Chapter 7: Gamefaces

“My minions from beyond this realm whisper in fear. Something great and terrible is crossing the cosmos. He is coming.”

-Mahaan, the Dark Mother, 190 U.E.

Yin sat next to her father in the packed, cobbled-together stadium. Unfortunately, Amaline had decided to sit next to her.

It would have been wrong to deny the woman a job based on her own feelings. That didn’t mean Yin had to like her. Amaline was far too chatty, not to mention grabby. Yin would rather not think about where those hands had been before.

Several thousand spectators were packed into the oval stadium—known as the Scrap Heap—many standing up to find room. The whole area was lit up by harsh magelight. Light scuttlers ran on tight circuits over their heads, spidery mechanical legs attached to metal railings. Peddlers hung out of open doors, offering food of dubious quality at inflated prices.

Amaline caught a scuttler-borne peddler as he passed and bought two ice cream cups with a wad of money produced from her cleavage. She offered one of them to Yin with a vapid smile, like a dog beaming with pride after taking a shit on the porch.

“Do you want one?” she asked.

“I don’t like ice cream,” Yin said.

“Oh, come on! Who doesn’t like ice cream? It’s like, the best thing that ever came out of the Concord!”

“I don’t want it.”

“Here,” Stephan said. He took the cup from Amaline, then handed it to Yin. When she tried to give it back, he refused to take it. “Just enjoy the ice cream, sweet pea. No one’s fooled.”

Fuming, Yin licked at the vanilla ice cream using the provided plastic spoon. She was not speaking to him.

“Have any of you seen a powerbrawl match before?” Stephan asked.

“Nope,” Amaline said.

Yin refused to answer.

Stephan pushed up his glasses with the edge of a pamphlet. “I brushed up on the rules when we got here. I figure I should go through it before the fight starts so you guys know what you’re looking at.”

“That would be helpful,” Amaline admitted.

“Okay, so powerbrawl is basically magic-enhanced martial arts. Before a fight, each competitor is allowed to strengthen their body through vivimantic manipulation, increasing speed, durability, or adding biological weaponry. How many enhancements can be applied is determined by the amount of anima required to produce and apply that upgrade, measured in evo points. For a standard match like this, each fighter can use a maximum of 500 evo, but rules sometimes differ.”

Yin tuned out a bit, sinking lower into her seat as she settled in. She dug into her ice cream, which quickly ran out. Amaline not-so-subtly switched out their cups. When confronted with a glare, she afforded Yin a motherly smile.

“A fighter will plan out their match and try to anticipate what their opponent will be using. Based on that, they change up their modifications to counter it. However, only what’s known as ‘true’ modifications are allowed. Spells and pseudo-spells are forbidden, and will earn you a disqualification.”

“What’s a pseudo-spell?” Amaline asked.

“Good question. You should actually be more familiar with the concept on a practical level than most people. Your electrified hands are an example of a pseudo-spell. Your body has been modified to stimulate anima at will, producing electricity. However, while you don’t need to speak any rune to use it, it’s still a purely magical effect. Hence the term.”

“I totally get it,” Amaline said, nodding enthusiastically.

“No you don’t,” Yin remarked.

“I really don’t.”

Stephan chuckled. “That’s fine. Let’s not get hung up on details. As for the rules of the actual bout, any amount of violence is allowed, bar outright killing an opponent. In the ring, that one rule is sacred. A brawler loses a fight if they yield, are unable to continue, or are thrown out of bounds.”

“Basically, we’re just rooting on this new buddy of yours to beat the snot out of the other guy?” Yin asked.

“Correct.”

“Could’ve just said that.”

“And lose the nuance of the sport? Never.”

“Something’s happening,” Amaline said, pointing.

A lone reedling in a gaudy sequin suit and gold-plated loafers waddled onto the sand-strewn arena at the center of the stadium. The arena was dug into the ground, three-meter concrete walls surrounding it that bore the scars of previous bouts. Pitted, scratched, and cracked. The arena had two gaping entrances, one on each side.

