As the sun dawned over Bruda, light streaked across the grand stage. Hundreds upon hundreds of avid fans had slept beneath it the night before, snoring on pebbles and tree brambles until the sunlight woke them with a jolt. It was time – the Novice competition had begun.
Momo had bought popcorn (notably salted with Eldergoat Butter, which she chose not to investigate the origins of) and got the best seats in the house – up on top of the Earl’s Longhouse. It was opposite the Judges’ Panel, which sat on a platform extending from the dance school.
The whole display gave Momo eerie flashbacks to the last contest she was involved in, only the stakes were moderately lower here, the crowd was considerably less pretentious, and the contestants were mostly children, not high-security prisoners.
Momo was originally concerned, seeing five and six year olds stumble onto the stage, that she would need to intervene immediately on the basis of human rights – but luckily Devola wasn’t a complete sociopath. Parents of all children below the age of eleven were required on stage, per “Government Laws,” as Devola called them.
Not Momo’s Government Laws, of course, as no one here seemed to understand that she was the queen at all – but apparently some laws, somewhere. Probably in a vault under the ocean, or in a filing cabinet in the Nether. Either way, Momo was happy to hear about them. If someone was going to invent a law, Momo was just happy it was one against child murder.
“My bets on the runt with the pink tutu,” Grimli said, pointing to the girl on stage who was currently sitting at the edge of it, waving to her grandma out in the makeshift stands. These stands, which were available only to the elderly and disabled, were just kegs of alcohol stacked upwards, with a small ramp attached.
Her fierce opponent was a boy who was currently doing jumping jacks in place. This apparently aligned enough with the rule of constant dancing that the judges gave him a pass, and disqualified the girl for her “lack of movement.”
“Looks like you lost that bet,” Momo said with a smirk. “But I don’t think we should gamble on the outcome of children’s sports.”
“Well now you’re all high and mighty.”
—
The Novice league’s final battle was quite the study in opposites. The nailbiter of a match was between an elderly man, who had seemingly never surpassed the first class rank, but was plenty good at dancing the cha-cha, and a stupidly talented savant of a twelve year old, who managed to catapult the old man off the stage all the while doing her own one-person conga line.
After the medics assured that the man was fine, if just a little pissed off and very eager for a rematch, it was onto the Intermediate leagues. For this, Momo was grateful. Her stomach had been whirring like a washing machine ever since she realized she’d have to intervene with Trent’s plans, but she hadn’t been able to track the boy down. He had gone completely awol.
Until now.
“There he is,” Momo said with a sigh of relief, pointing him out in the crowd. “He’s behind a bunch of people in the queue for the Intermediate matches. I was getting worried he’d gone completely postal.”
“Hm. No. He mostly just looks angry and sweaty, so nothing out of the ordinary,” Grimli remarked. “But how are you so sure he hasn’t taken that potion yet?”
“I mean, I’m not certain, but it’d be a pretty stupid thing to do. He said it had a limited time span, like a few minutes at maximum. He wouldn’t use it unless he really needed it – like once he’s in the Expert leagues and punching way above his weight.”
Grimli made a sound of understanding, catching on. “So you’re planning on stealing it off of him now, then?”
Momo sighed, nodding her head affirmatively. “I really keep giving Mordecai new reasons to give me these classes, don’t I? Next skill I get will be [Stealing Candy From A Child].”
—
Not wanting to alert anyone with the sight of a Nether Imp sailing around the stage, Momo was forced to employ the most dreaded spy strategy of all– using her feet.
Taking advantage of her [Crowd Control] ability, Momo pushed through the masses of people with relative ease. The spell had a calming effect on the majority of the fans, causing them to go droopy eyed and gyrate their hips a little bit less enthusiastically, but it didn’t stop the most diehard ones from elbowing her out of their coveted pit space.
“I’ll kill you,” one particularly excited fan mouthed towards Momo; luckily, murder didn’t seem feasible in that moment, as her hands were otherwise occupied holding a large sign that said WE LOVE YOU TRENT in big, scrawled-on letters.
There were many such Trentonators surrounding the venue, as Momo heard them call themselves. These small hordes of teenage girls were the most resistant to Momo’s mind games, and most likely to stare at her in ways that made her fear for her life.
Apparently, Trent had become somewhat of a staple of this competition. A real frontrunner. He hadn’t quite won the whole thing yet, but he had come close on many occasions. Enough to build himself a fanbase. And enough for Devola to use him as a marketing tool to attract even more publicity.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“I am the biggest Trent fan here,” another fan shouted at Momo as she knuckled by. “Everyone here who says otherwise is a liar, do you hear me? Do you understand?”
Momo laughed nervously. “Totally.”
This can’t be good for a young boy’s psyche.
Momo made it to the roped-off contestant area just as the first Intermediate fight began. It was between Trent’s friend from yesterday, a boy named Culver, and the Novice girl who had won the previous rounds. All of Culver’s friends, including Trent, were busy jeering him on – not quite cheering, but not quite booing either, as is a common signal of support from teenage boys, Momo deduced.
Don’t give yourself away, Momo reminded herself as she snuck up behind Trent. Just be sneaky.
