Entry Four: Atrocity II
He was stripped to the waist,
sitting on the edge of the ambulance.
“One of the
knights had two ribs broken last year,” the paramedic said, gripping Garrett’s
wrist and pulling it this way and that.
“Don’t be such a baby,” the medic said when Garrett grunted. “It could have been a lot worse – back in the
early days, even after the crappy suits you guys used to wear, Christ, these
things do a lot of damage.” Garrett met
the medic’s eyes. “What? Back when they let these cats use warhammers and
maces, there’d be breaks all over the place.
Either the axes are crap or the fiber bundling is miles better.
Garrett
looked at the man’s name. “Ok, Eric,” he
said, “but it’s a bit hard to tell me that right now.”
“Wimp,” Eric
the medic said, and then yanked down on the arm.
“Motherfucker!”
Garrett screamed.
“Wimp,” Eric
said again. “Try your shoulder.”
Garrett did. “Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t
mention it,” Eric said, and then went through a litany of dos and don’ts. Garrett only half listened – he was watching
the Judge approach. The figure was gawky,
even in the humming armor, and he seemed made of joints, as though he had never
learned how to move in his body. The
grills by base of his helmet were open, keeping the temperature somewhat normal
for him. Eric noted the figure and shut
up, nodding to Garrett once before heading around the farside of the ambulance.
“Nyle Garrett
Turla,” the Judge said.
“Thought you
guys weren’t supposed to talk,” Garrett said, fixing his suit.
“Official
business,” the Judge said. “Under the
terms and conditions you signed,” he began to recite.
“Anyone
enduring an injury that has to be overseen by the medical staff cannot
participate in further matches that day – in the case of serious injuries, they
must gain their doctor’s permission before returning to the field at all,”
Garrett said.
“You actually
read them,” the Judge asked.
“I couldn’t
click through, could I?”
The Judge
chuckled. “You haven’t changed at all,”
he said. “Even being dissolved could
keep a Revenant down, eh?” Garrett
shrugged, zipping up the suit. The Judge
reached up, removing his helmet.
“Isaac,”
Garrett said. “Well, today just keeps
getting odder and odder. How the hell
did you ever become a Judge?”
“Because
Kerellen will never retire,” Isaac Sellirer said, sitting next to Garrett. “How’s the shoulder,” he asked.
“It works,”
Garrett said.
“Yeah,” Isaac
said. “Isn’t that the one?”
“Aye,”
Garrett said, and smiled bitterly. “It’s
the one.”
Isaac
snorted. “I can always tell when you
want a subject dropped. You’re suddenly
Scottish.” Garrett shrugged. Isaac dropped the subject, scratching at his
thin brown goatee. “Heard the Furies are
hoping you’ll go to the Wolves,” he said.
“Problem is, they need shields, not swords. I don’t think they’ll be able to pick you up
in the first two rounds of signings – you’re really their third choice, Lucy’s
friend or not. Now, Commander Uriah, of
the Knights said he saw your match with Kerellen. Seemed impressed.”
“Knights are
an ok squad,” Garrett said. “Rather be a
Wolf, though.”
“I’d rather
you be, too,” Isaac said, “better part of the divide.” Garrett gave him a quizzical look and Isaac
nodded. “They need someone who can go
berserk when they need them to go berserk, and can calm the hell down when it’s
time to be calm. With the Dragons
and…whatever the Bastard is working on taking most of the Revenants, there aren’t
going to be too many left the second wave of teams.” He sighed.
“This coming from the youngest Judge.
21 and retired.”
“It might be
for the best,” Garrett said. “The second
wave didn’t produce the best lots – look at the Lightnings – no one even mentions
them, and the Crusaders are getting folded into the Angels, or so Kylie
said. The Revenants…I don’t know. As much fun as it was, it started to leave a
bad taste in my mouth. If Cal had hung
around, maybe I could have taken the silver, but, as it stands, I have to start
with the next team, work my way up, and hope to get a Judge’s uniform. If that’s what I want.”
