Playlist, Parts 1 and 2 (original fic)
Nov. 1st, 2011 05:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Playlist, Parts 1 and 2
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Electric swords and rock and roll and stuff
Warnings: Probably too much swearing.
Notes: Notes after the jump. NOT METALOCALYPSE.
To recap: this is an original fic I found lurking on an old hard drive. Instead of letting it lie, I stupidly uploaded it to the new 'pooter and started poking at it insistently with a sharp stick.
I posted a bit last week. I got some great suggestions from Tam (and no brickbats, which surprised) so I fixed up the first part a bit, and have added Part 2. If you wanna skip the last part, I have the new stuff marked, about halfway down. IF YOU WANNA SKIP THE WHOLE THING, please feel free too.
This is an alternate universe where dueling had never been outlawed - on the contrary, it's become how all disputes are settled, including in business matters, or academic squabbles. In this world, fencing has grown into a very formal, highly ritualized martial art, but then there's also a subculture that has grown of street fighters, who don't follow any of the formal rules. These fighters train since childhood to join an illegal circuit of street fighting bouts, but some of the graduates (those who survive) also land jobs as bodyguards and suchlike. The technology for sword fighting has progressed to the point that a good swordsman is a match for someone with a gun. One point upon which formal duelists and street fighters agree: guns are tacky.
And finally: this is an original deal. So, if it sucks or you personally don't like it or you would rather I write about sexy elephant gods drinking martinis, I can live with that, but please be mindful of that when and if you leave feedback? Channel your inner Ganesh, be classy, offer me a martini and a backrub!!
xxxxxxxxxx Part 1 xxxxxxxxxxx
Foster opened the door himself. It was rarely good news that came this time of night.
She looked so small. She was probably about the right size for her age, which appeared to be around five years. But, they always looked so small to him.
At first he thought he would refuse. He really didn’t have room right now. And a girl, to boot. They just weren’t as likely to be useful. Though he dreaded to think what would happen to her if he refused. He could imagine where they would take her next.
“One minute,” he said. He escorted her over to one of the training mats. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down, so she was sitting on it. Sometimes, that would make them cry, right then.
She stood back up.
He pushed her down again. Not roughly, but using just enough force to take her down.
She got up again.
He pushed her down again, and she righted herself. He actually smiled a bit. He liked the tough ones.
He crouched down next to her. “What we’ll do here, If you stay with me, is we’ll knock you down. Again and again and again. With a hand, and a boot, and then a sword. And you’ll need to do just what you did now. Keep getting up. Will you do that for me? Can you do that?
She nodded. She doesn’t really understand, Foster thought, but he needed to hear it.
“OK,” she said.
“Do you have a name, little one?”
“Emma.”
“Please tell me WHY I can’t tell these fucking students to go see some live fucking music?”
Al chuckled and continued to smoke out the window.
“Al!”
“Yep?”
Small and cramped as the record library was, Al still couldn’t be bothered to turn his head to look at her when she was talking (well, ranting actually, but that was no surprise). And it annoyed her.
Al exhaled and watched the smoke curl. “Venues are fucking dangerous, Em. You know that.”
“That’s part of the fun.”
“Heh. For you, maybe. Helps to be able to cut guys heads off, doesn’t it?”
Emma grinned despite herself and nervously bounced her fencing blade against her boot. They were both hanging around the college radio station, which was no surprise, as they were both DJs here, although Al had by far the more prestigious shift. He was just coming off his shift, in fact, but Emma would not be required until the wee hours of the morning, still some time hence.
She regarded her colleague. He had a face that called to mind a glad-handing friend, big and round and ever smiling, though few seemed to notice the smile rarely reached his eyes. Although Al was not overweight (not yet, though he looked to be someone who had a gut waiting for him not to many years down the road) he was broad-shouldered and big-boned, and seemed much to large for the small room. He had pale blond hair that hung comfortably to his shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, in just the right light, a wispy blond mustache could be observed lurking on his upper lip.
