Chapter 13

Everything after the restaurant was a blur.

The first place James took notice of was his own living room, as if he had appeared on the couch in a puff of smoke. Open in his lap was the dog-eared notebook that someone had handed to him the first day at the hospital, probably intended as distraction for his writer's mind; instead, he made it the bible of his mother's prognosis and care. When the months and years dragged on, through habit it became simply a bankbook, a personal statement of account with the medical gods. Looking through it now reiterated an intuitive truth.

Without Angela, it was impossible.

Every cent James had earned for seven years had gone to living expenses or Joseph Stenton. Each paycheck was spoken for as it came. Loans or credit would only prolong an untenable situation.

He calculated what he could earn by working seven day weeks and squeezing in extra shifts from a fifth job, or by aiming for the type of managerial position he had long avoided. However he manipulated the figures, it wouldn't come anywhere close. It wasn't physically possible with the earning potential of a university dropout.

One month. Then he would no longer be able to pay the full amount. The support systems would be cut off soon after.

James laid his head back over the top of the couch, staring at the ceiling, and through to the sky beyond it; and the heaven beyond that, if there was such a convenient place.

He had sworn to keep on by any means necessary. If he gave in now over something so damnably stupid as money, what had it all been for?

James closed his eyes and slept, heedless of nightmares. He had no strength left to fight them.

***

His cell phone jarred him awake. Morning sun trickled through the gaps in the blinds, the previous night's flurry only a memory.

"Hello?" James said, more a groggy slur than a greeting.

"Mornin Prez!"

"...Casey?"

"Yeah, yeah! Ain't seen ya in a while. How ya been?"

"Busy with work ... what time is—" James took the phone away from his ear and squinted at it. "Six in the morning?" It was impossible to suppress a groan.

"Aw, man, sorry if I woke ya. Just, y'know, couldn't sleep much 'cause I'm so pumped."

James rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How'd you get this number?"

"The big D gave it to me." Casey's cheerful tone fell. "Sorry ... he said ya wouldn't mind..."

"It's fine. What's the occasion?"

"Ah ... well ... just, big day 'n all with the concert 'n stuff, and I was feelin kinda nervous, but then I 'membered the Grand Prix is today too, so ... thought I'd see if ya wanted to come with ... or if you're too busy..."

The previous night's episode had blanked his mind utterly. If not for the reminder, James might have spent the entire day on the couch with the notebook in his lap, not even realizing it was Friday.

"When does the Grand Prix start?"

"Umm, like two o'clock? My time?"

That meant 3 PM in New York, and he had a shift at the arena from 2 to 6 that he couldn't skip. He needed to be adding shifts, not subtracting them.

...Actually, the only difference would be a few more days of waiting for the end; a drop in a bucket which had long ago rusted right through the bottom.

"I'll meet you at 1:45."

"You will? Really? Oh man, so sweet. The Grand Prix for real! Prez, you're the best!"

Casey sounded at least as excited about the tournament as she was about her big-time debut concert later that night. Was it alright for her to waste time playing around? Though if they weren't prepared by now, they probably weren't going to be.

James struggled to care. Concerts and tournaments might as well be on the moon for all their relevance. He should head down to the care facility and print a big expiration date on the door to room 459: best before 01/15/22. A morbid laugh came bubbling wildly into his throat before being barely bottled back up.

Casey was still babbling. "Today's gonna be crazy awesome. Sorry for callin so early ... just really wanna go to the Grand Prix 'n all so ... thanks."

"Sure."

***

James went to the library, perversely motivated by apathy. Numbing his brain with trolleys of books would prevent unnecessary thinking.

Before he knew it, the shift was over. Time was rolling along at a downhill clip, probably because it was running out.

When he next became aware, he was on the couch at home holding a sandwich. The television was playing an episode of an old favorite anime. He ate because he didn't feel like getting up to put the sandwich away, then donned the Shattered Land headset.