“Do you want
to stay in,” Isaac asked.
“No clue,”
Garrett said. “It takes up a lot of
time, and with payments due right after the holidays…it takes up a lot. At least you guys get paid – kinda. Sorta.”
He shrugged. “It’s helped, though,
with…” he shrugged his left shoulder.
“I heard
that,” Isaac said. “Well,” he pushed off
from the back of the ambulance, “you can watch the filming if you want. Trailer three along the main path. I recommend you go in street clothing – the
suits heat gets up there with all the computers.”
“I might,”
Garrett said. The gripped forearms and
Garrett watched Isaac put his helmet back on and return to a crowd of
silver. When he had met him, Isaac had
been a gunner for the Needles before signing on with the Dragons, and then
getting the bump up to the Judges. Isaac
reminded him of a slightly more lucid Shaggy Doo. Garrett collected his gear and walked back to
the locker rooms, wondering how in the hell the Judges knew so much about what
the teams were looking for. Maybe the
ranked had to submit reports before the end of the season. Or maybe they just observed so much that they
couldn’t help but notice. He didn’t
suppose it mattered much.
In the locker
room, he stripped to his underwear, and ran a towel over everything to remove
whatever might smell like death. He
looked at himself. His left shoulder
looked like an angry fist, his right arm and leg had picked up every shitty
blow between the Fury and the Demon, and his right wrist was red from the
friction of the cuff against his suit.
He dressed back in his normal clothing, check his pockets for the car
keys, wallet and cigarettes. He looked
at the Overcompensator, and felt his head fall a little. He tried to dismantle it, and banged it
against the lockers a few times. The
segments finally gave, and he broke down the sword, putting the components back
in his bag and sealing it up.
He put his
kit in the trunks, and walked down the path, finding the technomad station, and
knocking on the door. A few others were
inside, along with the technician, all standing around his work station,
avoiding the thick ropes of zip tied wires and cables. “What did I miss,” he asked no one in
particular.
“Wolves are
at the shield wall,” said someone.
Garrett
watched the five monitors. Two showed
the battle in the valley, defenders on one screen, attackers on the other,
although one the two armies met it was hard to tell who was performing what
function. Only the Dragons with their
sprayers offered any real distinction in the near four hundred swords, axes and
shields. On the ridge above, projected
on the remaining three monitors, the Furies and Core clashed, the core entrenched
and the Furies advancing, using the trees for cover. Whoever controlled the trenches could rain
fire down into the valley, or send melee reinforcements – but the trenches had
to be decided.
“How’d you
get the angles,” Garrett asked.
“Trees,” the
technician said. “High enough so stray
fire is unlikely – these are just the best – we’re recording close to thirty
feeds, and can splice them together for the channel.”
“Huh,”
Garrett said. He watched the arterial
red of the sprayers slashing across the shield walls, trying to blind the middle
of the press of attackers that was it – their entire goal – blind them, break
their wall, break their lines, and then hope that the Core could keep the
trenches and wait for the mop up.
It wasn’t
really much of a battle once you got past the first two lines – the Dragons had
done this too many times – he had heard that Kerellen made them drill with the
sprayers and with melee weapons more than the actual fire arms. He tried to see if he could find Quint’s
helmet in the scrum, but it was all a blur of motion. “So, this is what they’ll be seeing,” Garrett
asked.
“By and
large,” the technician said. We’re still
trying to figure out the helmet cams, but yeah.
“Helmet
cams?”
“Well, the
visors, really – four different feeds, one for each corner,” the tech made the
“rock on” horns with his fingers and then jabbed them towards his head – once
across the hairline, then at his jaw.
“Turn it into a first person shooter for the viewers.”
“Reality TV
video game,” one of the watchers scoffed.
“You don’t
want to be famous,” asked another.
“Not if I’m
only known for Kerellen breaking my visor.
Or my fucking skull – how’d that be for a fail compilation? Dude falls off a skate board, my brain
matter, guy getting humped by a dog.
That’s sure to rack up the viewers.”
