Chapter Fifty Eight: I’m Almost at The Bridge Now
May 21, 2011
Salt Lake City, UT
Team 8Mile was his pride and joy. Malcolm Heineman had never been outstanding at anything he had ever tried, despite having insatiable ambition. He was smart and hard-working, but it was never sufficient to stand out enough to get noticed. He always floated around the bottom of the top. Good enough to receive the hollow praise of his teachers and school officials, but not enough to get the special attention of the geniuses.
He was larger than the average student, and reasonably athletic, but he knew he lacked the talent and genes to excel. He worked out every day, and was strong enough to get on the junior varsity football team, but again, there were just too many bigger, faster, stronger, and meaner guys ahead of him.
He graduated from high school with good grades, but never attracted the special attention that was needed to get into the best schools. He could have been accepted into nearly any school he wanted, but just as an ordinary undergrad. No scholarships, academic or sports. The son of a sixth-generation Jewish American father and an African American mother whose father was a forgotten civil rights activist, Malcolm, or Mal, as his friends called him, was unique just enough to be utterly boring. He was lower middle class, he was the most boring mix of race, background, and talent as to be inoffensive and unintimidating to pretty much everyone he came in contact with.
Malcolm hated his life. He knew he had a greater destiny.
The only thing he was even remotely good at was video games. But even there, he wasn’t the type to spend month after month polishing his Mario Bros. speedrun until he could claim the top speed until someone came along the next month to topple it.
He was a force to reckon with in Call of Duty, and even made it onto the leaderboards, not that anyone cared. His parents let him stick with games because he kept up his grades, and it kept him off the streets. He was the best gamer he knew, but that counted for nothing in the world he lived in.
Then, one day, he heard about eSports. There were tournaments in Korea where StarCraft players made a living off the tournament scene. It wasn’t something real in the States yet, but there was already talk that it would be breaking out soon. Streaming video was making money for some gamers, and there were rumors that a video game-focused platform would be launching in the next year.
When Pl@y3r was announced, Mal decided to take a chance. He was convinced that the game was going to be big, and he was determined to ride that wave. He gathered a group of his gamer friends to form a team, and they spammed the beta launch system in order to get enough invitations.
They were all in Salt Lake when the tournament was announced, but even before that, Mal was in contact with a potential sponsor, a local mid-tier rapper who had plenty of cash, and who was on the looking out for some culture-positive ways to build up his brand.
The result of that was unlimited funds for him to build up a top-level team, with the promise of all the perks of fame: expensive cars, sneaker deals, collaboration with music producers, and blinged-out gaming setups built into customized black SUVs.
Team 8Mile had everything they could ask for. All they had to do was keep winning. And winning was what they did best. By far, Mal had the softest of upbringings on the team. Three of the other members had criminal records, and all of them understood that the money and perks would disappear into the air if they failed to bring in the audience and the viewers. What they had was only their wits, their skills, and their ambition.
They had all been told countless times that they lacked enough of all of those things. Mal, in particular, knew that this chance was the only one they would ever get. They enjoyed the luxury their new life provided, but they also worked harder than any other team out there to get to the top, and no one put in more to that goal than their leader, now known to the world as CHRYSLER.
----------------------------------------
Watching from the waiting room, his confidence had been shaken. Never in a million years would CHRYSLER imagine that a single player would take out his entire team. He knew his people and while they each had their weaknesses, their strengths individually should have been enough to beat almost anyone. To take them all out implied that the opponent, that stuck-up, white trash redneck, was strong enough in each of their weak areas to overwhelm them. The only person he had ever heard of who could do that was himself, but CHRYSLER was not at all confident he could do it without taking any damage at all. He wondered what kind of a monster was this man.
As the timer ran out, Marc prepared for this last bout. Part of him felt guilty. He had always been holding back while playing the game in front of people. How could he not? Everything about this game came from his own experiences.
Every weapon, every skill or technique, every monster; they had all been pulled from his life and memories from the other world, then given form here. As he still enjoyed perfect recall of every bit of information from that existence, there was nothing the game could throw at him that he didn’t have intimate knowledge of. He knew every weakness and every strength. Every secret and possible exploit.
It was unfair, and he was painfully aware of that fact. Because of that, he had tried not to overdo things. He always allowed his team members to stand out in their own ways. He wanted to support them enough to ensure that they could achieve their goals, but he also wanted to avoid too much jealous scrutiny.
At first, it was boring. He would often question himself why he was wasting his time on this game. It was nice to have a sense of comradeship again, but he had kept to a mostly solitary life after returning to this world for a reason. Even if he liked spending time with Ryan, Selena, Leeroy, and Jess, it didn’t change the fact that there was quite literally nothing new in the game for him.