A spherical auto-eye fluttered around the reedling, struggling on wings seemingly too small to carry up its fat body. It would be recording the event so that it could be broadcast on scryers elsewhere.

“Welcome, freaks and freak-lovers!” the reedling called through a tube-shaped farshout. “Whether you are here in person or tuning in at home, this is going to be an event to remember! I’ll be your announcer and referee tonight. You all know me, so I’m gonna let you carry the introductions. What’s my name?”

“Cas Darling,” came a smattering of half-hearted shouts from the crowd.

The reedling threw up a stubby arm, forefinger pointed skyward. “I said, what’s my name!?”

“Cas Darling!” they called.

“What’s my fucking name!?”

“Cas Darling!” they roared, thousands of voices as one.

Finally satisfied, Darling nodded. “That’s better. Now, are you ready to meet our fighters?”

Though rhetorical, he let the question hang long enough for the silence to grow suspenseful. Spectators leaned forward in their seats.

“For our first, please welcome a guest from the Commonwealth! With a record of twenty wins and five losses, he’s got more experience than your whore mother!” Scattered laughter at that. He gestured towards the left entrance, putting his whole body into the pose, head thrown back. “Standing two meters, twenty-two centimeters tall and weighing in at 162 kilos, it’s Rath ‘The Boulder’ Crawlin! Give ‘im a hand, people!”

Tinny, instrumental rock music came on over old speakers as the man from the bar jogged into the arena. Though thick with muscle, his movements didn’t seem hampered by his bulk. Unlike the slow awkwardness with which he seemed to move in regular society, in the arena he held himself like a predator, quick and low.

The crowds cheered. Crawlin waved at them and unfolded bone blades from his forearms, grinding them together over his head. He wore only a pair of red shorts, scar-covered musculature exposed.

“Crawlin, great to have you here,” Darling said as he strutted up to the fighter more than twice his height. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

Crawlin refolded his arm blades with two flicks and bent double to get close to the farshout. “I’d like to dedicate this fight to my two sons.” He pointed at the auto-eye and looked into its unblinking, mechanical eye. “I know you’re watching this, boys. I’ll be with you soon.”

“Aww, isn’t that precious—a man fighting for his family. Let’s move on.” With that, the reedling trundled off towards the other end of the arena. “Our next combatant is a newcomer to the game with a growing string of victories under her belt. With a record of eight wins and zero, I repeat, zero losses, this graceful killer from the briny depths is more than capable of challenging Crawlin’s tenure! Standing two meters, eleven centimeters tall, weighing in at ninety-one kilos, please give a hand to Maz ‘Needles’ Ivicc!”

The spectators roared their approval as a ponderous creature wandered into the arena. She was clearly meant to be a lubbard, but she was tall and gangly, bones stretched out to disturbing proportions, throat elongated and swelled. Instead of the typical smooth, slick skin of the seafolk, she was covered in ridged scales, each bigger than a thumb. Her long fingers ended in claws that glistened with a viscous fluid. Her only clothing was bandages wrapped over her crotch, having no breasts to cover up.

Grinning, teeth like a shark, she approached the center of the arena and met face-to-face with the older fighter.

“Any words before we begin?” Darling asked. He offered up the farshout to the lubbard.

She shook her head, predatory gaze firmly fixed on her opponent.

Darling blinked, clearly expecting a different response. “W-Well then! A woman of few words, I can respect that! Now, we’re almost ready for what you’ve all been waiting for!”

He hurried over to the edge of the arena. A scuttler climbing along its track extended down to him, hanging on by a single leg, and reached towards the reedling. He grabbed onto the hooked appendage and was lifted into the air while the auto-eye remained below to record the fight, hovering around the fighters.

“Count down with me!” Darling cried, twirling around the scuttler’s leg like an exotic dancer. “Five!”

“Four!” the crowd responded.

Crawlin settled into a low stance, arms up in a tight guard. Maz regarded him, dead-eyed, arms at her sides.

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

“Fight!” announcer and audience cried at once.