Four #2
I’ve watched plenty of fights, though, and the competition looks much the same. Simple foundation sigils produce simple behavior, and nobody in the Heap can afford anything better. The winner usually comes down to sigwork, who built a better body, and that’s something I have more confidence in.
If only I’d been able to afford a few more RESISTS…
“Friends!”
Rekas steps into the “pit,” which is actually just a circle marked on the stone.
We’re in a courtyard between two large buildings, out of the view from the main market square; runic fighting isn’t exactly illegal, but the Clawmarks prefer to keep their activities out of the Arbiters’ eyes as much as possible.
The big enforcer gives the crowd a broad smile.
“Betting is closed.” His eyes find the bookies in the crowd, who obediently shut their ledgers. “Fighters, to the pit!”
I guess Rekas isn’t much of a showman. People part to let me and not-Star through.
I wait at the edge of the pit, while the runic keeps walking until I mutter a command to stop.
Looking at it in the glare of the work-lamps overhead, I can see all the little problems: the dull blades, the hasty new legs, the back panel that’s never fit properly.
I wonder if they’re as obvious to everyone else.
My opponent takes another moment to appear, and I entertain the brief hope that I’ll win by forfeit.
Then the crowd parts, and a heavyset, scowling woman ushers a runic over the boundary.
It’s a squat, ugly thing, about half my height, with four stumpy legs and a broad circular shield of dull metal covering its front.
Looks tough straight on, I send to Star, passing along the image of the runic. He can’t see when he’s reduced to a gem in my pocket, which annoys him to no end. Have to get around that shield somehow.
[Derision: hmph. If it were me, I would flip over it with grace and elegance.]
I doubt the idiot can manage that.
[Condescension: then perhaps a sidelong approach is within its limited capabilities.]
“Fighters ready?” Rekas says, retreating toward the edge of the pit. “Begin!”
My opponent trundles forward like a pissed-off turtle. Not-Star just waits for my signal; an OBEY sigil can really only obey, after all. It takes me a moment to remember I have to speak out loud and not simply think.
“Circle left!” I tell the idiot. “Close in!”
It does, legs moving in careful steps to sidestep out of the other runic’s path. It gets to one side of the big shield, and there’s another heartbeat before I remember to shout, “Attack!”
[Cringe: this is painful to listen to.]
I’m forced to agree. The idiot lumbers forward in a brain-damaged parody of Star’s graceful pounce, rearing up and slamming two blade-legs down on the other runic’s carapace.
The attack dents the metal skin without doing real damage, and I order not-Star to back off and try again.
This time, though, my opponent shouts an order as it comes in.
“Left quarter!” she says. “Block and strike!”
The turtle-like runic spins in place, surprisingly fast—it has a stumpy post under its belly, I realize, so it can rotate like a top.
Not-Star’s legs scrape against its shield ineffectively, while two new limbs whip out from the turtle-thing’s sides and close around my runic like a beetle’s mandibles.
Armor creaks and there’s a flash of red sparks as a RESIST shatters deep inside, but not-Star braces its limbs against the shield and pushes back.
For a moment there’s equilibrium as the two runics strain against each other, and the noise level from the crowd rises.
“Up!” I shout. “Reach over the top!”
Not-Star obeys, as always. Its two forelimbs are long enough to extend past the top edge of the shield and hinge down to stab behind it.
There’s no great force behind the blow, but I hear metal scrape and catch the spray of sparks from a shattering sigil.
The turtle-thing’s controller shouts at it to squeeze harder; pointless, of course, because a runic isn’t capable of giving less than its all.
The idiot slashes again and again—it’ll have to hit something important sooner or later—
Something goes crack. Not-Star’s back right leg, one of the pair I bodged from whatever junk I had on hand.
One of the long spars has snapped, leaving the end flailing spastically from misfiring MOVES.
All the pressure of the turtle-thing’s beetle-jaws is suddenly on the next leg over; that’s one of the “good” ones, but the ball joint gives way, leaving it flopping loose.
Not-Star’s carapace is pressed against the shield, its other legs losing their hold as the enemy tightens its grip.
The beetle-pincers press inward, and armor starts to dimple. Red sparks erupt from cracks.
“Stop!” I shout hastily. “Yield—we yield—”
Too late. Those mandibles come together with a sickening crunch, crushing not-Star’s body to half its former size in a wild spray of bloody crimson.
All eight limbs go suddenly limp, which means the foundation sigil itself has been destroyed.
The woman across from me pumps her fist in triumph, and the crowd lets out a mix of groans and cheers.
Mostly cheers; I guess I wasn’t the favorite.
[Query: well? Did we win?]
No. I watch with dull eyes as the turtle-runic drops not-Star’s twisted wreckage to the stone. We did not.