Al was everybody's big buddy. Well, everybody but Emma. Trained as a fighter since the age of five, Emma was careful about sizing up potential opponents which, for her, included anybody and everybody she might encounter. She tracked the small things, subtle hints of body language and expression, as she had been carefully taught, and she was never overly certain about those pale blue eyes. They should be crinkling with the smile, but instead, seemed to ignore Al's friendly mouth, and ranged around on their own.
“Fucking spoiled rotten little rich fucks,” Emma grumbled, regarding the hypothetical college students. “It would do them good to go out into the real world.”
Al exhaled. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea. Get a bunch of 19 year old girlies out to a Bone Chillers concert, where they’re all raped and murdered and cut up and then raped AGAIN. See how much their rich and powerful daddies love us then.”
“How about this? It would go to fulfill our public service requirement.”
Al continued to ignore her. Emma tugged at one of the three loose t shirts she was currently wearing. All of her clothes – jeans, shirts and boots - tended to look at least one size to large for her. The loose style was currently popular with street fighters, but it ended up making Emma, who stood just a hair under medium height for a woman, look a bit smaller than she actually was. It was probably not an effect she would have wanted, but it was also arguable whether anyone else would have had the courage to clearly state this fact to her.
Suddenly, Al’s roaming eyes fixed. His gaze darkened. “Eh, speaking of rich losers.”
Emma toed a stack of ancient vinyl singles with a steel-toed boot. “What?”
“That fuck.” He gestured with his cigarette, and she moved over to the windowsill where he was sitting to follow his gaze. A large sedan had pulled up on campus drive. Visible in the moonlight down below on the drive were two figures emerging, the male figure politely holding out a hand for the graceful female one.
“You mean Silas Taylor?”
“Rich asshole.”
“Heh. You been trying to put the make on that girl or something?”
Al finally turned to look at her, annoyed. Though she noticed he didn’t deny it.
“You not content with your groupie army, dude?
Al looked offended. “Look at her. Her legs go up to Canada. What the fuck is she doing with Si Taylor? That bastard is gay for one thing.”
Emma, already in an obnoxious mood, decided to play devil’s advocate. “Me, I kinda feel sorry for him.”
“Feel sorry? For THAT piece of shit?”
She leaned her butt back against the record-strewn desk. “Figure,” she said, “Pre-programmed life. I mean, he’s gotta date this certain kinda girl, do his fencing team, study his pre law, so he can some day take over some boring ass company his family started in 1620 or whatever.”
Al considered his cigarette.
“Quiet desperation and all that shit,” Emma concluded, somewhat lamely.
“Yeah, quiet desperation with fuckloads of cash. I’d be quietly desperate like that.”
She sighed and bonked her sword on her boot. They were quiet for a moment. “Fuck, Al, they keep taking it away from us, you know, little by little? First it’s what you can say, next it’s gonna be what you can play. Gonna be playing fucking Muzak soon.”
“Heh. Thought you were quitting in protest. Again.”
She looked daggers at him, then hiked her sword over her shoulder and rose off the desk. She brushed some of the dust off her butt.
“Gonna go kick some ass?” Al asked.
“Eh. I gotta put in some time battling The Bitch. But maybe I’ll find a rich boy to beat up for you.” Al puffed out a ball of smoke with his chortle.
The gym smelled like every gym ever had, and ever would. No matter that they had tried to make it all shiny bright and airy. On Saturday nights, as a special bonus, it was fairly deserted, as everybody else in the world was out doing shit, or whatever.
Which was exactly how she liked it.
After making sure her shield was fastened securely in her belt, she went straight to a Fencing Master booth and shut the door. In order to keep your team qualification, you had to put in a certain amount of time sparring with your boring teammates, and a certain amount of time against a bot. Emma’s favorite bot, as it happened, was a big one she’d dubbed The Bitch. But since she was on the women’s team, and second ranked to boot, her priority for getting time on a bot was pretty low. Fortunately, Emma had always run a bit nocturnal, and since, thanks to all the rich mommies and daddies with kids on the fencing team, they ran this gym pretty much 24/7, it wasn’t hard to find quality time with The Bitch late at night.
