REAVER x REAVER

The thunder of stomping feet from above echoes through the tunnel. The indistinct shouting is partially muted by the rushing and pounding of heated blood in the challenger’s ears.

He stares at the currently closed door and takes deep, steady breaths.

It’s normal to feel such disquietude. He thinks to himself. You qualified for this tournament. You belong here. You can do this.

He closes his eyes, slowly rolls his head to stretch his neck, and lets his hands sway, mimicking the motions he will use for this first challenge and opponent.

Calgon the Crusher. He’ll pick something large and heavy to use his size as an advantage. You’ve prepared for this. Don’t be intimidated.

The door at the end of the tunnel opens, and the shouting and stomping rumbles down the tunnel like water in a rusty pipe.

The door guard nods the contestant forward, and he steps through.

The cacophony, now unfettered, rings in his ears as he steps into the Iron Dome.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Introducing the challenger. Winner of the Tri-Town Tourney. The Reaver.” The announcer puts some of his trademark edge to the name, but his lack of familiarity with this newcomer has a slight, but noticeable, impact on the enthusiasm.

Reaver raises his hand to acknowledge the crowd, despite the predominant boos and jeers.

Don’t let it get to you. You knew they wouldn’t offer much support to a newbie. Focus, and do your thing.

“And now,” the announcer continues, his voice full of the enthusiastic grit he didn’t waste on The Reaver. “At six-five, two hundred and seventy pounds of pure power and prose, Calgon the Crrrrrrrusher!”

The crowd erupts in cheers, applause, and repeated chants of “Crusher.”

Calgon the Crusher enters the Iron Dome, raises his fists and bellows an indistinct shout of premature victory. He pounds a fist against his sizable, and muscular, chest. He is wearing his signature look of unbuttoned light brown vest with no shirt to show off his tan, rippling muscles. His baggy, cotton trousers are tucked into his laced up boots. His dark brown hair in a slicked back faux hawk.

The referee motions for both Reaver and Crusher to step forward.

The Crusher looks down at the Reaver, flexes his pecs, sneers and grins in amusement that he is facing this nobody.

Reaver, at six feet and a lean one hundred and sixty five pounds, looks up at The Crusher, and does not break eye contact. He makes sure to not give any reaction to the white eyed, zombie-like contacts Calgon wears to add to his intimidating appearance.

“Gentlemen,” the referee begins. “As you know, this is a shock round. You will be administered periodic electric shocks at random throughout the contest. Should you continue to battle past the ten minute time limit, you will be penalized. Winner will advance. Loser will receive thirty seconds of shock, and be eliminated from the tournament. Are we clear?”

Both parties nod.

“Calgon, as the higher ranked seed, you have the choice of instrument for this battle.”

Calgon grins wider at Reaver.

“I choose the Overwood Steeltype.”

The crowd erupts.

Reaver nods, his expression unchanging.

“Overwood Steeltype it is!” The referee confirms the choice and waves the two opponents back.

Dome-Girls, in their short shorts, tight tank tops, and boots of various lengths, appear, much to the delight of the crowd, and wheel out the metal desk and chair platforms and set them up.

Reaver and Crusher ignore the distraction and continue to stare each other down.

Two men emerge from the side doors, each carrying a Overwood Steeltype, followed by two Dome-Girls carrying a stack of paper each. They set the heavy typewriters on their respective desks, the Dome-Girls place the paper stack next to it, then disappear into the door from which they came.

Dome-Girls then lead the two contestants to the platforms and attach Electro-Clamps to the two men’s thighs and chests, making sure to bend and pose to show off enough leg, butt, and cleavage to make the crowd clap and cheer.

Their job done, the Dome-Girls, save two, file out with winks and waves to the overly excited crowd.

“Gentlemen,” the referee speaks again. “You may sit and prepare your papers.”

Reaver and Crusher sit down, slide a piece of paper into their typewriters, and turn the knob to feed it into ready position.”

“You will have ten minutes from my mark to complete your stories. Understood?”

Both men nod.

“Your theme is…” the referee draws an envelope out of a container held by one of the remaining Dome-Girl, the one from the other, and opens them. “A bedtime story with high-fantasy elements. Begin!”

Reaver begins typing, his strokes even and full of intent.

Just push forward. He has the physical advantage here. Beat him in concept and story.

The shocks begin, and even though Reaver is anticipating them, the first one is quite jarring.

