PMOCT Round One

One Battle of Many

Long ago, Pyertis Pendum stood in the middle of his cell, following the protocol of the imprisoned. Holding the Yarn Ball in his outstretched palm, he gazed steadily at the ceiling, which like a dead man's eye stared back at him.  'Come out, Kismet,' he said. 'Test subject's right. Or you lose a trial,' he added with his own sword at his throat.
   Athene, a.k.a. Kismet, gave it to him, and his request for communication. As far as he knew, she never suspected the flaws he saw in her plans. As far as she knew, he never suspected the half-truths, omissions and agreement to his own lies in her explanation.
   Visiting his quota of three cells, Pyertis met the eels Hhynd and Zeyk, the winged Sprakens and the enigmatic, half-insane L. Minos demanded he convert them to his side, or forfeit his life as he so threatened. All gave him hope for their potential, and all gave him worry for their conflicts of interest. Regardless, Pyertis had them agree to Minos's aims, but not the man.
   Now it was time for battle.

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Vision was the order of the day. All things around reminded him of eyes, of viewing surroundings, people, events. He used his eyes to communicate nuances words could not hold. The Labyrinth itself observed him through eyes crawling in its passages, watching its own body.
   Pyertis considered this, and looked at the Yarn Ball's findings. Like throwing candy to a baby, where the baby sucked on the candy without ever realising the real sweet lay inside, and outside lay mediocre sugar.
   There was an insane amount of information to process. The Labyrinth was an enormous area, monitored by a million over spidercams, represented as dots. The colours varied with area, and the dots were further classified according to other features. Pyertis was held in the lowest basement, halfway to an elevator leading to ground level.
   Up there was an entertainment area, perversely shaped to reflect other baser functions. He zoomed into the gargantuan structure, saw an arena, or a stadium of sorts under its roof. It seemed the best place to spill blood, and be cheered for it. A hospital and a luscious garden stood nearby, surrounded by tall buildings Pyertis took to be the inhabitations of the citizens. By no exaggeration, more information than he could use right now.
   Bringing the Ball to his mouth, he said, 'Show me which spidercams I control directly. Mark their outline purple, and their interior as a cross.'
   The screen paused for a few seconds. It returned to activity with a tiny slice of purple crossed dots around the gardens. That could be useful. Yet again, not at this moment.
   He examined the 3D map again, looking for something to give him an edge, any edge in the battle to come. A strategic position, an object to give him a tactical advantage, all to tip the battle irreversibly in his favour.
   There was nothing. His mind was numb.
   Was he still recovering from his shortcomings this afternoon? He was wondering if he would somehow find the eels before his swords, Zeyk gnashing his teeth at him on the battleground. For that matter, maybe AJ and Angelo or L may be there. Cell versus cell, the conditions went.
   He had not achieved his goal there, and it nagged at him. He knew he had to push it away and focus, but it remained, blocking his thoughts.
   The people here were not inclined to talking, especially among strangers. Pyertis had to be special, or be normal. Normality never won prizes. Yes, he had a battle to fight. But there were other fields of conflict, wars of different garb. It wasn't right to let one affect the rest. That was the point of pursuing them in the first place. Lose one, and he still had a chance to win the other.
   The primary thing here, right now, was to win this fight. He forced himself to look at the Labyrinth through the cams' eyes. It would not be long until he left.

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Shadows clung to the cell, climbing up the walls, itching at Pyertis's need for darkness, nurtured since birth. 'Hhhaaaissss,' breathed Hades. He gave no sign of the discomfort he caused Pyertis, or if he saw any significance in Pyertis's sorrowful and visceral reaction.
   Raising his head, Pyertis clipped his cloak onto his shoulders, and his scabbards to his belt. He took in the shadows. He would walk on Malcos again. It was not anybody's place to snatch him from his world and trap him in theirs. Athene and Minos had much to answer for. No matter what, whatever the outcome of this battle, he had to know.
   'Are you trapped too?' asked Pyertis, belying the tension he felt. 'Trapped to send us out to shed blood?'
   'Whheeeeeez,' Hades said in a dry hollow breeze.
   'Well, it's my turn.'
   They exited the cell, the walls devoid of any trace of the presence of its former occupants.

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Up the long pathway to the arena, below the ground level, Pyertis stumbled. Indeed, he sprawled across the ground, knocking his head against a corner. Daylight poking through the grilles above illuminated his pain-contorted face. Hades turned around, regarding him with dead disinterest.
   'Ouch,' Pyertis said.
   He moved to get up, and slipped again. His back slammed against the wall. Another knock awaited his skull.
   'Ouch,' he repeated. He moved his right hand beneath his cloak and behind his back, apparently to massage it.