The only thing he got from playing it was a chance to find out more about what was really going on. Mary was involved and doing something, and so was Kira. He didn’t know how, but Kira was here, and was somehow a part of it all. That was definitely her. He was sure of it, explaining the rules of the duel. They said she was the game designer. It was as though she had stolen a copy of every memory and experience he had ever had in the other world, and was now helping them sell everything from that life to this world as a virtual reality experience.
Marc was done playing. He had come here this time for answers, and he was going to get them. The more he thought about it, the more his blood boiled. After seeing Kira on that stage, he wanted answers, and he was sick of this charade.
His mind barely registered his opponent’s kit. The player was a young man in his upper 20s. His handsome face and aggressive-looking hairstyle topped an impressive physique for a video gamer. Awakenings players tended to spend more time outside, so they didn’t fall into the traditional couch potato stereotype. Still, this man looked more like an MMA fighter than a video game jockey.
CHRYSLER’s avatar was a human warrior with an olive complexion to match his player. Marc noted the two short swords at his sides and had to suppress a smirk. It was almost the worst possible matchup for the poor man.
Marc’s glaive was not the best weapon in every situation, but against a short-reach weapon like a short sword, even in dual-wielding, the odds were heavily stacked in his favor. Marc had the power, the reach, and the strength to dominate his opponent completely. After he had easily dispatched the rest of the opposing team, Marc was almost disappointed that the final round would end so simply.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Regardless, as soon as this was over, he was determined to finally track down Kira and get some answers. She was here somewhere. He would finish this round quickly and start on his true mission. The one that had been postponed all these months as he played games with his friends, just to get him this chance.
CHRYSLER made the first move, ducking low to give an upward thrust with both blades more momentum. He would need to do that to offset the stronger incoming strike from his glaive, Marc thought to himself.
Marc was ready and thrust forward straight at the warrior’s face. No matter how his opponent reacted, it would be enough to knock him off balance. He might even end the match in a single strike if clumsily countered. Either way, the sharp blade would enter CHRYSLER’S defensive zone, and it would be impossible to stop Marc from adding at least a crippling blow to the end of the thrust. The match would be over in seconds.
Except his blade missed.
Marc blinked, and for the first time, he reacted with surprise. Staring at the screen, CHRYSLER was no longer in line with his thrust. Marc had to shift the phone down in order to recapture the warrior in his view. Rather than striking upwards with his swords, CHRYSLER had instead rushed forward and down, completely avoiding Marc’s attack and moving inside of his own defensive area.
The glaive was a well-balanced weapon, allowing strong attacks and defensive moves well beyond arms’ reach while remaining effective in close quarters. The only place where he would truly be at a disadvantage was in a narrow cave or hallway where he would be unable to extend his reach fully. The open space of the area, therefore, provided Marc with the best fighting environment for his weapon.
He pulled the weapon back and used the staff to block two slashing attacks from the short swords. Marc was about to swing the weighted end of the glaive around to smash the side of his opponent with a heavy kinetic blow. Surprised, he registered the third slash, this time making contact with his left arm.
As his avatar leaped back defensively, CHRYSLER let a predatory smile momentarily flash across his face. CHRYSLER had drawn first blood, and now Marc was suddenly on the defensive.
With that single strike, the focus of the entire tournament had focused on this battle. The number one-ranked team had dropped from the favored champions to a hair’s breadth away from a humiliating defeat. Meanwhile a new, seemingly invincible player had emerged, ruthlessly destroying everything in his path.
Now, a new story was continuing to evolve—a clash of two titans.
As team members and audience alike watched the match with blinkless focus, the two gladiators launched attacks and counters in reckless exchange. Marc’s advantages had melted away by CHRYSLERS unconventional and inspired fighting style. Still, after that first surprise attack, the warrior could not draw blood a second time.
Marc switched from a cautious defensive style to a more systemic and probative approach. His attacks did little to upset the warrior’s barrage of sword strikes, but that was the purpose. Marc had been taken completely off guard by the new way of fighting but was now soaking up the lesson like a starved man at a buffet. Even as his moves were blocked and suppressed, Marc quickly rotated through new patterns and formations, feeling out the space between them for openings and soft spots.
Mal was sweating, and his eyes were almost manic. He pushed every cell in his body to perform and contribute to the fight. While he had yet to take a single point of damage, every new attack was being expertly countered. He tried to squeeze out every drop of speed, every trick and feint he could come up with, trying to get one more clean shot.
To the observers, the fight was more like an epic martial arts battle from a movie. The attacks and counters were so well timed, it appeared more choreographed than a final battle between two masters at the end of an epic film.
For a while, they appeared to be evenly matched. Soon, however, it became clear that CHRYSLER was starting to fall behind.
