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Tryout Fic 10: "Lower Tier“Yeah. Most guys you can trust. Solid guys. Guys like Max, Master Chief, Mario. One heleva cook that one. God**mn artist in the kitchen. Let’s see here. Samus, the woman wearing the robot suit, uhh, Solid Snake. He’s solid, even says so in ‘is name,” Vercetti said. He chuckled, sounding like an eighth grader. “What’s Mario like?” I ask. We were standing outside the Hero’s Haunt, a single story tavern. The doors were still locked, not yet business hours. I had seen Vercetti standing there, so I decided to ask some questions. He was in the contest last year and seemed eager for someone to talk to. He wore a blue and orange Hawaiian shirt that made your eyes think up excuses to look elsewhere. I didn’t have to be told he was a professional criminal; I could smell it in his sweat mixed with abrasive colon, in his jackal’s eyes, and in the way his smile hardened around the corners. “Oh yeah. You’re scrapin’ with him first round. Fifteenth seed. Ouch. Nice knowin’ you. Dead man walking.” “Don’t be so sure.” “Pal, listen. Not to toot my own horn, and you seem like a good man, but I’ll be around longer in this tournament than you. And Mario will probably be here longer still, if Crono doesn’t cut his balls off. Face it. You’ve walked into a livin’ comic book here. Everybody’s got powers or is ‘The Best There Ever Was.’ Futuristic weapons, magic, swords that cut bullets outta the air, metal genitals. You name it, it’s here. I bet even you’ve got a secret weapon.” “You could say that.” Worst thing about the situation was that after only a week since arriving, after seeing what I’d seen first hand-I knew he wasn’t exaggerating. But there was no one quite like me. My code name is J.C. Denton, and I have the skills. On top of that, the nano augmentations I pack have a way of surprising people. The mobster looked down at the ground and shook his head. “See. I’m the only Plain Jane human here. ‘Cept maybe that Hazuki kid.” “All the same,” I said, trying to keep the conversation on course, “If you could tell me more about who’s who, it’d be appreciated.” Tommy Vercetti squinted into the setting sun. He sucked on his teeth for about a minute and continued. “That one fruit with the long silver hair and longer sword. Always wears black. Sephigoth's 'is name, or something like that. He commands a lot of respect from, well, pretty much everybody. Lots of magical powers and s***. Speakin’ of magic, keep clear of the jester.“ “Jester? I don’t remember one at the orientation. Is-“ “Oh. You’ll know him when you see him. You can be sure of that. He was sittin’ in the back, burning an anthill if I remember correctly, and I usually do. Trust me. Unmistakable.” “You talked about Mario being a solid guy before. What’s his personality like? How does he fight?” “He’s a nice guy. Doesn’t kill his opponents. Oh, he might break a couple-a bones with those iron hard knuckles of his, but he’d let you tap out at any time. Ran the shop for a while last year. Smiles, says hi. People trust him. I trust him.” This was something at least. The trust of a mobster. Vercetti went on: “He fights mostly with his hands and feet. Sometimes he carries a sledge, or throws small hammers at people. He also has super strength from what I can tell. Punches through bricks, jumps high into the air. Real high. That’s one of his favorite attacks. Jumping up and down on mooks. He’s fast as ****. Doesn’t let his opponents breath if he can help it. Beyond that it really gets weird. Fugedaboutit” “How weird?” “He has these…items. Like flowers and mushrooms and stars. He picks them out of his pockets and uses them to change shapes. Grows a tail, or maybe turns into metal. Like taking steroids. Only instead of roid rage and man breasts, you get super powers.” All this wasn’t as hard to take in as you might think. Once you’ve talked to a sentient robot, or see someone setting things on fire with a thought, or witness a walking, talking monster straight out of a Godzilla movie, believing in a plumber who grows a raccoon tail for weapon gets easier to accept. Hell, just look at me. Billions of machines the size of molecules, called nanobots, allow me to grow stronger, survive radiation, even heal in an instant. I had heard enough from the mobster for one night. As I gave my farewell, his eyes snapped wide open. He grabbed me with a slim, steely hand, and said, “I just remembered. Mega Man. This little blue robot kid, you’ve seen him by now, right?” I nodded. “Stay far away from him, if you know what’s good for you. He may act like an innocent ****ing ten year old, all smiles and naïve questions. But he’ll splatter you if he gets half