Slip’s leg sparked every few strides. Not his natural one, of course, but the Tech-infused one. He carefully stepped over metal scraps that would’ve cut him bloody had he tripped. His enhanced eyes scanned hills of endless clutter, illuminating patches of rubble in various colors to indicate their worth. He hoped that he’d find something enough to earn him dinner somewhere out there. It was a junkyard – there was no beating around the bush to describe his office, and the other sorry sights swaying around aimlessly, those were his work mates.
What an exciting life I lead. He sneered to himself, limping up one hill just to slide down another.
Ever since The Culling, people were no longer born in God’s image, or nature’s evolution, or whatever else people believed in times past. Those days were over. Everyone born now had some kind of deformity. The most common was a missing limb or a missing eye. Some of the luckier ones were only left without trivial organs, like a heart. But all were made whole thanks to Tech. Yes, every living human had technological advancement to thank for the bead placed in their spines – the one that did have nature’s likeness tattooed into it like DNA strands.
A missing limb turned into a forged metallic one – a mix of blood, muscle tissue, and metal. No heart? No problem. A metallic beating replica could do just as fine a job, if not better.
Slip held up a cracked orb as if it were a bird he wanted to set free. It reminded him of an heirloom his late mother had gifted him once upon a time, and then the terrible fate that befell her. “We love Tech,” he said sarcastically. “Saved us from The Culling, oh you great glorious Sci-gods, didn’t you? You didn’t create it or anything. No.” He scoffed, continuously speaking to the broken orb that flickered pathetically. “No, you would never do that to us. I’m sure you didn’t create the sido bomb either, right? No, you would never do that.” He threw the orb into a pile of scrap, listening to it shatter with satisfaction. “Create the poison that disables us, give us the Tech to fix us, create the electro-magnetic bomb to destroy us, then leave us in the Fields when you’re done with your experiments. Right, Sci-gods?” He looked up to the scorched nightly sky that seemed even darker from the blinding stadium lights keeping the junkyard bright. “I’ll never understand how my parents left the world in your hands. Never. Ever. Ever.”
He actually was grateful for his bead, though. The A.I. guardian angel made up of metallic dust swirling within him not only attached to his optic nerve to help him scan for scraps, but turned out to be something way more valuable – his first real friend in a sea of dread, excluding the superficial relationships he had with his workmates, of course. He named it Tammy.
And although the sido bomb nearly blew his Tech leg to oblivion years ago, he was glad to still be alive... sometimes.
Stepping over some more broken glass, he imagined the shards as remnants of someone else’s frustration. Another mate living out the same pathetic rant he was only a moment ago, someone else who was bleakly digging through trash in hopes for treasure. Well, treasure enough to trade for a week’s food, at least.
Dodging a couple more pipes sticking out from the ground, he stumbled upon a brown rectangular device with a screen at its center. His first instinct was to continue releasing his angst by lifting it over his head and slamming it down as hard as he could – office perk here in the Fields. But he refrained, and instead crouched to better inspect it, noting the spider web crack in the corner, and then his reflection in the center.
Bright green eyes stared into themselves, and as he pursed his lips to either side to inspect his face, he couldn’t help but smile. The scar over one side of his lip reminded him of a bad fall on his first day here, and the patchy stubble on his chin recapped plenty of jokes at his expense.
“Tammy won’t let you hit puberty, ey?”
“Did your bead stop your balls from dropping too?”
At first he was embarrassed, wanting to run home to his underground hatch and curl up in a corner where no one could find him. But over time he learned to deal. That’s just how Fieldys spoke to one another. Harsh jokes for a harsh career. And soon… he learned to banter back.
“My balls dropped plenty.” He remembered retorting one defiant day. “Fall asleep at your desk again and I just might drag ‘em down your face.”
“Ohh!” He recalled the crowd shouting. The praise he got that day was electrifying. Other Fieldys yelled and stomped, pointing at the bully to shame him. It was a beautiful thing.