Which was also probably how she’d stumbled on to other, more entertaining, uses for the bot.
The walls of the booth were constructed of some kind of transparent material, but it was pretty well soundproofed, so if you didn’t look around too much (easy enough when you had a knife-wielding machine up in your face) there was at least an illusion of solitude. After fiddling with the controls a bit and running through the usual safety checks to ensure the bot probably wouldn’t kill her accidentally, she programmed in the normal practice routine into The Bitch’s heads up display. She activated her shielding and whacked her blade against her ankle a couple of times to make sure it was safely grounding the electricity.
Satisfied, she set the ON button and stepped back. She dug her earbuds out of her collar and set them in her ears. She held her sword up almost straight, two-handed, sort of like you’d hold a baseball bat. She called out the setting, “Three!” Finally, she ignited her sword. With the music going, she couldn’t hear the electricity arcing through the blade, but she definitely felt the faint vibration in the handle.
Instantly, the Fencing Master sprang to life. Thrust. Parry parry. Score. Break. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
She actually found few things in life quite as boring as fencing practice. Of late, she had been trying to amuse herself by lining up her moves with her chosen musical score. She had reggae on repeat tonight. It was a bit of fun, as you would have to figure out how to avoid getting pasted while putting a delay of about a beat from your usual move.
Unfortunately, it was only a bit of fun. And, truth be told, it was most unlikely that anyone would score points from the judges with choreography. The street fighters had an expression for the duelists: dead below the waist. And compared to the liveliness and athleticism she felt from the sport she’d been training for since childhood, that wasn’t only what fencing looked like, it was what it felt like, if someone were so cruel as to force you to practice it. But the terms of Emma’s scholarship were quite clear: she needed to maintain team eligibility if she wanted them to keep from chucking her sorry ass off campus.
The women’s coach had seemed especially sour about the whole thing. No matter how many high school team ribbons she had in her locker, she could just tell he smelled street fighter, and he didn’t care for the odor. Sometimes with people like that Emma could, though sheer hard work and pluck, overcome this. It had in fact happened in high school. When she had first joined the team, several of the parents had wanted to come after he with torches and pitchforks. But after she started helping out their little darlings, and winning tournaments, they were suddenly supportive. And had been all along – imagine that!
But Coach Loader wasn’t a “pluck” person. He was, she reflected, a giant asshole. The worst part was, he had offered her almost no guidance nor coaching. Which meant her scholarship status, if she didn’t improve enough to make the actual dueling team, was on shaky ground.
She switched off her blade and relaxed for a bit. She also carefully cast her eyes around the gym. The few souls who’d been hanging around seemed to have departed. All clear. She sauntered as casually as she could over to The Bitch’s interface and opened the heads up again. She carefully plucked at the glowing images until she found a screen with a prompt. She brought up a keyboard, and with a final glance around, she typed in a few lines of code. The program had some safety features, but it really wasn’t terribly difficult to hack around. Basically, you were only changing the settings to super fast and “random.” She liked to think of it as “berserker mode.” Which probably wasn’t too far from the truth. In actuality, In actuality, going up against The Bitch in this mode was less like practice and more like a death wish.
She backed up a few steps. She pulled the elastic band out of her hair to retighten her topknot. A cloud of hair cascaded down everywhere. She was annoyed to observe that that the awesome purple dye she’d used last weekend had already faded pretty badly, and once again a disappointing and not terribly dangerous-looking strawberry blond color was peeking out. She sighed. It was impossible to be menaced by a redhead, it just was. Thinking she would try crimson next time, and maybe do her fingernails to match, she squared away her hair situation. She dug out her pod once again, changing the setting from reggae to something crunchier, and cranking up the volume. She shook out a bit, hopped up and down, and compulsively bonked the end of her sword on her ankle twice. This time, she got into a half crouch, her blade swung out loosely, almost casually, to the side.
“Five,” she called. More softly, she muttered, “Flame on, bitch.”
She hit the ignition trigger, and the blade vibrated with electricity.
