Berserkers

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

From his cell on the Berserker, Prisoner CF-170 thought he heard a thousand screams piercing through his dusty, windowless cell. One after another, on loop like a broken record. He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block the whoops and hollers breaking through on all sides.

To no avail. The screams were everywhere.

CF-170 curled further in on himself, his body, especially his feet, aching from the week’s labor. And he had another fight today.

The idea of fighting again, of continuing to fight, irked him in a way nothing else ever had, like he was being crushed under the weight of his own rage. Especially now. His lip was still sore from where CF-68J had clocked him last night. She threw a nasty punch, and she certainly had no qualms fighting dirty. 170 almost felt bad about killing her.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d tried for a knockout but hadn’t accounted for the additional strength that comes with wearing virilean armor. The crew rarely offered it to fighters, so 170 wasn’t used to it. It formed to a person like a second layer of shining purple skin, and it hit back with all the same power it defended against. So really, it was her own hit that did her in.

Still, 170 wouldn’t change what happened. He imagined anything, even death, would be better than this life.

He winced as he uncurled his fists, stretching the muscles and upsetting his bruised knuckles. He heard the lock pad beeping on the other side of the cell door before the noisy, automated metal slid up.

“Stand,” said a Berserker prison guard. He was sporting a navy jumpsuit, a rifle slung over one shoulder, and a really terrible haircut.

170 told him as much.

“Stand up,” the guard repeated, this time grabbing 170 by the collar and dragging him out of the cell. The cool air rushed him like the frosty breath of a troll during Trypso-14RQ’s winter season.

He shivered.

The guard locked two thick cuffs around 170’s wrists before typing a code into its number pad. 170 couldn’t make it out.

“Get CF-22 to the colosseum,” the guard, who 170 now recognized as Armiger from the name badge on his uniform, told a second prison guard. “I got this one.”

“Sir,” the second replied before rushing down a set of rattling stairs.

170 lolled his head back, considerably miffed. CF-22 was an asshole. A grade-A piece of shit. Absolutely 170’s least favorite person on the Berserker—maybe in the entire universe.

His ego was matched only by 170 himself and his recalcitrance by none. 170 tried to kill him once a month during their cyclical match, but he’d never succeeded. To be fair, CF-22 had never succeeded in killing 170 either.

They were the longest lasting colosseum fighters on the Berserker, and their fights always made the crew the most money, so they fought often.

There was only one rule (which was actually quite telling because there were usually no rules in the colosseum):

Don’t kill one another.

170 wholly intended to break that rule tonight. Of course, he made that resolution every match, but this time it would actually be different. Because 170 was getting better. He could tell by the way he moved quicker during fights, they way he noticed more and hit harder. His matches with 22 almost always ended in a knockout, and their win rates were about even.

But 170’s final blow would kill this time. He was sure of it.

Armiger ushered 170 past the other cells, through the fighter jet hangar and into the colosseum.

“You’ve got ten minutes. Suit up,” he said before shutting 170 inside a small chamber connected to the arena. After a second or two, the cuff’s unlocked and fell. They must have been on a timer. He wished he had noticed. If he had, he might have attempted an escape.

And probably failed.

There was virilean again, hanging to his right on an armor stand. A staff, too, with a button on the handle.

170 donned the glittering purple and a simple wooden shield before pressing the button on the staff. Twin flaming axe blades shot out of the top.

He grinned. The weapons were different every time, but he’d never gotten anything this cool before. But if he had a flaming axe, CF-22 probably had a similar sword. 170 pressed the button again, and the blades dissolved

He noticed a gun, too, but he couldn’t tell what it shot.

So, he aimed for the ground.

The blast was white, but the place he hit blackened and decayed like a dying plant, floating black particles emerging from the residue.

The thought of shooting CF-22 with it made his heart race with giddy anticipation.

The arena door opened with a loud metallic ring, dust billowing up from the ground and crevices. With his free hand, 170 blocked out the white light glaring down from above as he stepped into the arena. The screaming exploded around him, and it only intensified when CF-22 appeared on the other end of the arena. 170 shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the cheering and booing. To focus.

He stepped forward, lighting up his axe and preparing to charge. As he’d expected, 22’s weapon was a sword in the same style as his axe. That was fine. They always gave 22 a sword, so 170 had plenty of practice.

A shrill horn blared above, and 170 rushed forward. He lifted his shield and brought his axe head down, aiming straight for CF-22’s skull. 170 hit his opponent’s shield instead, the axe embedding itself deep into the wood. 22 swung his sword, but 170 was at an awkward angle, and the blade only grazed his shield.

Instead of trying to rip his weapon free, 170 dissolved the axe head and lifted the handle. Then he brought it down again, the axe head shooting out at the last moment.

Still, 22 blocked it.

170 jumped back, putting a hand to where his gun rested in its holster. 22’s blaster was already out, but it wasn’t aimed at 170. Not even close. 22 aimed the blaster way too high and pulled the trigger. 170 followed the line of fire at the same time that the massive glass ceiling above the arena shattered and fell. He heard 22 shoot again, but he didn’t have time to see where. 170 crouched, raising the shield above his head as quickly as he could to protect himself from the raining shards of glass.

Nothing hit. He looked up. 22 was standing right in front of him, hand outstretched, face placid, unreadable.

Somehow—170 couldn’t fathom it—22 had spawned a low barrier, barely taller than either of them—from one end of the arena to the other, shielding the two from the showering shards.