But was it?
Being accepted into such a dreary group meant Slip was now just as jaded as the rest of them. Drowning in his woes. Telling himself he’d been thrown a tough hand in life and there was nothing he could do about it. Play it or fold. The cliffs were right over yonder for the latter option, and they were so deep that no one even bothered to try recovering the bodies. Blame your parents. Blame the Sci-gods.
Blame. Blame. Blame.
Why not fix? A rogue thought entered his mind, which was stifled when the screen in his hands suddenly flickered on.
He lurched back, looking away as the battered Tech piece brightened. And when it beeped, begging him to peek again, text scrambled over the white screen one letter at a time. It read:
Red Ferrari vs. The Golden Cleaver
Year 3102x. Day 129.
Wow, four years ago to the day. He stared on as an arena materialized into view on the screen. The sun was shining in the background as the camera panned around a coliseum, showing close-ups of ale-ridden fans shouting at the top of their lungs for what was about to begin.
There’s sunlight there. Probably in the Galea kingdoms or something. Must be nice…
An announcer blurted some unintelligible words that shot dust out of Slip’s speakers, making him cough and wave the cloud away, triggering a second thought about smashing the thing to pieces. But soon he found himself engrossed again when a heavy-looking gate lifted its claws out of the dirt, reeling upward into the top of an archway. The crowd became silent in anticipation. Eager faces peered over one another for a better look at the figure emerging from the shadows. And when the sun bathed his body in light, the crowd roared.
The exhilaration gave Slip a warm sensation in his heart. Stomping feet and pounding Tech fists made him feel like he was there. Like he was alive.
I want that… he told himself, and then gaped when the camera zoomed in on a contender.
Crimson links covered in metallic coating snaked around both arms, illuminating an even deeper red as steam emitted from parts of it. His high-Tech bead did all the talking. Slip heard clicking as Red’s weapon formed into existence. First, an outline of light projected the shape of a long spear in his grasp, as if the bead was using its DNA-like Tech to build it on the spot. Then what could only be described as a mish-mosh of shiny dirt spat from his Tech-infused fist, swarming around it before dispersing chaotically to fill in the spear-shape within the lines. At last, an ornate lance with runic glowing symbols, deeply etched curves, and an edge gleaming in the light was whole, matching his height.
The crowd ate it up. Cheers burst through the speakers an octave higher when Red held his spear high above him.
“Red! Red! Red!”
Slip let the Fields around him melt away as he pretended the applause was for him. But when he looked down to his open palm half coated in dirty metallic casing, reality hit him. He thought hard about forming his own tool, welcoming a familiar warmth that ran through his right arm, hoping, begging for something awesome like Red’s spear.
But he knew what was coming, of course.
When the warmth of hardworking Tech burned satisfyingly hot, a tiny, pathetic dagger outlined in blue light bloomed around his fist, followed by a miniscule ball of shiny dirt emanating from the pores in his hand, cooling his arm instantly. It formed into a rusted dirk that he would never dare to create in front of his Fieldy mates. Ever.
“We kind of suck, ey, Tammy?” Slip scoffed and opened his fist, willing the dirk to dematerialize and fall back into his pores. Little black dots began shooting to his palm from under the skin – like tattoo ink. It shaped into a stenciled heart.
“Gee, thanks.” He sighed, feeling a ghost pat his back.
Red flipped the spear ostentatiously from side-to-side, begging Slip’s attention. It whirled with each motion, filling the arena with a hum that gave Slip goosebumps. Skill. Glory. Fun. He would give anything for a day in that life. And when Red was done goading the crowd, some fancy camerawork pushed him aside to read off his stats, which Slip glanced through quickly since the subject gave him terrible anxiety. Something about an Arc-Rank Dragoon. Low Might and Resistance numbers compared to other top tiers, but shockingly high agility – probably the reason they named him after an old sports car.