Simultaneously, the blade on the bot crackled to life. It came out swinging.
She started slowly, with a few backhanded moves. Then she did some duck unders, and some hop overs, then some combinations. She tried a flip off the wall. The bot read her moves, and tried to predict her next move, but this kind of thing completely fucked its algorithms, she knew.
She had started to hit a groove, running up the wall and launching off, flipping up and over, bouncing off the ceiling. Up and over, around and down.
It was not a bad round, over all. She had managed to parry almost everything the machine could spit out with no major mistake. Well, until she landed a bit wonky and got around a split second too late and it gave her a pretty good crack in the ribs. Her shielding had absorbed the electrical charge but – damn! – it kind of knocked the wind out of her. She clicked off her sword for a moment and checked her side to see if she had sustained any major organ damage. She pulled up her shirt. Well, that would leave a bruise, but she probably wouldn’t die.
Emma blinked as the lights in the practice room suddenly brightened. It was automatic, meaning some fool had opened the door. She turned. There was a guy standing there. She popped out her earbuds.
“I’m sorry,” said Silas Makepeace Taylor.
Emma blinked.
Oh, crap.
Near or far away, she always got a funny “not quite right” vibe from Si. He was about medium height, with a fairly spare build. He kept his hair on the short side, which was weird for a swordsman, especially the high class duelists – usually they favored growing their hair out long so they could prance around wearing a fancy topknot. Emma at least approved of the hair length, as she always thought long haired men looked a bit foolish. His hair was black and wiry and always seemed to be rebelliously heading in the wrong direction, either falling in his eyes, or sticking up where it shouldn’t. His hair was also much too dark for his skin tone, which you might describe as either fine alabaster or pasty white, depending on your inclination towards him. It was fitting that you never seemed to see him around during daylight hours, she thought, as he didn’t seem to have a spot of melanin on his body. To add to the creepy effect, he perpetually wore wire rimmed glasses with dark lenses, even indoors, and even at night, as he was doing now. She supposed they were nominally supposed to be those fancy eyeglass lenses that change color in the daylight, but she had yet to see them clarify to the extent you could actually see his eyes through them.
The genuinely striking thing about him, to Emma, watching him with practiced swordsman’s eyes, was more how he carried himself. Some guys looked like they could take a punch, and other guys looked like you could put them on their ass with a good kick. As for Taylor, it looked like it would take a freight train to flip him off his feet. He seemed supernaturally steady. It was like he’d been a panther in a past life or something.
“As I was saying,” he said, leaning elegantly against the door, “my sparring partner appears to have cancelled on me.”
“Your sparring partner?” she asked, still blinking. Who fucking spars at 2 am? she thought. Well, other than me.
“Yes, I need a sparring partner.”
She thought, but didn’t say, Well, gee, I can’t possibly see why someone would cancel on you kicking his ass.
“And?” was what she finally said.
“I was wondering if you might oblige me?” He inclined his head slightly out towards the mats.
She quickly stifled a laugh. “OK. I realize it’s kind of late and pickings are slim. But, I’m not going to be much of a match for you.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m second class, dude. On the girls team.”
Just the corner of Si’s mouth moved slightly, edging a small smile. “How do you know my ranking?” It was an annoying question. Not only was Si Makepeace Taylor a rich fuck, he was a rich fuck three-time fencing champion. As he must have known anybody would know. As he especially would have known she would know.
She tried again. “You’re a lot better than me. We would not just be mismatched, we would be mind-bendingly mismatched.” She wanted to tell him to go bother somebody else, but there was quite literally no one else around to bother.
“I find I learn something from everybody, don’t you?” Oh, what is this, she thought, I’ll kick your ass, and it will be An Important Lesson? He straightened up from the door and jerked his head again in the direction of the sparring range. In other words, she wasn’t getting out of this one. One thing one just didn’t – couldn’t – do was turn down a spar. It was almost as bad as ignoring a challenge. Dishonorable. Just one more way all this custom and tradition shit had taken fencing and fucking ruined it. In her humble opinion, at least.