   Instead, he reached for his belt, extracting a short thin strip of material. Transparent, extremely tough, odourless, and thin enough to avoid notice by touch, it was manufactured from the skins of squids dwelling at the Cobbles, and treated for months.
   He drew his hand out and pushed down on the floor. The heat from his hand melted it very shortly into a strong adhesive on the opposite side, which stuck to the ground.
   Hades, for all the world unaware of the breach, continued looking down at Pyertis. For some reason, he never moved. Surely a delayed fighter would send people asking questions.
   Then Pyertis heard the howls.
   Bounding over, covering two metres in a single stride, was a large canine. That is, it panted like a steam engine and swung a whipcord tail, making it distinctly different than, say, an overgrown grizzly bear.
   Stepping out of the dimmer corridors, Pyertis faced a tricephalian monstrosity, its heads rising up and down in barely-restrained bloodlust. Despite its motion, it was clearly here for him, three coloured noses inhaling and exhaling across his front. Light ran along the necks of the side heads, glinted evilly on metal tubes
   'Szaaas' said Hades sharply. Walking past Pyertis, the jailor stood at the dog's side, speaking into the ears of the middle head, created by the terrible fusion of its lower jawbone with a fourth head's one. Finishing, Hades leant back, coinciding with the even opening of the fourth mouth, revealing a large tube like those grown outside.
   This is possibly my fourth major mistake so far, thought Pyertis. What an amazing last mistake to commit.
   The dog swung its three heads and barked at Pyertis once. It sat down on its haunches, blocking the way Pyertis had just come through.
   Hades didn't bother to pick me up. He wanted the dog to do it, but now I'm up he's using it for this purpose. Smart as a jailor should be.
   There was only one way up now. Pyertis took it.
   In the background, ever since he arrived at Basement 1, there had been a hum, Pyertis suddenly noticed. The strumming of people's throats and the vibrations of their natural sounds reflected off the roofs and the floors and the roofs again to penetrate the ground, saturating the environment with it.
   The hum was no more. It gave way to a resounding roar, literally shaking Pyertis on the sandy ground he stood on. Intense lights like bonfires dazzled him. The turnout for the fight was staggering. Pyertis counted thousands of pink dots on the seats, each one a wild spectator, hungry for violence.
   The cloak abruptly weighed heavily on his shoulders. The force in turn pushed his arms down and out. Below them, his swords followed the cloak's lead, reducing his ready strides to meagre shuffling.
   This was a gladiator fight.
   He was expected to fight to the end.
   The consequences of mercy, that boon Minos saw fit to give him, that he saw fit to pass on…
   Minos swore full vengeance should any of his citizens be harmed. The opposite situation was unlikely, unless Minos gave the instructions. Not that Pyertis would know. Then he saw the blue ladies standing around the arena rim, wearing identical dark eye covers, perfect copies of the next. They stood with confidence, standing guard with the surety granted by years of training, experience and teamwork. Two standing at the side of the entrance flanked him, escorting him to his destination.
   He walked out to the centre of the arena, watching an image of himself displayed on a large screen. It was a detailed image, depicting the mottled spots across his cloak. Like the lumimagers of home, catching light for sapient use. Probably some of those sapients would explore this function, if they learned it from Pyertis.
   Having arrived, the guards took their leave, placing themselves fifty metres away and drawing some small device. They weren't there for his protection, Pyertis was judging. Their actual purpose was to enforce the crowd's wishes; ensuring only one fighter walked out. As for the device, Pyertis was very interested.
   Small, from this distance, but he saw no blades. Clubs? No, the killing must be fast. It made sense if it was some sort of projectile weapon. Something beyond bows and arrows, slingshots or boomerangs.
   The crowd suddenly erupted again. Pyertis took the blow better, having gone through it once. His opponent, exiting from the opposite end of the arena, made a fine example of what was Pyertis's first time.
   He was too far to discern any meaningful features. The screen was what betrayed him to Pyertis.
   A tall young man, loose clothes draped on his lean frame. His gaunt cheeks told of hard lessons learned too early for comfort. His hands moved warily over his medium-length coat, tapping so lightly on various spots Pyertis wondered if they were adrenaline visions.
   The point of view moved to the left. Searching the arena, Pyertis discovered a long jointed arm, grey as the ceiling it descended from. At its end, a box rotated smoothly. Recording and transmitting machine, thought Pyertis. Just like the spidercams. Back on the screen, there was little else to find watching the man. Only his back, unusually large and broad. It looked moist.
   The man walked out by himself, staring at the image of himself on the screen. So he was not familiar with the technology as well. That would help, though there was no telling the actual extent of his skills. A grand upwelling of elation filled Pyertis, flaked with terror and speckled panic.
   He dove into those feelings, sensed them falling away, melting back into the raw mass of controlled emotion they bubbled from. This was no Academy sparring session, instructors ready at hand to prevent the final resort. Whether his struggle for life became impossible hung on this.