The crowd cheers every time Reaver or Crusher reacts to a jolt. Every little wince or jerk elicits whooping, hollering, and clapping from the audience.

Both men type ferociously, pouring themselves into their stories, not holding back.

“One minute left, gentlemen.”

Reaver’s hands begin to ache, and his forearms begin to burn. He grits his teeth and pushes through.

“Five! Four!” The crowd counts down. “Three! Two! One!”

Reaver pulls his hands away from the typewriter, but Crusher continues to type his last word seemingly just to show how tough he is.

Calgon’s muscles tense, as high levels of electricity enter his body until his fifth and final stroke types a period and he pulls his hands away.

He throws his fists up and lets out a shout of victory much to the delight of the audience.

The referee waves both men down to the center of the arena where they take their positions.

Officials enter the Dome to retrieve the stories and usher them to the Judges Table, which sits in full view of everyone, just outside the wall of the Dome.

“As per the rules of the EWT, Calgon the Crusher will receive a five point deduction for continuing to write past the time limit.” The referee reminds everyone.

“Doesn’t matter.” Calgon’s deep and gravelly voice speaks in defiance and assuredness of his victory.

Reaver and Crusher stand and wait for the Judges to finish reading the stories, and to write their scores down, while the rowdy crowd shouts sing-songy chants

The Judges turn in their secret scorecards, which are then handed over to the Independent Counters. The three Counters verify the numbers, then pass the results on the Announcer.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Announcer’s voice echoes throughout the arena. “Here are the results of this electrifying opening round. The defender, Calgon the Crusher, after the five point penalty, has earned a score of eighty-two.”

Calgon throws up a fist, and the crowd stomps their feet as they chant “Crusher” repeatedly.

The Announcer waits for the crowd to die down before raising his microphone back up.

“And the challenger, The Reaver, has earned a score of… eighty-nine!”

Relief rushes through Reaver’s body as he exhales slowly.

The referee raises Reaver’s arm in victory.

There is a moment of stunned silence in the crowd, before it bursts in a cacophonous mass of cheers, boos, and new chants of “Reaver.”

Calgon’s body stiffens as electricity is pumped into his body through the Electro-Clamps as Dome-Girls remove those devices from The Reaver.

Reaver grimaces in sympathy as Calgon drops to a knee during the last five seconds of the consequences for losing.

The arena doctor checks on Calgon, before he is escorted out of the dome and into the tunnel he was introduced from.

Calgon holds up a fist to show he is alright, and does still elicit cheers from the crowd.

Dome-Girls escort The Reaver to his exit, and he walks back down the tunnel, under the muffled sounds of the crowd, and back to his dressing room.

Security opens the door for him and shuts it behind him after he enters.

The Reaver eases himself down on the bench that sits in the middle of the small room, stretches his hands and fingers, and massages at the ache that begins to grow in his arms, sides, and legs.

Two knocks echo on Reaver’s dressing room door before it immediately opens.

“You have a guest,” security says.

A tall, stately woman steps into the room like she owns it.

“That will be all,” she waves security away, who closes the door leaving the woman and Reaver alone.

She motions for Reaver to stay seated as he begins to stand up.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks.

Madame Valdis.

Her business savvy and intelligence has made her, already at thirty-two, one of the most powerful individuals in all of Erdred City. As beautiful as she is ruthless. She walks with confidence and athleticism as the heels of her shoes clack on the floor with each step.

Her dress is simple, but elegant, with hints of metallic blue amongst the primarily black and white coloring. Her shoulder length black hair hangs loose, partially covering the left side of her face. Her piercing green eyes watch Reaver as she waits for his answer.

For some reason, she reminds him of a spider.

“I do,” he answers.

“Good,” Madame Valdis smiles briefly. “That saves us time on introductions.” She walks toward Reaver.

“May I see your hands?” She holds her own out, palms up, indicating how she wants Reaver to present his.

He does so, and she places her hands under his.

The Reaver swallows hard. It feels wrong to him to have such soft and warm hands touching his rough and worn ones.

“You can tell a lot about a man from his hands.” Madame Valdis runs her thumbs over his calloused palms. “And his eyes.”

“And what do mine tell you?”

“That my intel, and instincts, about you have been correct so far.” She slides her hands away. “But down to business. I’m here because I want to sponsor you. Which means you’ll receive a small portion of my winnings of off you, and will give you leverage should anything need to be brought before the Council of Magistrates.”