He reluctantly continued staring at the list:
The Red Ferrari
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Arc-ranked Dragoon
Physical:
Might – 41
Agility – 75
Resistance – 23
Tech:
Bond – 43
Weaving – 45
Analysis – 28
The pang in his gut lingered as much as he tried to look away. He hadn’t checked his own stats in months… maybe even a year, they were so pathetic.
Apparently it didn’t matter to the others that everyone under the scorched sky was an Un-ranked Void. The other Fieldys would boast and push each other around, arguing over trivial differences. Slip couldn’t stand it.
“I don’t know why you beads love to torture us with these crappy stat games, Tammy. Haven’t we all dealt with enough?” He spread his arms to present the littered Fields.
Ink ran down his arm beneath his skin, cool like water, pooling in his palm, this time in the form of an arrow pointing to the screen.
The gate opposite Red began rolling up, but stopped midway with the clank of stuck gears. Slip squinted, thinking he could see a shadowed hand clasped around the gate’s center between two spikes. Sand and dust shook off of it as the contender’s grip wrenched the gate so hard it slammed back down and broke off its hinges, before a monstrous boot kicked it tumbling outward.
The announcer yelled something about costing the coliseum another thousand credits just for a grand entrance, but the crowd loved it. Some bared their teeth while others flexed to welcome the Golden Cleaver to his own show.
Shining yellow slivers zoomed up and down his metallic-coated breastplate while the rest of him was still cast in shadow. If it wasn’t obvious by his actions, it was now: the man was huge. A silhouette conjured by Slip’s worst nightmares.
He clomped forward into the sunlight, evoking a tremor throughout the entire arena with his final stomp. His tree trunks for legs were wrapped in golden ring guards that trembled in place, his wing-tipped helmet buzzed with fiery sparks trailing at the tips, and when he clenched his fists tightly in front of him, the outline of an ornate two-handed axe beamed to life around him. Matter rushed from his pores to fill in the lines, to make the weapon something worthy of praise.
It was evident to all that the champion had arrived.
Again, with the camera work, making Slip wince.
Stats. I hate stats.
Star-Ranked Tank. Might, Weaving, and Resistance unmatched, which Slip guessed was cause for the enormous reaction to see these two duke it out.
“Why do you want me to keep watching? You know I hate being reminded—” He looked at his palm to see an arrow with an exclamation point directed toward the screen. “Fine.” He huffed.
The arena formed a bright grid resembling the same Tech that manifested weapons – a stencil of light stretched high before translucent cage bars traced into existence. Pillars formed every few sets, roaring to life with ignited fires atop them.
Something epic was about to begin.
The camera panned out to a high balcony overlooking the arena, where a woman with a chic see-through veil was as elegant and sleek as the desert sands. Her glowing galaxy eyes shining behind her covering spoke the truth of her identity.
A Sci-god. Slip could feel heat rising from his belly, crawling into his throat, choking him. He never wanted to see one of those again. Never—
Thankfully, an announcer beside her pulled his attention.
“All comers of life and Tech, we, the Eganian Empire, welcome you to the greatest presentation of theater known to humanity. It is within our very bones where we desire a sense of glory, a show of blood. It is within our very make-up that we expect a match worthy of boundless praise. Well, look no further. At no cost spared and for your entertainment, the Cosmic Gates will crown a king this day, in front of your very eyes!”
Cheers blared through the speakers, crackling and distorting sound from damaged Tech. But it failed in jarring Slip out of the moment. He was now entranced.
“Red Ferrari, do you accept the terms of glory, whether your head is separated or your spear is soaked with blood?” The announcer’s voice gained volume to quiet the crowd in anticipation.
Red twirled his lance in three rotations before lifting it straight into the air, accepting the terms by holding out his free hand and letting a translucent marble roll off his fingers.
The crowd made collective engine noises to cheer him on.
“Golden Cleaver, do you accept the terms of glory, whether your spine is severed or your axe is stuck in its opponent?”