Garrett
smiled a little, and stepped outside for a cigarette. It was too strange – too see the battle
without taking part in it. He felt his
shoulder ache, the old scars and the fresh knocking out-and-in-again of the
socket. Twenty-five feel too early to
hang up his helmet – there were some men and women out there now a full decade
ahead of him. But his shoulder hurt
worse than he would let on – that it would heal was almost assured, but for
now, he was actually quietly happy that Isaac had delivered his exemption. He looked back towards the parking lot, and
his car. He wished Quint had his own
ride home. He wanted to go home and
sleep.
The door to
the computer room opened, and he saw a girl exit, her hands bandaged. “Can I bum one,” she asked, pointing to the
cigarette. She accepted the pack and
lighter, and handed them back, puffing, fussing with the lighter. Garrett held out his hand, but she shook her
head before finally lighting it herself.
She was small, with dark hair and eyes.
“Emma,” she said.
“Garrett,” he
said, nodding.
“I know,” she
said. Her voice was something of a cross
between a “come, join in” spring, and the thud of door closing. She smiled, and she looked like she should
have had a knife between her teeth. “You
were one of the Revenants,” she said, “we fought you last week.”
“You’re a
Fury,” Garrett asked, and Emma nodded.
“Who the fuck is the girl I fought with today?”
Emma tilted
her head. “Kerellen’s a dude,” she said.
“No – the one
I was tied to.”
Emma
shrugged. “I didn’t watch the fight,”
she said. She held up her hands. Garrett took a drag on his cigarette,
nodding. “Did you get hurt,” she asked.
“Dislocated
my shoulder,” he said.
“Oh,” she
said.
“It’s not the
worst to happen to it. Not the worst to
happen here, even.” He shrugged, and
rolled his shoulders. “I’m going to need
to get my sword checked – it took the worst of it.”
“You use the
big one, right? The claymore?”
“Yeah – well,
it’s not really a claymore. It’s…yeah,
the claymore.”
“You might
want to try a smaller weapon,” she said.
“First time I
had a girl tell me that,” he said.
“Giggity,” Emma
said.
Garrett
smirked. “So, what do you think of all
this,” he said, motioning to the wires.
Emma
shrugged. “It was bound to happen – but
I don’t think it’s going to be as big as they want it to be. I mean, it’s not shocking enough, you
know? I mean, all of the shit that
actually gets noticed, all of the 4chan and Pain Olympics and shit, they’re all
just…” she made a noise that was phlegmy and skittering. “But I heard that they are buying more land
and creating new maps, so…who knows. But
they’re making it more fucking complicated, you know? Like – it used to be just, you have to
groups, they fight, last guy standing wins.
Now it’s…I don’t get the point system, I don’t really think having
capture the flag or shit like that adds to anything beyond making it look
better on the fucking camera.” She
smoked in silence for a bit.
“But you’re
staying on,” Garrett asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I mean, it’s still ours, you know? It’s not…it’s not like they have suits here,
you know, ‘well the advertisers are going to be upset with the cursing’. It’s still us doing it.” She flicked the cigarette down, and stepped
on it. “But I’ll stick around for a
bit. I mean, the new maps might be
awesome.” She made her way back to the
humming walls. “Coming back in,” she
asked.
“Nah,”
Garrett said, “gonna try to get some sleep.”
“Ok,” she
said, “sweet dreams.”
Garrett
watched the door close behind her, and then made his way back to the car. He didn’t really plan on sleeping. He didn’t dream about Black Iron University
often, but when he did, it was never about the classes or the dorms. It was always the darkness and the snow and
the pain. But not often. Not often.
But enough to always give him pause when he was tired. He got to his car, and applied some sunscreen,
before sitting on the trunk of his car, and waiting for his hands to dry so he
could read or use his phone. He could
hear Atrocity – or thought he could.
Just the nearness of the familiar maps and staging areas was enough to
make him doubt the noise he heard. They
were far enough away for the distance to steal the sound, the trees dense
enough to block out the dust and dirt kicked up by the armies.