The studio in which he appeared was just as it had been, only vacant. The double-paned window reflected his image dimly. A ghost in the mirror.

Black cotton turtleneck, black slacks, matte black leather shoes—every article completely unadorned. Different hair, too. A crew cut had stealthily replaced his usual shag.

"Whoa," Casey said, when James found her at the Colosseum. Her eyes went wide.

"What?"

"Uh ... nothin..."

He looked like a con artist or a murderer, or both. So be it. Casey was just as ever: sneakered feet, gauntleted hands, face haloed in golden locks, tank top and gym shorts affording long limbs the freedom to move. High school track star moonlighting as gladiatorial combatant.

Normally, the contrasts inherent to this world's fashions were amusing. Today, they were tedious. "When do we start?"

Casey's wide-eyed stare was unabated. "Like ... twenty minutes?"

"Where did you get your gauntlets?"

"Um ... a shop by the park...?"

"I'll be back before we start."

***

Three minutes to spare. Casey pulled him at a run to the team room. Jaleet had it reserved, greeting them with a brief nod.

"How many matches today?" James asked.

"Possibly as many as eight," Jaleet said. "The Grand Prix is the largest event of its type in Laurentia." His fatigues were a different color than before, dark gray spotted with lighter gray. On his belt were two combat knives instead of one.

"Meaning there are larger ones in other territories?"

"The top four teams of the Grand Prix will be seeded into the Falgarde Invitational. In terms of spectatorship and prizes, the Invitational has been the most prominent tournament in Shattered Land for consecutive years. Only the strongest teams will attend."

"Dang." Casey's eyes were shining. "We gotta get best four!"

"That's not a good goal," James said.

"It's not?"

"Since we're here, we should win."

Casey broke out in a grin. "Yeah! Yeah! I knew if ya gave it a try, you'd end up havin fun! It's great, right? Isn't it?"

"Sure."

James felt his blood starting to churn. For the first time, he wanted that gate to open. The weight of the item he had purchased was straining at the lining of his pocket like it wanted out. Lethargy and apathy had been replaced by a heat in his chest that made breath come faster: a too-familiar feeling from seven years ago, studiously locked away.

Rage.

The real world was not a place of fairness. Things didn't go the way they would if life was a matinee movie. In that world, James took tiny revenges indirectly: invitations turned down, calls and texts ignored, slowly but surely severing anything that might be hurtful.

At last, he had discovered a different sort of place; a place where building walls and keeping peace was unnatural. A place where people were lining up to beat each other to death.

It was only a game. He could hurt whoever he wanted. As much as he wanted.

***

The arena was different this time.

For one thing, it was somehow night; as soon as they stepped on the arena floor, the brightness of the sun faded away. Another difference was the size of the crowd. It was impossible to see them, but they couldn't hide from a mentalist. Some felt slightly different from the others: NPCs, though James couldn't have said how he knew. Probably sent by UCC to build the hype.

Even so, there were hundreds of real players in the gallery. James could filter in on any conversation he chose. Some of the spectators were commenting on the movements of players on the field despite the apparent darkness. From what he could hear, the match was being displayed in a point-of-view style on projected screens, and the arena floor had been divided into multiple areas with simultaneous battles in each.

There was one further difference in layout compared to the qualifier. Instead of pillars and alleys and pools of water, the arena was a mountainous tangle of rocky slopes, crags and treacherous scree. The terrain itself was now an opponent.

James stood, evaluating the flow of events, hearing every footstep the opposition took. Pebbles trickled in response to their movements. Casey was advancing on the left, surefooted and athletic on the unsettled ground. Jaleet, the wraith, glided almost soundlessly even here, executing a flanking maneuver that would set him behind all three enemy units.

James saw them now as pieces in a chess match. And one of those chess pieces, impertinent and unaware, was creeping down the center of the map, directly toward him.

