24. TAROS
24
TAROS
Taros went last, which put him in an excellent position to watch the ass he would be bruising under his boots before long. Hyran glanced back at the panoplian from the top of the stairs while Shoda was waiting for them by the doors.
“Scared I’ll stab you in the back?” You best be.
On Taros’s face, needles erupted, but it was the scalpel-sharp fingers he wiggled at Hyran that mattered. I hate his red hair. The color’s wasted on fucking Hyran who sure as a fucking Wild Hunt doesn’t know Kashana.
“You’re too slow. I was just checking you don’t need help with the stairs, Taros.”
Shoda beamed at them. “You two would have made excellent champions. You could still shift occupations. I think you’d look gorgeous arguing on camera, and if I’m any judge of the matter, there would be fictions written about you.”
“I like being right where I am, Shoda,” Taros told the pagomancer.
Taros had suffered the presence of many a champion ever since his brother had decided the Games were for him, but Shoda was possibly the most palatable, downright nice, even. He’d taken orders from Orrey without a fuss, and he was competent in a situation not involving an audience. Taros knew firsthand how rare that was in a champion.
Shoda sighed. “Well, shame.”
Taros reached the top of the stairs and pointed at Hyran. “You can have him though.”
Hyran snorted. “I have been offered a position on Argentea’s Team Three, and I accepted. I can’t just go back on that.”
They entered the cool of the building, the glare of the bright day fading behind them. I expected this. I don’t mind. This way, we can all keep a very close eye on Hyran and his silly red hair.
In Taros’s reckoning, in terms of what Hyran had done versus all the things he hadn’t—remove Col from his team lead position, force him to stay with Hyran alone, force him to move to Ferrea—the other Guardian hadn’t scored too badly at all.
That doesn’t mean I’ll ever trust this red-headed fucker with Col. “I’ll follow Col’s decisions, always.” And while I do that, I’ll keep both eyes on you and one bladed hand ready to cut you where it hurts.
Taros caught up, walked shoulder to shoulder with Hyran, Shoda in the lead.
The pool area was very nearly empty, and no one at all was in the water. It was oddly calm, given that the pool seemed to be a favorite place for socializing from everything Taros had seen.
“Shoda, did someone tell all the champions to be seen outside?”
Shoda winked at Taros. “Aren’t you perceptive? We watched your handsome yet commanding Conduit Orrey yesterday and decided to do our part. I was about to post a spontaneous ice sculpting competition, but now I’m showing you where to put your anger. Our Argentean guests are keeping me quite busy these days.”
The Guardians and Conduits that had followed them inside chattered in hushed voices, bubbling excitement building in that group. Presumably Taros getting Hyran’s nose bloody was more important than making a show of the Grounds being safe, and Taros agreed.
“It’s not anger. I’m just objective where Hyran here’s concerned.”
Hyran glared.
“Where are you taking us?” Hyran asked when they turned right, leaving the pool area on their left and the elevators behind them.
“We train downstairs. You’ll like it.”
There were elevators. Shoda led them down the stairs. The signs announced more than one training level. Shoda picked the first one.
It had a solid door, wide enough to allow equipment to pass through. Taros was familiar with the setup from when Targun had started out, when he’d gotten better, when he’d been unable to shut his mouth about the games for more than ten minutes.
With the frisson of annoyance anything Guardian Games related always brought nipping at him, Taros said, “This is stress and endurance conditioning.”
He looked around at the temperature boxes that helped one get used to all the extremes, the climbing garden that made champions go up ropes, walls, ladders and so forth on repeat, the treadmills. Targun liked boasting how he’d broken several of those treadmills, though Taros had assumed it had been due to clumsiness.
“Exactly. You two will be competing here.”
Shoda took them right, an area hidden behind movable walls that didn’t connect with the ceiling although there were nets up there that served as an additional barrier.
Taros recognized the nets right away. “The Beating? You are serious?”
Hyran, from his silence, was confused or had never heard of that training method.
Shoda clasped his hands behind his head as the three of them rounded the walls and the training fields came into view.
“Of course I’m serious. This is the best way, and it’s measurable. That makes it an excellent challenge for Guardians such as yourselves. Your powers will matter less, because you will get hit either way, and you’ll still be of use to your beautiful team lead after this. Imagine if you walked into the suite all limping and bloody, and with your clothes torn off. What would he think?”
