Tournament #3
Instead of grinning and answering the taunt in kind, Mordred scowled.
"I think that little Hobbit is modding. I've been watching him closely, since sadly the other fuckhead is in with the jousters.
His moves…something is off about them. They're slightly offbeat, like the mod and the game aren't quite synced up properly.
I think he should have been knocked out right at the beginning, but I feel he's going to make it to the final four.
If I go up against him, I think I'll throw the match, so you can humiliate him good and proper when he's so close to victory it hurts. "
"You sure? You deserve a fair fight."
Mordred scoffed. "This is a stupid game. I'll get my fair fight when I get a rematch with Kinborough. I don't care if that bitch shows up as a hundred-headed dragon again, I'm removing every single one personally and pissing on the necks."
"Drink lots of water beforehand," Lancelot said dryly.
Mordred flashed his toothy grin. "Count on it."
They sat there in companiable silence through the rest of the trials, until finally only sixteen remained.
Archery went first, and of course it came down to a battle between Arthur and Galahad. The stories marked Arthur for his prowess with the famous Excalibur, but his earliest military training had focused on archery, and he'd served as a scout for years before moving to infantry.
Galahad came close, very close, but Arthur beat him by a matter of two and a half points.
Dred puffed up with pride, and Galahad himself looked only pleased to have come so close.
They accepted their medals, and of course there'd be additional prizes like unique clothes and such delivered to their inboxes, and then it was time for the hand-to-hand final rounds.
Lancelot lined up with Mordred and the others in a special viewing box.
First up was the Hobbit, who'd apparently named himself Scrob Bagsack. That was begging to be called Ballsack, but Lancelot wasn't going to point that out.
A message from Gawain popped up in front of him. Dumbass even put a bio as if he's a real Hobbit. Says he's the great great grand nephew of Lobelia. Like that's a good thing. Majorly wincing.
Lancelot had no idea what any of that meant, other than Scrob was all the more a dumbass, but he didn't ask because he didn't have time right now to listen to Gawain wax poetic about something he loved.
But he would later, over dinner, because listening to anyone talk about something they loved was always a pleasure.
Replying with a laugh emoji, Lancelot then dismissed the message and went back to watching intently as Scrob faced off against a woman wielding a crazy ass broadsword that in real life would be entirely ceremonial, far too heavy and impractical for actual battle.
Unless Galehaut was wielding it, of course.
Lancelot had only seen him strain once, against a boulder many, many times his size, and he'd still succeeded in the end.
He watched closely, and sure enough, the tell-tale slightly offbeat movement of a mod was there, as it moved just ever so slightly ahead of Scrob's movements to ensure he was faster, stronger, overall better than his stats and game checks would permit.
Predictably, he won the match because of it. The woman walked off bitterly, and likely signed off once she was out of sight, hopefully to file a complaint, if she'd noticed the bastard was cheating.
Eventually, Mordred faced off against Scrob, taunting and harassing him, making him work harder and harder, until he was red-faced and wheezing. Then, abruptly, Mordred cried out, "I surrender" when it was painfully obvious he could have won, and walked out of the arena into the waiting area.
Even the game itself seemed baffled by that turn of events, but surrendering a match was an option, so Scrob was allowed to carry on to the final match.
A brief break was called then to tidy up the arena and give players a chance to rest. Unnecessary, as it was a video game, but the realism was the draw and not everybody had a fancy rig that meant they didn't need to take snack or bathroom breaks.
After being stuck in the game for so long, seeing the real world again was going to be jarring, to say the least. Every now and then, for the barest moments, Lancelot forgot they were in a game at all.
He went to the waiting room, where Scrob was already skulking. "I'm going to kick your ass, pose." Lancelot ignored him. "Too good to talk to me?"
Taking down his sweaty, messy hair, Lancelot gave it a crude combing with his fingers and then bound it up in a knot at the base of his neck, where it would be out of his way and also not interfere with his helmet.
"Seriously, loser? The silent treatment is so lame."
He cracked his knuckles and pulled on his gauntlets, tightened the straps to the perfect amount of tension, then flexed his fingers to ensure everything was settled.
"Fine, whatever, loser."
Lancelot went through his final checks, then summoned his buckler to his left arm. Scrob had been using a full shield throughout, but a full shield in a dual was unnecessary and got in the way more than it helped. Shields were for full combat and certain training exercises.
The horn sounded, and the green light above the door turned on. Scrob all but lunged forward, clearly eager to begin and thinking it meant something that he was called first. Even though in show business, best was always last.
A moment later, the green light went on again, and Lancelot received the superfluous alert that he was to enter the arena.
"The man you've all been waiting for, son of the Lady of the Lake, greatest of the Knights of the Round Table, seducer of queens—" Lancelot's lip curled "—I give you Sir Lancelot du Lac!
" The crowds cheered wildly, surprising him, because he hadn't honestly been paying much attention, focused entirely on dragging out every match he could, adding precious minutes to each one that stacked and stacked.
He immediately got messages from his asshole friends mocking him for once again stealing the show, even from Arthur. Which wasn't fair, because archery didn't require Excalibur or Arthur's fancy displays of blinding sunlight.
As the crowd chanted his name, he took up his starting position, pulled his helmet on, and drew his sword. Only then did he finally bother to look at Scrob. "Your mods won't save you this round, Master Ballsack. The tide rises, and you will fall. Come at me."