“You wanna stay here forever or somethin'?” asked 22.

“How did you—“

22 rolled his eyes, snatched his hand back, and moved passed 170.

“Wait!” he called, pulling out his own gun and aiming it. 22 spared a glance over his shoulder, raising one eyebrow speculatively. It was only for a moment, then he kept moving.

170 scowled, finger shaking as it hovered over the trigger. This was his moment. It wasn’t exactly how he’d planned it, but here it was. And it would be so easy.

Why was he hesitating?

“Damnit!” he cursed, holstering the weapon and sprinting after CF-22. “What’s your plan?”

22 didn’t look at all surprised by 170’s question or his decision to follow. He pulled out a small purple disc and gestured to the chamber 170 had just emerged from.

“Is that a bomb?”

“It is,” said 22.

“What about the guards?”

“They’re occupied.”

170 looked up. Above the barrier and through the fallen glass, the audience balconies were in chaos. He could barely make out the human-like shapes trampling each other to make it to the exits, like ants escaping a flooding hill.

“That second shot," 170 realized, "You put a hole in the ship."

22 nodded, sticking the disc to the chamber door and pressing the center. It lit up. Seconds later, they walked through a hole about twice as large as the door had been.

“Where did you get a bomb? And how did you shoot a hole in the ship?”

22 moved cautiously through the back rooms of the colosseum, completely ignoring 170 as he looked for the hangar.

“You can fly a fighter jet, can't ya?” he asked.

“What?” 170 barely understood the man through his thick accent. He'd always assumed 22, with his long, colored hair and tan complexion, was from the capital, but that didn't make much sense coupled with his drawling accent.

22 spun around, looking 170 in the eyes for the first time. “Can you fly a fighter jet?” he asked, considerably clearer.

“Yes—I mean sort of. I could ten years ago, but they’re always changing.” 170 had been 15 the last time he’d flown a plane, and he hadn’t been that good at it. In fact, he’d been absolutely terrible until just a few months before his arrest. He imagined he was quite rusty now.

“That’s good enough for me,” said 22, lifting open one of the automatic doors to the hangar. 170 gaped at the man’s strength, doubtful he could do the same if he tried. Maybe it was the virilean.

“We need a two-seater,” said 22, resting the bottom of the door on his shoulder so 170 could crouch through. “Ya see any?”

There were audible footsteps sounding from the colosseum behind them. 170 hurried passed 22.

“There,” he pointed. “That model has room for five."

“It’ll do.” 22 forced the door off of his shoulder, and it slammed with a loud thud.

“The guards probably heard that “ said 170.

“Don’t care. Move.”

170 did. He reached the ship, but as he tried to climb into the cockpit, a pair of hands closed around his legs, ripping him back down. He landed hard, the air leaving his lungs with the impact, but before he could inhale, a thick-soled boot slammed down onto his chest.

Armiger hovered above him, expression twisted into an animalistic snarl as he aimed his rifle at 170's head. He reached for the blaster at his hip, but Armiger kicked it away before pressing down harder on 170's chest.

"The fuck you doing, inmate?" he spat. 170 thought the man's spittle sprinkled down onto his face, but it could have just as easily been blood. Armiger's body fell, his legs pinning 170 to the ground. 22 stood above them, sword bloodied and flaming. Once again, he reached his hand out for 170. This time, he took it.

"C'mon," said 22, climbing up into the jet's cockit.

"Right." 170 kicked Armiger's body, flipping the man over before taking the rifle for himself. He threw it to 22 as he jumped into the seat beside him.

"You got this?"

170 nodded slowly. The control board didn’t look totally foreign, which was a relief. But he wouldn’t have a chance to use it if they couldn’t open the hangar door.

“Then get it movin'.”

“The door—"

“Get. It. Moving. Don’t worry about the door.”

“I’m worrying about the fucking door, 22” he grumbled, preparing the jet for flight.

“Go.”

170 slowly guided the jet onto the landing pad. About halfway down, a second hangar door shot up behind them, sealing the air in on the other side.

“Don’t think about it,” said 22, “just go.”

“Fuck off” he cursed. “I’m not killing myself here!” The jet slowed.

22 grabbed 170 by the shirt. “We’re not gonna die,” he said.

“Yes we are, you psychopath.”

“Trust me! It’ll open.”

170 shook his head and closed his eyes, speeding the jet up again. The hangar door lifted seconds before they would have impacted with it.

They were in open space.

“It opened? How—who opened it?” 170 sputtered.

“I got a guy on the inside. He got me the stuff I needed. He opened the hangar."

“You’re insane.”

“I just broke you out of prison.”

“Because you needed a pilot.”

“Yeah, and I got one. What's your point?”

170 rubbed his forehead in disbelief. “Fuck. Escaping with CF-22. That’s fucking insane.”

“I’ve got a name,” he said. “It’s Kel.”

“Really? I would’ve guessed something tougher, like Lyons.”

“That’s a stupid name,” Kel said. “Is it yours?”

170 paused. He hadn’t thought about his name in years. “No," he said finally, "it’s Mika."

“Mika? I woulda guessed somethin' tougher.”

"Fuck off," 170—Mika said.

He looked ahead. The open space before him felt so immense—too immense. Too intimidating after the time he'd spent living, fighting inside the Berserker. He wondered if Kel was feeling the same thing.

Mika spared a glance toward the other man. His rival. His enemy. His absolute least favorite person in the universe.

His liberator.

With a sigh, Mika made his resolution. He was still going to kill the bastard.