   Twenty metres away, his opponent finally tore his eyes away from the screen, brought his focus onto Pyertis. To his utter rejoicing, the man stopped in shock.
   'Seneca's stoic sack!' he exclaimed. Cautiously, Pyertis looked behind his back. Nothing there. So to the man, Pyertis was dangerous, a menace to his safety. He was to be taken seriously, except for the clearly imbalanced odds.
   Pyertis scanned the figure once more, still distrusting the screen. All looked right. Only that his coat flaps were open, revealing straps across his white cotton shirt. Medical aids. Probably.
   An explosion of static burst the anticipation. 'Welcome… to… the Arena!' a voice boomed.
   The furious cries of acknowledgement drove Pyertis down, piercing his constructed meditation. His opponent suffered equally.
   'This is Mercury Radio Live, folks. We'll be getting to business shortly,' continued the chirpy voice. 'Just introductions: from the Oranos entrance, we have… Pyertis Pendum, Shadow Elf!' Floating in shards of concentration, Pyertis started the mammoth task of gathering himself.
   'From the Chronos entrance, out has come… Marcus Claudius Sabinus Aquila, Roman from the Pax Romana Universalis!' The same Aquila thrust his right hand into his robe, shifting his right leg in front.
   'Pendum vs. Aquila! Who will win?' Moons and suns, this was serious.
   Pyertis tried to shake his head at Aquila, gesturing that combat need not happen. His opponent regarded him without response, moving his hands beneath his coat. Handling a weapon?
   Pyertis shoved that unbecoming thought into non-existence. He was supposed to fight. He would do it. He unsheathed his swords, staring at whiplash-tense Aquila.
   Why lean forward, so far away from Pyertis? The straps meant something. His coat too.
  'Now's the moment to find out. The moment's… Now!'
   Underneath there was –
   He didn't bother finishing the analysis, which saved his life. The weapon boomed exactly as Pyertis rolled to the right. Tchok, his cloak went as something collided into it. He was shocked to feel his trajectory change with its force.
   He timed his momentum, leaping upwards when his feet were flat on the ground. A few seconds later, when they touched earth again, he darted sideways, zigzagging with the cloak flying out behind.
   Another projectile sliced past his ear. Aquila hadn't accustomed himself to Pyertis's speed. He never knew Pyertis had seen the weakness in his earliest days of training, and bullied it into submission. He did it again with armour, then chain mail, then with the cloak on. He was sprinting with weights on.
   This brought Pyertis's focus to his cloak. Stars, the tile had shattered under the blow. It pulled against his otherwise-fluid manoeuvres, slowing him down together with the massive load the cloak was.
   Taking that into account, Pyertis ran through a course of strafes and dodges in his mind, mentally preparing his body for its future taxation. Failure awaited a miscarried escape.
   Glancing to his left, he saw Aquila holding himself in a half-squat, keeping his level arms trained on Pyertis but not firing. He understood Pyertis was too quick to hit, instead opted to wait for an opening.
   And Pyertis had been planning to play by attrition, slowly winning over Aquila threw flashy moves oriented to the crowd.
   Aquila had him in his sights, predicting a series of feints, counterfeints and feints within those. He fired.
   Cloak wrapped around his leg, Pyertis's calf was spared from the brunt of the force.
   But Pyertis saw the small sack falling to the sand, gasped as he learned the true nature of the projectiles. Simple bean bags. Not even stone, let alone metal like the best arrowheads.
   That would bruise. He refused to accept that. First blood didn't mean last blood.
With shock, Pyertis realised how he depended so on defence. It was not worth the effort to fell an opponent if opponents slew themselves in throwing weak assaults on an impermeable defence. But Aquila had an impermeable defence, and from behind it was hurling assaults that weren't quite so weak after all.
   His whole tactics were all about defence. Someone rasher would have rushed Aquila, risking instant death, but also with victory in his grasp. Now that opportunity was gone. He had to watch his own combat planning.
   On top of it all, he didn't want to kill Aquila. He knew that in the core of his being. They would all die from TWBII without having to chase one another there. Besides, Aquila was a skilled fighter, capable of study before action, and action when needed. His initial shock at Pyertis was just initial.
   Pyertis looked up for a recourse, and found it.
   The screen.
   The image of Aquila took a deliberate step backwards, maintaining his stance with his left leg in front this time. He was heading for the wall, where he could be assured protection from Pyertis's unexpectedly rapid turns of speed.
   But Pyertis had not exercised in his first ten days in the alien Labyrinth, and his inherently large mass shaved fractions off his velocity. Running was more a form of defence than offence for him.
   The solution lay in Aquila's goal: Pyertis had to get to the wall before Aquila did, and expose his vulnerability. There had to be one, as Pyertis so recently learned.