Hyran’s brow furrowed. Taros smirked. Good. He’s worried.
Taros rolled his shoulders. “I don’t bleed that easily, but if you think it would be better for my new teammate…”
“As I told you, Taros, you cannot catch me as easily as you think.”
Shoda put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Oh, stop, you wild Guardians! Hyran, are you familiar with the Beating as well?”
Hyran looked at the setup. “No.”
Shoda nodded. “I’ll explain.” He walked to two elevated platforms, only about three decimeters off the ground. This area had about ten or so, standard going by all the trainings Taros had been forced to attend in order to support his brother.
Shoda pointed at a platform. “You will be on this platform, and Taros will be on the other. Projectiles come at you from there.” He pointed above to where projectile bots hung on their railings, unmoving but waiting. “There is a standard rate of projectiles per minute that will come at you, but if you succeed in dodging or blocking, your opponent will get hit with even more. Likewise, if you fail to dodge or block, your own rate will increase. We’ll set it up so that the rate can only go up, not down, since this is a challenge and not training. And for projectiles…the bots have options. Viscoelastic polymers and such. We’ll just set that to auto. Questions?”
Hyran put his hands on his hips as if he’d already won at a game he’d never played. “No.”
Taros cleared his throat. “The winner is the one who doesn’t abandon his platform, and crouching and remaining unmoving for ten seconds or more constitutes forfeiting, right?”
Shoda hummed. “Those are the rules of this game. Oh, goggles! Just to be safe.”
Shoda jogged off, leaving Taros and Hyran while he found them eye protection in a locker nearby.
Hyran leveled his green gaze at Taros. “Abandoning your platform would be like abandoning your Conduit in a fight, and I’m not ever going to do that.”
Audacious fucker. “But isn’t running your specialty?”
“Not when it means leaving my Conduit behind. Or my team.”
Taros snorted. “You never had a team.”
“I never wanted a team.” He took a deep breath. “Now I do.”
“To want a thing isn’t to have a thing, Hyran. That’s true with everything. Everything. ”
Shoda came back, handing each of them a pair of goggles. Their champion and Conduit audience was filtering into the walled-off area now, some clearly just so they wouldn’t miss anything, others actually interested.
“You don’t mind a few people watching, do you?” Shoda asked.
“No, people should see this,” Taros said.
“They really should.” Hyran jumped onto one of the platforms and put on his goggles. “Any time now, Taros.”
Hound-fucker. Taros put on his goggles as well and hopped onto the second platform.
Shoda pulled out his screen and typed something, then gestured at the bots.
“One and two, activate. Display hit rate. Upgrade only. Guardians, we will be starting at fifteen per minute. We can see the rates displayed on your platforms, and the bots will update you verbally when it rises. Should I count you down from five?”
“Sure,” Taros said while Hyran nodded.
“Five,” Shoda began.
Taros knew what was coming for him. He’d seen panoplians train with the beating and fail, because panoplian nature was to rely on the innate armor and take the hits. The issue there was that a full-on armor across the entire body was difficult to maintain, even more so while moving, and depending on panoplian type, it slowed movement drastically.
At least I can slice this shit, Taros thought just when Shoda said, “One, start!”
The projectiles began harmlessly enough, not very fast. Taros dodged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hyran blur and hit his projectile. The thing broke only to then splatter on the floor and flow to the edge of the platform.
Taros counted seconds. He sliced and dodged, careful to control his power and keep it to his hands alone. Before he got to thirty, he got hit in the shoulder.
“Fuck.”
“Too slow?” Hyran called over and dodged three projectiles in a row. For a few seconds, he was a blur on that platform.
“Platform Two, increase to twenty per minute.” The bot voice sounded too friendly. Taros hated it, not as much as he did Hyran, but it reminded him of too many of Targun’s training sessions during which cheering had been a requirement.
Calm down. You can do this. He’s too cocky. Don’t ever forget, he tried baiting you with Kashana, and that demands revenge.
Taros focused, moved, kept his eyes on his own platform. He cut down more projectiles than he dodged now, got a rhythm, even if there was no rhythm to what was coming at him.
“Platform One, increase to twenty-five per minute.”
Yes. I will beat you in this. I’ll win.
Taros stopped counting. A projectile got him in the back of the calf, in the arm. There were curses from Platform One as well, so it wasn’t just him. The AI voice raised their rate first to thirty for them both, then thirty-five for Hyran.