the chance.” “Thanks. I’ll remember that. Nice shirt by the way,” I said, and turned. As I walked to the training facility, Vercetti shouted one last warning. “He’s a Murder Machine on two legs! They all are. Don’t trust the rooobbboootttsss!” Reaching the training center I stopped a moment to admire the outdoor obstacle course. It was complete with huge black rubber tires, eighty-foot high vertical walls, and spike pits. The latter, I knew, wasn’t going to be found on any regulation army course. Inside the training center it was bright. The main gym floor, were people could run, stretch, or lift weights stretched out a mile before me. The ceiling was distant, almost hazy. For a few seconds my temples throbbed at the realization of the paradox. This building was larger on the inside than on the outside. Before my brain could start jumping head over heels, I stepped through a door on the right side. The next room was a dojo, much smaller than the gym. The place felt intimate, furnished sparsely with plain cherry tree wood. Incense sticks burned, some kind of wild plant smell. It didn’t make my nose water like other scented smokes had before. A hard built man, wearing a tattered karate gi, sat cross-legged. He remained absolutely still, eyes closed, brow knitted into a broad v. I chose not to interrupt his mediation, stepping heel to toe to avoid making noise. Through the door and down a twisting hall I saw an orange sign along my way, and the words on it stuck in my head. “Caution. Gravity Training Chamber. Do not exceed safety parameters unless approved by medical staff.” Wasn’t entirely sure what gravity training consisted of, but it sounded at once impressive and more than a little threatening. Like everything else here. Further down, past the sign and its room, I found my destination, the firing range. I quickly clapped on a pair of ear protectors and bellied up to the counter. I got out my stealth pistol and squared my shoulders. The gun was light and felt cold in my hand. I pushed the red button under a tape label with the words “Advanced: General” written on it. Targets with the standard human outline pattern lurched out dozens of yards away. As I landed my shots, a computer tallied my accuracy. After a while, the targets moved around so fast, it was like watching an unfolding street riot. I aimed with my eyes, telling myself to keep frosty for what must have been the hundred thousandth time in my life. Blank cardboard heads sprouted gapping black holes. Flat chests flew open, ragged tendrils of fiber wafting in the breeze as my bullets hit their intended targets. When one clip ejected empty, I slapped in another. The targets stopped. I laid my gun on the counter top and looked at my accuracy readout. 87%. Not bad. But not nearly good enough from what I was hearing. He moves fast as ****. Nice knowin’ you. It was Vercetti’s voice in my head now, with all its quiet menace. I shoved it aside and pulled out my assault rifle. This one I had modded as much as possible. Doubled the clip size, added balance weights to improve accuracy and reduce recoil, and topped it off with a laser sight. Before I hit the “Advanced: General” button for the second time, a different voice clattered in my head, the chattering of a heavy machinegun. Five stalls down I could see the lengthy muzzle flash reaching out just past the partition. Targets, also on the advanced setting, were being sawed in half. Some simply burst into clouds of cardboard bits. With rifle lowered-but still in hand-I made my way down to see who was packing this kind of heat. It was a man I had met briefly before, at the opening ceremonies. Duke Nukem-I could only assume it was a nickname used full time. I let him complete the set, deciding against a friendly tap on the shoulder. A few times he blurted out insults and slogans to himself as he demolished things. “****ing wave that sword in my face again, Punk. I dare ya!” was one. “Hail to the King. Baby!” and, “Suck it down, *****!” were others. I could hear them even through my ear protection. When it was all over, the readout offered gibberish, showing that it had glitched. “Too much for you to handle. That’s all right, baby. Get that all the time,” he said to himself, and turned around. Like me, he wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if he was surprised to see me or not. He looked me up and down, pausing the longest at my gun. He grunted. “Not a bad rod. Mine’s better. Sorry I can’t remember your name, with all that’s going on…I’m Duke Nukem.” He extended his slab of a hand to me. I shook it. His red tank top was soaked through with sweat. I got the impression then that Duke was the kind of guy who is always sweating, no