Her brain pinballed through a list of unspoken questions. What if you kill me? Can I sue you? What the fuck happened to the girl you were with like five minutes ago (actually it had been over an hour, but still) and if you’re through with her can Al have her phone number? Instead, she was nodding wearily and walking with him towards the practice mats.
To give Si his due, and she’d seen probably every single match he’d ever won while she was on the team, and the smug bastard, for what it was, made fencing look pretty elegant and cool. She was really not even quite sure when the fucker even moved. It was like, one second, he was in that stance, the next, here’s his sword at your neck. Pretty sweet. Though it would be even sweeter, she thought, if they’d let them jack up the Teslas to like 8 or 9. Maybe some heads popping off.
They had reached the mat. She backed up the requisite number of steps, and bowed formally. She then drew back to her formal stance. She waited. Si didn’t even raise his sword. Instead, he looked on quizzically through the grey lenses, and finally said, “I’m sorry?”
Oh fucking now what?
She dropped the stance. It took all her effort to keep any hint of frustration from her voice. “Yes?” He’s probably going to correct my stance. At which point I will murder him and stuff him in a bag.
“Am I correct in saying that wasn’t the stance you were using just now?” He gestured. “On the bot?”
Oh, shit.
“Um, just now?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Shit shit shit. She was so off the team. And, probably kicked out of college. And, possibly buried in a deep, deep pit.
What she said was, “No. That was not the stance I was using just now. With the bitch. I mean. On the bot.” She grimaced and braced for the coming tirade.
“I’d be interested in seeing it.”
She cocked her head for a moment. Well, that was unexpected. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “Um. Can I ask … why?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not regulation.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Well. I thought you needed a sparring partner? That kind of thing wouldn’t really be practice.”
The faint smile inched in again. If he ever really smiles, will I get to see the fangs? She wondered. “Would you call what you were doing just before I interrupted you,‘practice?’”
She frowned. Of course not. I was abusing the equipment. And, you caught me.
Well, there would be no getting around this one. “OK, to be clear, you want me to mix it up with you, like I was doing with the bot? In other words, NON-REGULATION PLAY?” She felt like she needed a document or something. In fucking triplicate.
“Sure. Why not? I’m in an … expansive mood tonight.”
She shrugged. OK, whatever asshole. It wasn’t possible to actually see his eyes through those stupid glasses, but she kept her glare lasered to where she assumed his eyes were hiding as she silently pulled back into her street crouch. She gestured for him to ignite his blade when he was ready. He considered for a moment, and then took his own stance.
“Three,” he called. She nodded and set to three.
She heard the hum.
Then she was in up his face, on him in one leap.
To give him his due, he actually mounted a halfway decent defense. A lesser foe would have been rattled at least. He was taller and stronger than her, and had a longer reach, but getting close up blasted away that advantage. When he did get a straight shot, she darted away, aiming a boot at something vital. If he aimed high, she’d duck under, and if he tried a low shot, she’d bounce right over it. Of course, she could never quite land a killing blow either, but she was having so much fun, it was only a minor frustration. She threw in one of her favorite prank moves, flipping over his head to stab him in the back. He managed to get himself turned around in time to parry, but only just. She noted with some satisfaction that he was limiting his moves to defense, as he hadn’t seemed to have put together how to mount an attack against what was basically a random barrage from all sides.
After a bit, he signaled for a break. Had enough of slumming, have we? she thought. She snapped off her blade. Though he hadn’t seemed flustered, and didn’t appear to be as out of breath as she, she noticed that the glasses had slipped down his nose a bit. Well, made him break a sweat, that’s something.
He was now peering over his glasses at her. His eyes were grey. “You told me you were ranked as second class in traditional fencing?”
She nodded.
“Does … that style have an equivalent ranking system?”
She considered. “Not really. Dead versus not dead yet?” She grinned.
He pushed the glasses back up. “I hadn’t experienced a lot of these techniques before. Where did you pick them up?”
She shrugged. “Here and there.”