The strain of the speed of the fight was getting to him. He was sweating, and the veins on his arms were flaring, and tears were starting to burn his eyes. Then disaster struck.
Even in the soundproof room used for the area, the gasps of the spectators seemed to penetrate the silence as a loud thunk echoed against the walls.
Mal had been pushing his attacks so fast and hard that, for a moment, a tragic yet almost fated interruption had occurred as his phone slipped out from between his sweaty fingers and landed beside his foot.
The spectators could not see the anguish in Mal’s eyes. They could only see TRAVELER’S blade as it swept to CHRYSLER’S neck and the man’s avatar froze in place.
Just before it decapitated the Warrior, the blade stopped.
It was impossible to stop an attack midway in the game, but Marc had mastered the technique of moving midway through an attack. This could be used to extend the reach of an action, but in this instance, he used it to the exact opposite effect. Marc countered his own attack by spinning his character in the opposite direction, stopping the blade inches from its target.
Then, he moved his character back to face the frozen form of the enemy.
Mal looked up from his phone on the ground to Marc, anguish and embarrassment staining his visage. At first, Mal didn’t understand what was happening. He assumed that Marc had won, but something about the look on the other man’s face prodded him to pick up his phone and check.
Marc’s avatar turned around and walked to the edge of the arena before turning back to face CHRYSLER.
“What do you say we do this properly?” Marc said aloud. These were the first words he had uttered since the start of the knockout battles. The look on his face betrayed an emotion that had not appeared once in this round. Marc was enjoying himself.
It took a moment for Mal to realize what Marc was proposing. One more strike. Winner takes all. If they ran at each other and attacked in the center, they would each get one attack, and the advantage of Marc’s longer weapon would be all but negated. It was a challenge of speed and of technique. Mal was sure that in that situation, they were evenly matched. He might even hold a small advantage.
Taking a deep breath, Mal smiled, showing all his teeth. This is what he wanted more than anything else. To face the best and take all the glory. He would take this chance and make it his ascension. He would win. He had to win. He would make it happen. No matter what.
Nodding, Mal moved his avatar to the opposite side of the arena, then raised both swords to his chest, then prepared to sprint.
“Ready?” Marc asked.
Mal nodded.
“GO!”
Both avatars charged to the center of the arena. Ten paces before they met, a short sword flew forward directly in line with TRAVELER’S trajectory. It appeared to cleanly intersect his path, but as if he had anticipated the attack, TRAVELER moved just enough that the blade narrowly missed and flew harmlessly out of the arena.
This movement was exactly what CHRYSLER was waiting for as he swept his other sword forward to take advantage of the shift in balance.
Instead of slicing through TRAVELER, however, the sword was knocked away by the counterweight at the end of TRAVELER’S staff. The pole arm was now spinning as the blade swept around, cleanly slicing through the center of CHRYSLER’S body.
The screens flashed. TRAVELER had won the round and the match.
Facing Mal, Marc extended his hand.
“Thank you. You’re kind of amazing. I learned a lot.”
Mal was dripping in sweat. The burning in his eyes might have been from the sweat of his brow, or real tears, but it made no difference. He had lost. He stared at the extended hand, and a flare of anger filled his chest.
“Fuck that! Next time we meet, the only thing I’m gonna teach you is how to lose like punk, Bro!” Mal spat out the last word like a bullet aimed at the face of the shorter man.
Then, he let it all out. His shoulders slumped, and his angry scowl was replaced with a sincere and warm grin. He grabbed Marc’s hand and shook it firmly twice, but did not release it.
Losing hurt. There would be consequences. He wasn’t sure if his sponsors would forgive him. He wasn’t sure what he could say when he faced his team. But it was just a game, right? He thought to himself.
“Good game. I hope we can do this again… It was a… good game,” Mal spoke in an entirely different voice.
With that, he released his grip, and turned around, walking through the door to face his teammates. Though his shoulders were slumped, he walked as though a huge weight had been taken away with each step.
Marc looked down at his own hand. His opponent had squeezed it like a vice, but not so much that it felt vindictive. He was simply recognizing Marc as a worthy adversary.
Marc had won, but he felt suddenly sick. He was facing off against people again, something he had not done since he returned. It brought back unpleasant memories like a flood, threatening to drown him in his old regrets and horrible losses. More than anything else, he felt guilt at the pleasure the rush of adrenaline and battle lust had brought out in him.
Kira would know how much this would hurt him. Did she do this to him on purpose? Was she making him relive his worst nightmares because she alone knew what they were? Was that the point of this game? What was Kira’s and Mary’s plan?
He needed to talk to her. He needed answers.
Marc turned and walked through his own team’s door, uncertain what would be waiting for him on the other side of it.