matter the occasion. He was using a chain fed heavy machine gun. The steel gray beast had three barrels, and a hydraulic stock to absorb the constant recoil. He was another, “Dead Man Walking,” as Vercetti would say. Just like me, he was facing a top contender in the first round. The winner of last year’s tournament. “J.C. Denton. At your service. Looks like you got them all,” I said. “You’re a rookie to this whole shebang, right?” “Yes. I’m planning on making quite the entrance.” “Heh heh. Ya! That’s what I’m talking about. This is my third year, and let me tell ya, ya got to keep that killer attitude around these ****s. Fire enough ammo at the other guy, and the ***** has to fold sometime, right?” Great. We weren’t ten lines into this so-called conversation, and already he was telling me to keep a stiff upper lip. When I talked to people here, it was always like that. If it wasn’t pep talks, it was awkward moments of silence followed by lowered eyes, or reminders of how it could be worse. I was getting tired of being pitied real fast. I think, in this case however, the pep talk was more for his benefit than mine. “Blowing **** up is the only way dirtbags will respect ya,” he said. He took off his sunglasses for a moment, and I got a good look at his eyes. Full of machismo, you could still see something else if you looked hard enough. Fear. From the way Duke carried himself, I would guess that he was the kind of man who was experiencing fear for the first time, and the newness of the emotion was all the more harrowing for him. I let a forced grin tip the side of my mouth. “So, you’ve seen this ‘Mario’ fight before? Any tips for a fellow gun enthusiast?” His face lit up, the upper lip twisting into a sneer. It couldn’t tell if it wasn’t directed at me. “Sure thing, buddy! First things first. Shoot for his-” +++ “-central body mass is where a trained soldier aims first. Since he’s in a special unit, he may have had specialized training. Could be a crack shot who aims for the head first. I’ve seen the type before.” Solid Snake’s fingers wandered to his pack of cigarettes. He reminded himself that he was abstaining for the first week, and put his hand down. “Don’t know if he has any other abilities. Keep a close eye on him.” “I’m-a glad I asked you” Mario said. The squat plumber sat on a lawn chair, watching the sunset with sparkling eyes. “I haven’t really faced a opponent like this before.” They were standing in the clearing that had been the arena woods. A spot that held no memory of the previous year. “He’ll be the least of your worries this year. Have you talked to the others about the meeting like I asked?” “Yes. It’s-a going well. Crono and his friend have agreed to come. So has-a Dante, Joe, Meg-a Man, Sonic the Hedgiehog, and the rest. Cloud said he would tell us about Porta Dei. Whats-a thata mean, anyway?” “Have you heard of the language Latin?” The plumber said no. “Well, Porta means portal, or door I think. Dei could mean God, as in deity. Beyond that I’m not sure what it’s all about. All of us will have something to say about it, I’m sure of that.” “I wasn’t sure if I should ask-a Vercetti or not.” Mario got to his feet and stretched. “He and Meg-a Man didn’t get along so well.” “I’ll sleep on it. In fact, I think I’ll sleep early tonight.” It was then that Snake felt moved to put into words an observation on Mario that had long held his imagination. “Hey. Mario. You’ve been around longer than all of us, haven’t you?” “Huh? Whataya talking about?” “I mean, not that you’ve aged the most (Alucard alone has all us beat there), but that you and your world have been around longer than anyone else’s. Predates us. Every time I look at you, that’s the first thing that pops into my head.” “No. The PAC-A MAN is-a older than me. So was-a Pitfall Harry in-a the contest two years ago.” Mario’s voice was even, no sign of sarcasm. Snake was startled. He had not expected a definite answer, and to hear Mario announce it like an ordinary fact sent a chill through his spine. The soldier wanted to ask him how he knew this, and what it all meant, but decided to keep those questions for another time. It would be too much all at once, and he had a lot of thinking to do before the meeting. He said goodbye and had began to march back towards the hotel when the plumber asked a question of his own. “I haven’t asked-a Samus yet. Do you wanna talk to her first, or should I?” Snake stopped in his tracks. He wanted to say: “Sure, I’ll track her down and ask tomorrow,” but the words stuck on his tongue. The soldier settled for a dismissive wave of the hand, not bothering to face the plumber. Mario stayed by his chair, taking his cap off so the evening breeze