   He faced the wall, hurtled onwards. His sudden shifts prevented the projectiles from wounding him, but they hit other more expendable parts. His left arm hung down in numbness, the pain radiating from somewhere else. The small of his back ached around a central area. Aquila would win, if Pyertis couldn't do this.
   And Aquila wasn't keen to lose. He fired two more shots ahead of Pyertis, overestimating and then underestimating Pyertis's speed, more precious seconds to burn the distance to the wall.
   He started to show anxiety. He picked up his pace, settling back into his stance every ten or so bounds.
   The wall wasn't far now. Perhaps thirty metres. Pyertis might be able to make it. Alternatively, anything had the possibility of stopping him. A loose patch of sand. Clarity in Aquila's mind. An insane guard.
   No, the guards drew away, staying near the audience for security but giving way to Pyertis. Where they had been, a spider spread across the wall. A bag would lie below that damage.
   Then Pyertis was there.
   Aquila had miscalculated his steps, stood fifteen metres yet from the wall. But Pyertis had been pushed away from his destination. It would take ten seconds, the time taken to inhale deeply, to get there.
   This was the best way. He darted forward and was there. Aquila had given up on the place.
   Panting, he wavered around his position, forcing Aquila to hold his fire. From here, he could go forward, tackle Aquila, knock the weapon out of his hand –
It was to no avail as his screaming legs collapsed on him. He willed his arms to draw the cloak over him, just shielding a shot to his head. Pain blossomed in his cranium anyway.
   Stars, moons and suns.
   The cloak pulled him down. It kept him on earth, when he could be flying. Yet why take it off? It was too risky, too dangerous.
   That was it. He had to take this risk. That was what this was all about, taking risks. Everything entailed risk. Without risk there was no prize, no certainty of holding the prize for more than a blink. The danger was your teacher, correcting your faults.
   This cloak was a mistake.
   Feeling nothing, a viewer inside an automaton's body, Pyertis plucked the cloak from his shoulders. In fact, he dropped his armour, shed his chainmail. It wasn't easy, in the foetal position. But they were built for desperate removals.
   Pyertis lifted his cloak, looked up at the prime source of visual information.
Aquila jogged around Pyertis, searching for any opening in the cloak. Cautious. Get too close to a fallen enemy and you could join him on the ground, where he had the benefit of being there first.
   Not finding it, he had extracted something from his cloak. Screwdrivers, tied together with twine. Raising the cloak with the makeshift rod, he would then have some soft body part to hit, and things would truly end.
   Pyertis stayed still as he could. It was what Aquila expected.
   The Roman slanted his body low into the best position to resume bipedal status if Pyertis proved too quick to provide an opening.
   The rest would then be simple waiting. Attrition.
   The rod drew near. It was coming to Pyertis's left arm, wracked with waves of pain, stiffened into near-uselessness.
   Near-uselessness, that is, with armour on it.
   Pyertis yanked the rod, surging from under the cloak. Aquila leapt back, pointing the gun at Pyertis's head. One last time, he fired.
   He missed. Pyertis had dodged it at a speed unthinkable even to himself. Practically naked save for his underclothes, he bounced off the sand, too fast to control. Despite that disadvantage, he found Aquila still with arm outstretched. He gladly seized the opening.
   Like a brick wall, he slammed into Aquila, sending his breath out in a hoarse rush. He couldn't, wouldn't, refused to kill Aquila. That meant something flashy.
  Then tearing Aquila's coat at the back, Pyertis unearthed the source of his troubles: a steam-powered engine. Something there. Something flashy. He couldn't possibly destroying it with his fist alone. Therefore, he took the only rational step.
   He flung him to the ground.
   The steel container burst, drenching the soil in clouds. Aquila lay facing upwards, his mouth agape with pain beyond comprehension and utter stupefaction. Of course. A projectile weapon-user should never have lost to a melee fighter.
   But the weapon was only as good as the wielder, and the wielder may discard a useless weapon.
   Pyertis turn to the guards, and cemented victory: 'Aquila can fight no more,' he roared, the pain of battle melding with the necessity of following the ritual through, 'I, Pyertis Pendum, win!'
   The adulation of the crowd came as welcome praise, especially in light of who it could have been for instead. When he was sure they weren't focusing entirely on him any longer, he lifted Aquila off the hot muddy ground and gently placed him on his front. Putting his mouth to his ear, he said, 'I'm sorry. I truly am, Mister Aquila. I wanted you as an ally, but that will have to wait. I have battles yet to win.'
   The guards arrived, carrying a stretcher. That was one thing Pyertis was glad to have misguessed. Pyertis helped them with Aquila, and watched them head for a different gate than the Chronos one. Then they came for him. He went, leaving no trace other than strips on the walls he passed, slowly cooling into intangibility.

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