He considered her for a long minute. She nervously started bonking her sword on her ankle. She was feeling a bit like a bug pinned down on a bulletin board. “Is my information correct, that you are currently a scholarship student?” She nodded again, though this time she felt a small chill.
“And you find me to be at least somewhat insufferable?” Panther smile. She tried to keep her face frozen. “I mean, possibly more annoying than you find people in general?” There also seemed to be something going on, wheels turning behind those dark glasses, though she couldn’t tell what.
He was quiet for a bit, perhaps waiting for a reaction that was unforthcoming. Finally he said, “Would you mind terribly if we broke down a couple of those moves?”
She shrugged.
His questions were actually intelligent enough to be minimally annoying. He seemed particularly curious about the sweeping motions. When she told him it was for bullets, he didn’t seem to believe her.
“Look, you get it right?” she asked him. “You meet a guy in the street, he’s not gonna bow to you and all that shit. He may have a sword, or he may have guns. Or worse. So you crank it full Tesla and go.”
“You can really deflect bullets?”
“Shit yeah.” He still looked skeptical. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen it done?”
“I assumed it was a kind of magic trick. Am I to understand that you, personally, have done something like that?’
“When I need to. Yes. I do.”
His eyebrows went up quizzically. She’d used the present tense deliberately.
“Anyway, don’t guys like you always have assholes with guns around or whatever?”
“Guys like me?” He smiled and appeared to think about it. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Guns would seem to be rather more trouble then they’re worth in many situations.”
“Hrm.” She was impressed. “You got that right.”
She reluctantly found herself helping him practice a couple of moves. She noticed that he not only had freakishly fast reflexes, he usually only needed a couple of demonstrations to master a new stroke. Though his legwork left something to be desired. Actually, his legwork left a lot to be desired. She finally put down her own sword in frustration and began to physically wrestle his arms and legs into a form she approved of.
“Dead below the waist,” she sighed, repeating the street dis. Though, to be honest, street fighters rarely said this kind of thing in front of a fencer. Not that street fighters often found themselves in close proximity to a formal duelist.
“Huh?” Si appeared not entirely accustomed to having his thighs grabbed like that by a woman he didn’t know terribly well, but Emma, who had been sparring with men most of her life, didn't pick up on it, or ignored it.
He actually let out a small sigh when she finally released him. She was gesturing at him. He realized he was supposed to attempt the stroke again. He swung.
“Oh!” he said.
“Better, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, trying again. She stopped him again and did a bit more pushing and pulling. He put up a bit less resistance to the molestation, which seemed to abbreviate it somewhat. He tried again.
“Wow.”
“Dude, you’ve got to loosen up your stance.”
“Loosen up?”
“Don’t you ever dance for fuck’s sake?”
“Um. Not really. Should I?”
“I’ll make you a mix tape. Music is actually…. SHIT!” She looked up and saw the clock. “Shit shit shit.” She dived for her sword. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so late, I really gotta go.”
“That’s fine.” He smiled, and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for your show on my account.”
She looked up at him, startled. “Uh, yeah.”
“I much appreciated the tutelage,” he called after her. Who actually says “tutelage,” she thought.
Si stood and watched her skitter away, faint smile on his face. Here was something unexpected, he was thinking. There weren’t a whole lot of things in his life that took him completely by surprise.
The engineer had thoughtfully loaded the tape with her show’s jingle by the time Emma burst into the control room, sword in hand. “What happened, Em?” he grinned. “You need to stop and kill a guy?”
“Almost,” she grunted.
From Silas Makepeace Taylor’s private journal.
My World History professor is definitely an ignoramus of unfathomable proportions.
Late dinner with Gloria C. Lovely little Italian place, should visit again. Unfortunately, G. spent the evening nattering about this or that friend’s engagement. Find myself getting utterly bored again. Grandmama will not be pleased, unfortunately, as this was yet another of her matches.
Discovered identity of person who has been abusing the fencing bot. Unsurprisingly, it is the girl with the street fighting background. Had brief interview, in which she swore to the truth of some sillier street fighting myths. Emma, I believe her name is. She is surly, and has an underdeveloped grasp of the concept of personal space, however, seems quite facile with certain intriguing techniques. Intend to pursue the matter.