could cool his scalp. He watched Snake disappear in the middle of the empty field between them and the mansion. Such was the soldier’s habit. Mario sucked in his breath and put his hands into his pockets. The clouds around the sunset had turned blood red. Jill vs Ryu: Threshold“Interesting. They have agreed upon the Forest setting for the arena,” said Magus. “Those who are weak are ever finding things to hide behind.” “Don’t be so hard on them, long pale and ugly. A few trees and a little grass can’t hide you for long. I would know,” Sonic said. The hedgehog flashed his snarky grin before going on. “Maybe they like having some shade to go with their blood sport.” He studied the scene below intently, in spite of his joking. Sonic could not believe the trees and pond to be a mere woodland diorama set upon the arena floor, not from the way it had arrived. The setting had grown in a shimmer of light early that morning. Those who had witnessed the event now claimed it to be some sort of holographic image. Or better yet, real material had been teleported in, via an unseen technological marvel. To the hedgehog’s eyes it remained ordinary no matter how hard he looked. Except for one thing. Logical planning was evident. All ten trees were set in a symmetrical pattern. Each tree was thick and none reached high enough to top the mansion. Sparse amounts of grass grew in tuffs, while most of the ground consisted of brown packed dirt. Near one side of the barrier wall was a small clearing with more of the same dirt. Between this and the trees sat an oval pool of water, already murky from loose soil. No matter at which angle one sat, the view of any potential action was good, thanks to the smart placement of trees. The competitors, who sat closest to the floor, held a better view still. Magus’s face had not changed its expression, hiding whatever annoyance he may have felt at Sonic’s quips. Crono, who was sitting on the wizard’s right side, remained mercifully quiet. Without turning his head, Magus asked, “Tell me hedgehog. You are seeded first this year. And though some would say you’re undeserving of such an honor, do you intend to win your division?” Sonic laughed hard enough to make his quills shake. “Why not? I can take any of those chumps. You weren’t here two years ago. You didn’t see how close I came to beating Samus. I don’t make mistakes like that twice.” “We shall see. I wonder if your spirit has the value to last.” Sonic rolled his eyes and pointed at the sorcerer’s lap. “Oh I don’t know. My spirit is valued at quite a lot. But no way it could be sold for enough money to pay the poor jerk who polishes your codpiece.” “Ooooo SNAP!” Viewtiful Joe said. He reached to give Sonic a high five. It never came. His grin faded, hand falling back to his side. The two gladiators had arrived. +++ The sawed-off shotgun cradled in Jill Valentine’s arms felt weightless. Her whole body tingled, as if being mildly shocked. The smell of gun oil still lingered on her possessions. She focused on the scent, choosing to concentrate on something ordinary to help her deal with the pre-battle jitters. The former cop ran inventory through her head one last time. Two hand guns, one a Colt Python, the other a M92F S.T.A.R.S. Custom. She had refills for the Custom only, figuring it was the only gun she could load quickly enough. Lastly, a pill of compressed green and red herbs that would speed healing, but do nothing for pain. The ninja Ryu Hayabusa strode forward, his eyes pushing into hers with no sign of fear. He wore a midnight blue outfit that seemed to absorb light. As far as she could see, his weapons were a katana slung across his back, and a few shuriken. He stopped at several yards away, hands waiting just above his waist, palms facing down. “There is nothing of Ninjitsu that ultimately stuns or disables. Every move is a move towards concealment or death. This is my way. Are you prepared to face it?” he asked. Jill pumped the shotgun in answer. In the general hush of the spectators the sound took on a grim weight. Both waited, unmoving as stone. A few fans whooped their cheers in resentment of what they mistook as hesitation. A leaf shed from a nearby tree and fluttered between Jill and Hayabusa. The Ninja’s right hand sprang for the sword hilt and grasped it. Jill fired. The shot sounded like a fat man coughing. The ninja was knocked onto his back. He did not move. A rasping chuckle escaped from Jill’s lips, and she felt a tinge of guilt for the outburst. “So that’s it?” As if to chide her confidence, Hayabusa kippered to his feet. Jill pumped the gun again. If the ninja was bleeding from the first strike, his clothes did not let it show. Leveling the gun, she