Like a magician, Madame Valdis makes a card appear in her hand, which she then hands to Reaver.

“You don’t need to give me an answer right now,” she continues. “Sleep on it. But I will need to know before tomorrow night. And, if it influences your decision one way or the other, you should know I was the only one of any significance to have bet on you tonight. Food for thought.” She walks back over to the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.” She gracefully taps the door with her knuckles and security opens it. “Goodnight,” she says to Reaver with a knowing smile.

Alone again, Reaver looks at the card then puts it in his pocket.

He watches the remaining battles on the monitor in his room.

Calliope Calliope defeats “Blue Sky” Brigitta.

Poffo “The Cream” Garzo defeats Clarence “Hurdy Gurdy” Zanfona.

Blue Blooded Karter defeats “Slippery” Simon Farfield.

The first night’s battles over, security comes to escort Reaver out of the Arena.

Once in the night air, Reaver dons his jacket, nods in appreciation to security, and begins the walk home

He walks away from the group of contestants that clearly know each other from before as they loudly rib each other and discuss where they will be going to get drinks. He slides his hands in his pockets and walks, head down, past the women promising him a good time for a good price. He breathes in the scents of interesting spices and culinary delights of late night street vendors offering sustenance for the, more than likely, inebriated.

Sounds of chattering, laughter, shouts, passing vehicles, and sounds of the city vibrate in a constant hum in his ears.

Yellows, pinks, and blues stand out in the menagerie of lights that advertise establishments ranging from the benign to the illicit.

An hour or so later, the noise has faded far behind Reaver, and the familiar quiet begins to settle in his ears, and the faint hint of salt on the wind fills his nose.

Another hour and he walks up to the metal gate that stands in the middle of the high wooden fence that surrounds his home. He slides in the key, unlocks the gate, enters his property, and locks the gate behind him.

The narrow yard extends quite far back, though the additional chest high fence and position of the house block the rest from view. The yard is mostly gravel, with a simple set of outdoor chairs and table sitting in the middle.

Reaver walks up and turns to his right to ascend the steps to the porch and stops. He frowns, and picks up the small gardening gloves and hand rake that sit by the stairs. With a sigh, he knocks off the excess dirt, walks up the steps, and tosses the items on a table on the porch.

He unlocks and enters the house, and shakes his head at the little sleeping form of his sister on the couch to his left in the front room.

Katya stirs and, eyes still shut, partially sits up.

“Alby?” the small, groggy voice asks.

“You should be in bed, Kat.”

“I know.” Coughs push through her small lungs. “But I wanted to say goodnight to you.”

“Did you work in the garden today?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t over eggs… eggs…”

“Exert,” Albert enunciates clearly for her.

“Over exert myself.” She coughs again.

“Did you take your medicine?”

“I did.”

“Good.” Albert sighs. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?” He picks Katya up, and carries her small even for seven years old frame to her room.

Albert sets Katya down, and she climbs into bed and pulls the blanket over herself.

“Alby?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go see the butterflies tomorrow?”

“Maybe. I work early shift tomorrow, so maybe after I get home. But you have to promise nothing but breakfast and rest in the morning.”

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Alby?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me a story?”

Albert sighs and sits down on the floor next to Katya’s bed, and leans back against her dresser.

“A long time ago, Princess Yvrre ruled the land of Uldo. She was kind, wise, and strong. She loved her people and her people loved her. She had not yet taken the title of Queen, as she felt she had not yet earned it. It was this humbleness that made her even more beloved among the peoples of Uldo. One day, after many years of peace, word came down that Lord Utok from the Eastern Mountains had gathered his forces, and was marching toward Uldo. Princess Yvrre, upon receiving this knowledge, donned her mother’s armor, and led her army into the Fields of Varia to confront Lord Utok. She hoped for a peaceful resolution, but would fight for her people, should it come to that. As she and her army…”

Albert looks up and sees that Katya is fast asleep. He carefully gets up and quietly exits Katya’s room and walks to the kitchen.

He slices a piece of cheese and places it on the single slice bread, and folds it as he walks outside to sit on the porch.

As he eats, Albert retrieves the card from Madame Valdis from this pocket and looks at it.

There is a lingering scent of her perfume that wafts from the card.

Albert taps the card against his knee, then stuffs it back in his pocket.

He makes his decision, and clenches his fist in steely determination as he watches a shooting star streak across the night sky.