The Cleaver roared – voice half-bionic, half-human – and lifted his axe overhead, accepting the terms by flinging his marble toward the center of the arena. Slip knew this was all for dramatic effect, though. There was no way the Cosmic Gates foundation would allow for two of their most prized credit-makers to fall to their bloody deaths in the arena. Not to mention their beads were obviously powerful enough to regenerate wounds.
“Places!” The announcer’s voice auto-tuned for effect. “Three. Two. One. Fight!”
Just as he finished the word, as the green light was given, Red hurled his glowing spear at the Cleaver, who dodged much more nimbly than expected. Slip’s eyes widened when the spear sticking out of the ground dematerialized into sand and crawled back toward him.
“Whoa.” Slip gaped. “Tammy, can you do that?” He glanced at the sad face forming with ink on his hand, cackled, and focused again on the fight.
Red hurled two more spears at lightning speed. One, the Cleaver sliced in half – sand bursting over his face – while the other clipped his leg on the way past. He groaned when a mix of sparks and blood burst from his leg – his bionic voice scaring Slip – and then charged forward with colossal stomps. Each step was so heavy it left a deep footprint in the arena dirt.
Red was no match for such brute strength. Running to meet the Cleaver head-on would be suicide. So instead he reformed a more durable ornate spear than the ones he hurled, and spun it into a ready-stance behind his back. Like a fighter taunting a bull… he held.
Slip could see swirling pewter sands cycling the Cleaver’s leg as he ran – his bead hard at work, no doubt – and glimpsed lines of muscle through mesh golden armor when he reeled his axe back. Though still… Red held.
Tension was mounting. The crowd quieting. Time seemed to slow when a mighty leap bolstered by jet blue flames underfoot sent the Cleaver barreling forward, airborne.
Woosh.
Red contorted in such a way he appeared inhuman, ducking deeply low to avoid the blur of glowing axe that would’ve separated his head as the announcer warned, and then back flipped to evade a follow-up slash.
Again, the Cleaver was nimbler than his size should’ve allowed. Dancing forward, using thrusters on his boots to neutralize his weight, he followed up with a swing so heavy Slip felt the phantom weight cleave his stomach. Another. Until Red guided the axe to the floor with his spear and used his momentum to dropkick the massive champion backward.
The crowd oohed as Red flipped upright and spread his arms to taunt. He laughed in excitement, transferring the thrill of battle unto Slip.
I want this, he told himself. I want what Red has.
The Arc-ranked Dragoon showed his worth not only in his lavish display but by his brass too. He commanded his bead to disperse from his chest, diminishing his armor and sending metallic sand to slither between the Cleaver’s legs, forming a hollow metallic casing of himself behind him.
“A mimic!” the announcer shouted, shock in his voice. “Red is so bold to dismiss his bead while facing the Cleaver head on. Is there another contender like this one? I think not!”
“How will you fare against two of me?” Red’s mic echoed through the speakers, before a barrage of stabs and slices began eating away at the Cleaver’s armor from both sides, front and back, over and over.
The Cleaver spun desperately to find nothing but a blur where the mimic flipped away, then jammed down his axe blindly in the other direction. Two acrobats proved to be as annoying as mosquitos repeatedly drawing blood. Until, wham. He wedged his axe into the sand beside him and pounded the ground with an oversized fist. A ripple outward in a circumference spoke to his bead hard at work, where not a moment later, two translucent glowing barriers sprung to life on either side of him. Tower shields, design borrowed from histories of old, etchings and all.
It was only for an instant, but it was enough to snap the mimic’s spear to dust, and give the Cleaver an opening to reclaim his axe and slash the mimic out of existence.
Crimson metallic sand rushed back to Red, its rightful owner, but before it could fully manifest, the Cleaver’s colossal hand found his throat.
“Looks like it’s back down to one.” The Cleaver’s terrifying voice distorted through the speakers.
Slip’s face was nearly glued to the screen, when a tap on the shoulder made him spin as fast as Red back to reality.