fired again. But it was too late. The ninja had propelled sideways into a roll, escaping the cloud of lead. She pumped again, leading the shot on her moving target. As he continued to roll to the side, his arm jerked out in an arch. Five shuriken jetted to her chest. The first two sunk through her left arm, causing her to drop the shotgun. The other three pinned her Kevlar vest to her body. The ninja, having now flanked her, rushed in close to strike. Making use of his momentum, Hayabusa leapt forward and landed two consecutive flying kicks. Jill went flying, but managed to jerk the Custom from its holster. She emptied the clip at him in midair before hitting a tree. Quick as thinking, she pulled herself up and yanked the sharp objects from her body. The wounds stung, but were far tamer than zombie bites. Hayabusa was closing fast when he saw her reloading the handgun, and rolled backwards to a tree. He came out of the tumble with a jump onto the trunk, and bounded off, avoiding her aim. He continued to roll and jump from tree to tree faster than Jill could draw a bead on him. To the spectators he appeared as a shallow’s shadow flitting amongst reeds. The click of her empty gun snapped Jill out of her battle trance. The second empty clip did not hit the ground before the third was slammed into the loader. Her eyes had left Hayabusa for a picosecond to fish out the ammo. She heard the rustle of leaves and threw herself away from the tree trunk a second before the ninja hammered down with a vertical slash that would have cut her in two. Training enabled Jill to finish her tumble already facing her opponent. Ryu dashed forward almost too fast to see. Jill squeezed the trigger twice before he reached her, hitting him in the side and left shoulder. His body shivered, but kept coming. Jill would later recall this part of the match in vivid detail, reliving it every time she closed her eyes. As the ninja moved close enough for her to smell the rice on his breath, she switched the handgun to her left hand as the right grabbed the electric stungun. She would watch as Hayabusa’s arm moved like a whip, bringing the katana upwards in a sweeping strike. There was a moist SWACK and a thud as something plopped onto the dirt. She would see the spray of blood and look down at the stump that was now her left forearm, the cut as clean as a deli slice. Her right hand continued to move on its own, bringing the stungun to the ninja’s stomach and pushing it in, pressing the on button before it touched his body. There was blue spark and then her foe shook with spasms. She held it there, letting the battery empty into him. And the whole time, Jill could only stare dumbly at her severed hand, leaking dark blood into the soil, still clutching the Custom. The ninja slumped to the ground, twitching. Jill sat down and tied a tunicate from a handkerchief Chris had given her long ago. With that done, she moved to retrieve her hand and weapon. Hayabusa stirred. Not wanting to be caught off guard again, Jill withdrew her Colt Python. Six magnum bullets, more than enough to kill a human. The ninja sat up. She placed the barrel at his temple. Hayabusa’s sword lashed out. The gun went off, deafening him. The sword blow pushed the magnum aside, still close enough to feel the hot slug zip by his face. Jill ignored the line of red pain Ryu had etched on her right side, and countered with a kick to his shin. Putting her whole weight into it, she followed with a kick to stomach and a pistol whip to the head. Hayabusa grunted in pain, taking the blows while remaining fluid. Jill lashed out with her boot once more, and was blocked by a raised katana. The former cop was open to attack and he did not miss his cue. He surged up and cut her four times, alternating the direction of each swing. His sword swept across her belly on the final blow. Jill reeled from the blows, fresh blood spurting from new cuts. Her Kevlar vest was cut up into sections that hung flapping in the breeze. She raised the Colt once more and fired. She missed, but drove the ninja behind cover. Jill backtracked to the arena wall, facing the trees all the way. She needed a chance to inspect the damage. With her back to the wall, she kept the gun pointed to the arena floor. The lacerations were deep, but far from fatal. The real problem was the blood loss, which was leaving her exhausted. Her vest was useless, cut wide open. She felt something in her belly shift and loosen, a sickening sensation of freedom. To her horror she saw the lateral blow to her belly had not only cut through the Kevlar, but all the skin as well. Purple entrails were peeking out of the widening cut; slimy ropes of flesh that threatened to spill out