles away. “Canny. Real canny. You know how many years of training I’ve got?”
“Uh, six?”
“Close.”
Pretty Boy chases Gold around the ring a couple more times. He finally gets his hands on his opponent and brings a fast knee into Gold’s stomach. Gold groans and drops to the mat. He tries to stand up, but Pretty Boy’s arms go wild, landing a quick succession of blows.
Gold manages to break away and rushes to the other side of the ring. Pretty Boy lets him go, a confident smile on his face. One of the punches “accidentally” caught Gold in the face, and blood runs from his nose, dripping off his chin.
Gold wipes away the blood with the back of his hand.
“Zero. That’s how many years of training I’ve had,” he says.
Pretty Boy advances. The smarmy grin on his face says that this match is just about over.
I have a sneaking suspicion it hasn’t even started yet.
Suddenly, Gold doesn’t look so woozy; in fact, his golden eyes are sharp. Then he’s moving. Pretty Boy kicks, but his leg finds empty air. Gold is now behind him, and with a relatively minor shove, he sends Pretty Boy stumbling out of the ring.
The triumphant music flares.