Entry Four: Atrocity II

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.