The boy-celebrity was a good foot away from her, and too invested in the match in front of him to notice her creeping up from behind. Taking a shallow breath in, Momo prayed to Mordecai (in a rather treasonistic way, admittedly. Hopefully Morgana can’t read my thoughts.) She needed [Nimble Fingers] to perform miracles.
“Come on, Culver, you’re really getting schooled by a twelve year old?” Trent shouted, cupping his mouth with his hands for better volume. As he did so, his pocket bobbed upwards, the tip of the potion bottle sticking out ever so slightly.
Silently, soundlessly – Momo snatched it.
She shoved it in her own pocket without a word. Confident that he hadn’t noticed, she stepped away from him, turning to leave.
“Momo?”
Just as Momo was about to flee into the crowd, Trent’s voice froze her in place.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
She whipped around.
“Hi Trent,” she said, shoving her trembling hands in her pockets. “How’s it going? Pre-match nerves getting you? They’re getting me, for sure --”
“I don’t get nervous.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practicing for the Expert league?”
“Oh, you know,” Momo said, not knowing in the least. “Just surveying the possible competition.”
Trent laughed, sneering. “You're scared of a bunch of Intermediates, huh?”
“I mean, maybe,” Momo said. “But I could also be scared of a rock if it looked menacing enough. The bar isn’t very high for me and being frightened.”
His sneer fell. He rolled his eyes, and his hand moved into his lower pocket reflexively. Momo’s stomach dropped as realization fell over the boy’s face – his eyes opening wide.
“It’s gone,” he said, silent fury sitting underneath his features. “My – it’s gone. Where’d it go?”
He whipped his head around like a rabid owl, eyes pointing accusingly at every child, teenager, and reptile in sight, before finally settling on Momo again.
“Did you see who took it?” he said, nearly frothing at the mouth. His eyes traveled down to her pocket. “Was it you? Did you take it?”
“I have no clue what you’re on about. Sorry,” Momo squeaked. “Did you lose something?”
“Yes. A very very valuable something,” he said, walking towards her. “Momo, if you took that something, we’re going to have a very big problem.”
“Trent – hey – chill out, dude. I didn’t take anything from you,” Momo mumbled, walking away from him as he stalked towards her threateningly. Her back pressed into the undulating crowds. Shit. The fans had pressed even tighter since the match began, and her [Crowd Control] skill was on cooldown. She had nowhere to run.
It didn’t take long before he was face-to-face with her, staring her down from his unusual height. His growth spurt gave him a few critical inches on her, and he was using them with great pleasure as a tool for intimidation. Momo was sure it worked on the other kids. Combined with his family history and Devola’s affection for him, Momo could imagine he had the possibility to inspire a great deal of fear in other people.
But not Momo.
“The outline in your pocket is a bit of a giveaway, Momo,” he said coldly. “Just give it back.”
He reached for the potion desperately, but Momo rebuffed him, dodging out of the way.
“You know, Trent, your [Pickpocket] skill is really abysmal,” she said under her breath, teasing him for the way he kept deftly missing her pocket. “I’d train that up.”
“Shut up and hand it over,” he seethed, letting go of any illusion of friendliness.
He attempted the same maneuver, but Momo dodged again, hopping out of the way. As hard as he tried, her Dexterity was leagues above his own. The gap between Intermediate and Expert was a chasm, and not one he was about to cross.
“No,” Momo said, staring him straight in the face. “This isn’t how you get stronger, Trent.”
Hateful as she was to admit it, Momo couldn’t help but relate to the boy. Losing your mother and finding a new authority figure to prove yourself to in her absence? Momo knew that song and dance very well. She didn’t like to think of Valerica as a replacement for anything, but Momo was smarter than that delusion now – she knew she gripped onto the Necromage for a reason.
When someone believes in you – really believes in you – you’ll do anything to make their reality real. Even if it requires a variety of moral compromises.
“I need to win,” he choked out, trying uselessly for her pocket again. “You don’t get it.”
“I do get it, actually,” she sighed, continuing to hop from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t be here right now running a stupid nation if I didn’t get it. The people we love and respect make us into different people. Better people, usually. They make us want to try harder. Do better. But you can’t get too caught up in it, Trent. You have to find yourself in all of that, too.”
He lunged for her, and this time he caught the edge of her pocket. “Finally,” he groaned, before realizing that he had come away with only a torn off piece of her cloak. No potion. He threw the torn fabric violently to the ground.
He looked up, his eyes piercing straight into hers. His pupils had gone fully dilated, round and full with brimming rage. Momo knew that expression well – the one of a cornered, desperate animal.
“Momo, I swear to the Gods, I’m going to kill y–”
“Trent, darling!”
Trent froze where he stood, his entire face stilling. Both he and Momo gazed upwards, above the chatter of the crowds and the stage, where Devola was leaning over the banner of the Judges’ Panel. She held an empty cup in her extended hand.
“Would you be a dear and refill my juice, please?” she asked. “I’ve run out.”
“But I –”
She dropped the cup. It landed like a falling weight on his head, bouncing off into his open palm.
After a considering moment, he gripped his fingers around it, careful not to break it. He sighed. The anger seemed to have drained from his body, replaced instead by a quiet resignation.
“I’m going to beat you anyway,” he said under his teeth. “Potion or not.”
Momo grinned. “That’s the spirit, kid. Now, go fetch your juice.”