“Whoa, whoa.” Another Fieldy backed off with his hands up.
Slip clenched his chest, and then quickly hid the screen behind his back. “Gulgan… you scared the bejesus out of me.”
“I see that.” The young man twice his size raised an eyebrow. “I just came to make sure you didn’t dig yourself a hole to suffocate in, or plan to jump off one of those hills over there. It’s always the quiet, bitter ones we gotta watch, huh?” He nudged Slip playfully. “So what you bringing back to HQ today?”
Slip blinked away the thoughts of a bright sun, crowded arena, and endless energy, and fell back to the dirty broken grounds beneath him. He exhaled. “Nothing yet, but I’ll find something worth my salt.” He stuffed the battered tablet into his pant pocket and limped on beside his friend, sparks buzzing off his bad leg every few strides.
“You always do, somehow, even when you’re dilly dallying with old Tech. What were you watching anyway? Sounded exciting.”
Slip blew air from his nose, kicking each stray metal scrap round enough to roll. “Eganian Empire stuff. Entertainment.”
“You? Watching a duel? You hate stats! In fact, you hate all things gamified. I wouldn’t be surprised if you curse your bead before bed every night. Hah.” Gul made himself laugh at the thought.
Slip shrugged. “It was just for a minute.”
“And how’d it make you feel?” Gul dipped low to inspect him, his bionic eye glinting an artificial blue.
Slip turned away, hiding a grin.
“Yeah… you’re not as jaded about Tech as you say you are.”
Slip lifted his sparking leg in defense.
“Oh come off it. We’re all broken in one way or another. Might as well enjoy what we got left, right? C’mon, let’s play a stat smacker.”
Slip made a face like he sniffed something awful. “Maybe never.”
“No fun.” Gul shook his head.
“Fieldys don’t rank up, Gul. No point to play.” Slip pushed him lightly. “Just dig up your scraps, keep hoping to find your golden ticket out, and let your aging joints and rusted metal rot into the Fields so the next generation can dig you up next.”
Gul’s mouth hung open. “By the Sci-gods… so morbid. You’re starting to sound like Roman.”
“Don’t mention the elites around me, please. They did this to us.” Slip wrinkled his nose.
Gul dug into his bag and pulled out a jagged piece of wood with a shiny platinum bolt sticking from it. “Here, man. I think you need a break today. I found two portions. Don’t need to eat hearty three days in a row.” He nudged the piece against Slip’s chest for him to take it, but he only pushed it away.
They walked in silence for a moment.
“You’re a good man, Gul. I appreciate you.” Slip looked to his hand to see Tammy tattooing a blushing smiling emoji on it. “Even my bead agrees.” He held up the message. “But please, eat what you earn, and I’ll do the same. We’re Fieldys, right? Not philanthropists. Only those without a scorched sky get to play luxury.”
“Slip…”
“I know, I know. I’m just having a particularly rough one today. It’s—”
Gul winced, making the jagged scar outlining his eye crinkle. “It’s the anniversary, isn’t it? I’m not good with dates, Slip. My bad. I’ll leave you be. My condolences, buddy. Oh, and I’m not handing this one in until I see you return with something worth a meal. Can’t let you rot into the Fields so soon, eh?” He nudged him, nodded somewhat dejectedly, and paced off to give Slip his space.
There he remained, shivering in place at the thought of the Disk’s Bed Gate.
My whole family.
The world around him darkened as he crouched down and swirled a patch of dirt in a circle, thinking back to his kin. He remembered holding onto his mother’s cold arm that was normally so warm. His forehead to her lips usually ended with a kiss, but that last time harbored no love... just the bleakness of death. He cried as he shoved them into the furnace on that horrible day. And he was never the same since.
Now all I have is their projections in my hatch. He shook his head. And their ashes.
Slip peered down to a healthy heart tattooing onto his palm. “I don’t know how you kept me alive, Tammy. But sometimes I wish you hadn’t.”