It went up in a painful process that was going to leave bruises, even through Taros’s nice new pair of combat pants. Forty, forty-five, fifty. Sixty was rough. Hyran stumbled noisily but remained on his platform. Taros was breathing heavily.
Can’t stop. Won’t. Have to beat him. A projectile came for his face. He dodged, hand up, slicing air. Another followed from his right, so he rolled, crossing the center point of the platform, got to his feet, dodged. It hit him. So did the next one, then he dodged.
“Platform Two, increase to seventy per minute.”
“You Hound-fucking bot!” The words nearly got him another hit, but he only just managed to cut the projectile.
“Platform One, increase to seventy-five per minute.”
Hyran grunted. Or moaned? It was difficult to tell, and Taros couldn’t take his eyes off the bot. There was no time at all to think now, there was just the pattering of those hits that didn’t find him, the satisfying feeling of cutting one, the pain of getting fucking hit.
And then it went up all the way to eighty, for the both of them.
Panting, Taros rolled. Hyran yelped, not a battle cry but something weaker. If Taros had had time to spare for thinking, he’d have thought it a pitiful whimper. There was no time for it. There was cutting, taking the beating, cutting again, and being beaten, again, again, again.
It was ninety-five before long, and it fucking hurt.
By one hundred, it was barely even about dodging or hitting, it was about moving and staying on the fucking platform, and that fucking hurt.
“Both platforms, increase to one-hundred-ten.”
Taros kept his arms up, tried to keep his armor in place at the sensitive spots, the nerve coils that might bring him to his knees. Everything else, he was willing to have beaten.
It went to fucking one-twenty. Taros hurt. He moved. It went up again, one-thirty. Two projectiles hit his goggles, one after the other, but he kept moving, his armor wanting out, but it would slow him, maybe even freeze him, if instinct took over. He moved, just moved, staying on his feet and on the platform.
Below, their audience began to cheer for the both of them.
“Isn’t it enough? Ah, fuck. Fuck! Taros! Enough?” Hyran was shouting over the noise of Taros’s pain and the assembled Guardians and Conduits.
“No!” His goggles got hit again, shifted on his face. Taros yelped because that hurt.
“Can we stop?”
“You stole Col!”
“I love Col! Let’s stop, you rock-headed idiot.”
“You don’t deserve—ow! Fucking Hunt! Fuuuck!”
“Can we say even?”
“You bleeding?”
“Fuck. Maybe. Aah! Yeah. Truce, you stupid needle head?”
“You first.”
Someone whistled, a sound of ice being pulled from the air. “If you both agree, I’ll witness the draw,” Shoda said.
“Admit you’re a Hound-fucker for stealing Col from himself!”
“Admit you want me to take you to the restaurant and meet Kashana!”
“Fucking—yes! Yes!”
“Then yes!”
“Do we have a truce?” Shoda asked.
Taros got hit three times more before he could scream, “Yes!”
“Yes!” Hyran yelled, and it stopped.
Taros sagged to his knees and pulled his goggles off, tossed them. They landed just at the edge of the platform. He locked eyes with Hyran.
“Look at you, all that red-headed smugness pummeled out of you.”
Hyran sat on his ass, not panting but wincing, tossing his goggles too. They tumbled over the edge, clattered to the ground. Hyran’s lip was split.
“Do you bleed at all?”
Taros shrugged and wiped his forehead, then gingerly touched his eye. “Nope, but this’ll swell.”
Shoda appeared in front of him and waved his finger to create a disc of ice.
“Use this, Taros. Can someone get Hyran there a patch for his lip?”
A smaller Guardian hopped up onto Hyran’s platform, medical kit in hand.
“How about now? To go out, see if we can get you to meet Designer Ogono Kashana?”
I hate him. I want to hate him so much. “Sure. That would be nice. You call me needle head ever again, I’ll cut off your hair while you sleep.”
Hyran chuckled, then flinched when the Guardian put the patch on his split lip.
“Taros?”
“Huh?”
“I’m not a thief. Col still belongs to himself. I’ll kill whoever wants to change that.”
Taros didn’t respond, but they looked at each other for a long time, so long that Taros had to sporadically remind himself how very much he hated that Guardian. That Guardian who loved Col. Had just promised to kill for Col. The hate was a difficult notion to hang on to, but Taros decided he was determined.