James kept his eyes closed. There was no point in trying to see when he had far superior senses available. Ten steps west, fifty north, up and over a minor cliff face, then back down to the southeast, and now he was following behind the enemy. A large man, from the heaviness of his footsteps and the rasp of his breath, and armored in leather and chain, not plate. And there was a discordance in the jangle and scrape of his mail, a spot where the rings had been broken and never repaired. Just above the left kidney.

That was the target.

Maintaining perfect stealth was difficult. Sensory capabilities aside, feet were still feet, and the ground was coated in shards of rock too tiny to avoid. Fortunately, the opponent was having difficulty even staying upright. The muttered curses, pinwheeling of arms and scrape of hobnailed boots were invitations to advance ever closer.

James drew within two long strides of the enemy and readied himself. It was almost unfair how easy it was going to be.

Then there was a subtle change. James hesitated just slightly, and that was what saved his life.

"Don't sneak around me, you bloody coward!"

The man roared and spun with inhuman speed, slashing down so powerfully that his sword whistled as it cut the air. James could hear its shape in the wind: crude, heavy, and deadly.

I underestimated him.

Before the thought was even complete, James was diving on reflex, rolling over sharp pebbles that tore at his shirt. His advantage in the darkness was neutralized by the ear-splitting clang of sword slamming rock hard enough to throw sparks, temporarily deafening his echolocation. James threw himself aside and continued to roll, hoping to avoid the next blow by luck, but it didn't come. He could hear just well enough to catch explosive swearing as his assailant shook the numbness from his hands.

James rose into a crouch and dug into his pocket, fingers closing around the purchase he had made: titanium knuckles, midnight black and harder than steel.

James opened his eyes. In the gloom was a silhouette, renewing its grip on a terrifyingly large blade. With no combat experience to speak of and not even a particularly athletic body, James had only one resource to call upon for victory.

Animal fury.

The bladesman swung another downward cut, but James moved before the sword even reached its apex. Using his crouch to push off of a stone, James thrust almost directly forward, twisting just enough so that the sword cut air. The man cursed and turned mid-swing, slicing backhanded, predictable even for an amateur. James ducked under the blade and drove off of his left leg with every ounce of strength. His right fist, titanium-clad and with the whole of his body behind it, crunched through the weak area of his opponent's ringmail right at the kidney. Without even a cry, the man dropped like a sack of meat.

The lights went on—or rather, the sun emerged. Casey was jogging over from the far side of the hill, waving and grinning, an unconscious body on the ground at her back. Jaleet was already standing by the gate they had come in from.

James straightened to his full height and gazed at the opponent crumpled beneath him, the first human being he had ever struck in anger. Under the blazing sun, the man was far from imposing: a balding, run-to-fat wannabe-warrior, dribbling vomit and unconsciously clutching a sword chipped from where it had struck rock instead of flesh.

James took off the titanium knuckles and examined his fist. Minor bruising and swelling. The evidence of what he had done, written into his body.

"Dang, you took him out?" Casey skidded to a halt, staring down, eyes hugely round. "Wow! Wow." She took a deep breath and let it out again. "Wow."

"What's so amazing?"

"I dunno." Casey looked up at the sky, shading her eyes against the sun. "Just figured you didn't wanna fight."

"Maybe now I do."

Casey nodded. "Man, it's a rush, havin fun and playin with your friends 'n winnin matches. It's normal, right? Who wouldn't wanna do that?"

"Right," James said. But Casey was giving him a funny look, an expression stuck between uneasy and sick. "What's the matter?"

"Nothin ... just ... it's fun, right?"

"Sure."

"But you don't look like it's fun..." Casey's face was drawn. "You look like you're really sad." Then she dropped her gauntlets on the ground and hugged him in front of thousands of people, with Jaleet watching silently from the gate.

James couldn't hug back or even pull away. He just stood there, tears streaming from his eyes, not even knowing why.

"You shouldn't do things that make you sad," Casey said, arms holding tight. "Don't do things that make you sad."