all over the dirt at any second unless she held them in. She felt little of it, but knew that pain, pain beyond control, would soon rack her body. With her last hand she did her best to pinch shut the opening. She hobbled along, leaning on the wall for support, and leaving a smear of blood behind her. When she had made it to the clearing next to the pool she lied down, having no way to prepare a bandage with only one hand. She needed that hand for the gun. Everything served the gun now. And its four bullets. Still no sign of the ninja. Jill groped for the herb pill. Finding it, she brought it to her lips, praying to not drop it. Though her hand was slick with blood, she got it into her mouth. It was hard to swallow. At least it would stop any internal bleeding. There was one tactic left to her. Play dead. She closed one eye, leaving the other half open. Letting her body go limp, she lolled her head to face the forest. Slowing her breathing to a crawl was easy, far too easy, as if her body was already close to the real deal. She did not wait for long, immediately spotting Hayabusa’s silhouette breaking away from a tree’s shadow. He approached, his steps were guarded, ready to vault to the left or right should her gun hand move but a hair. C’mon, you ****ing *******. Don’t be so ****ing scared of a helpless, dying woman. Big *****, c’mon! Halfway, Hayabusa seemed satisfied that she was no longer deadly, and began to sprint straight for her. Closer. Closer. Got. To. Be ready, she thought in an effort to concentrate through the gathering pain of her abdomen. The ninja came to the pool, and she readied for his leap over it that would leave him defenseless for one second. Instead, he stepped onto the water’s surface. To her increased dismay, he was able to walk on water without missing a beat, making only a tiny splash with each step. It occurred to her that most of his focus would be on keeping his footing. Not gonna get a better chance than this. Hayabusa was a step away from the near bank when Jill made her last attack. Hefting the chrome plated gun of the ground she took aim and opened fire. The third bullet was the charm, at least it seemed like the third shot to her. No matter. The ninja spun one-eighty, blood spraying into the dusty air. He sank like iron into the water. Jill kept pulling the trigger over and over, not hearing the hammer hitting empty chambers. At last she dropped the gun, and waited for the water to stop rippling. Hearing no moving water, she pulled herself to the pool’s edge. The sight of blood clouds dissipating in the murky waters gave her a brutal sort of satisfaction, almost a high at the sight of death. Jill flopped once more onto her back, laughing the laugh of the crazed, and felt no evil in it. She would have sung her insults and taunts to the crowd if she could’ve stopped the inferno lit in her belly by the laughter. There came a splash from the bank to her north. She froze, unbelieving. After what felt like an hour, she recovered and strained her neck to see a hand on the pool’s edge, digging for a grip. Then came the other hand, protected by a black gauntlet. Hayabusa’s hooded head split the water, the eyes locking on to her ruined frame. Jill Valentine wailed, low and deep. Those who heard the wail were chilled by it, and would lie down to sleep each night for a week with it ringing in their ears. The ninja hoisted himself from the pool with a great amount of effort. The bullet wound was concealed, same as all the others, but from the noise of his sputtering breaths she guessed that one lung had collapsed. Jill clasped the gun by its barrel for use as a club. The ninja walked over to the prone woman, and swatted the gun from her hand with a kick. The Dragon Sword produced a musical note as he unsheathed it. “No. No no no nooooo,” Jill sobbed. The sword’s tip came to rest over her heart, close enough to prick the skin of her breast. “Yield,” Hayabusa said. “I break with the Way of the Ninja in this instant for your damage is unjust. Yield. And I will spare you.” Jill covered her eyes with her scarlet stained hand. For a while she made no move, and then nodded her assent. The sword returned to its sheath. The ninja kneeled to her side and pressed a vial of blue potion to her lips. “Drink. We can save your hand and body if you drink now.” Jill obliged, sure in this moment of near death that he was telling the truth. She slurped it down, surprised at how dry her mouth was. Afterwards, she was unable to recount how it had tasted. Ryu Hayabusa took Jill into his arms with considerable care, and bore her out to the medical center, only stopping to pick up her lost hand and place it upon her breast. Next Entry Back |