Silas pressed SAVE and shut down his heads up display. He rolled back on his bed and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, as he liked to do when he was thinking. He had certainly encountered his share of oddballs at this college, but Emma clearly stood out from the pack. With the clothes and the hair and the boots and the attitude, she looked for all the world to be someone feigning toughness. And yet she honestly appeared to possess some talent as a swordsman. Did street fighting dojos now enroll college coeds? It was damned puzzling.
Silas smiled. He rather liked puzzles.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part 2 xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
She had told Al no girlfriends. And for once he actually listened.
Instead, he had brought along his idiot friend, Roger, who was frankly just as bad.
She suspected that, as a sophomore, the only reason she’d been added to the radio station roster, albeit on a not terribly desirable 2 am broadcast, was that Al found it useful to have her as an escort when he and his ever changing entourage deemed to venture into the seedier venues. And, as far as Al was concerned, the seedier the better.
She wasn’t as annoyed as she might have been, as it definitely got her into a lot of live shows, and for free to boot. If any of his stories were to be believed, Back in the Day, Al had played keyboards for an endless number of marginally successful bands, so was always connected enough to get on the list. And he really didn’t seem to give a shit what she did once she got in, whether she’d arrange interviews with band members or surreptitiously record a set or even schmooze with other hovering musicians (and there were always hovering musicians). Just as long as she kept him from getting his head knocked off.
So, she would come armed, and wearing her most frightening leather gear, and generally, that was enough to stave off any unpleasantness.
As a bonus, oftentimes the “street fighter chick” drag successfully earned her the favorable attention of someone in the band's organization (given that the band had itself together to the extent to possess an “organization”). Now, as for the actual musicians themselves, in Emma's opinion, the world would be better off if they would all be good enough to vanish in a poof once the spotlight flicked off. Maybe they could all be transported in little jars by the touring manager, or some person who had a lick of sense.
On the other hand, if you could get to talking (OK, flirting might be a more accurate term) with someone like said tour manager, they might inclined as well as able to wrangle a couple of grumpy musicians to a live session on a local college radio station. Because, much as Emma rather disdained them, other people seemed clearly drawn to musicians.
And tour managers tended to have boxes of cool concert Ts. If events should tend to go that way.
Kranks was really more of a bar than a venue. Which meant little chance of finding someone as official as a manager (not to mention valuable prizes, like concert T shirts). And it also meant an increased risk of violence. On the plus side, the head thrash genre meant there would likely be a mosh pit, so the duffers could at least burn out their aggression that way.
Before they debarked Al’s rattly old barge of a car, he stuck out his hands her way. “Speed? Earplugs?” She grabbed some of both. She noticed Roger just grabbed the pills. She sighed, and followed them out of the car. It was one of those venues you could hear before you could see. She surveyed the area. Darkened Mystery Businesses, interspersed with shady characters. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but kept her hand on her hilt. At the door, they quickly found Al’s name where it always was, on the list. The bouncer at the door eyed her. “You wanna check that?” he said, indicating her sword.
“No.”
He nodded, and let her pass. As they always did.
It was freakishly loud inside, even with the earplugs. She was surprised to see many of the patrons were festooned with even more leather gear than she. Al’s speed was ramping up so, with a gesture to Al and Roger, she made for the bar for something to take the edge off.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” She was sitting nursing a bottle of amber when the voice pierced the din.
“ASSHOLE!” she screamed in response. They embraced, with back pats.
“Speedy!” she screamed in his ear. “What the fuck are you doing here, you fucker?”
“Seeing these assholes!” He gestured to the stage.
“They fucking SUCK!”
“They SO fucking suck!”
“Assholes!”
“What about you?”
She tried to pick out Al and Roger from the increasingly crowded mosh pit. “College radio. With these dudes.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Cool! How's Sifu?” He used the title of their shared mentor, Foster.
“Same as ever.”
“He'll never change, old bastard!” laughed Speedy.
She gestured to his sidearm. Speedy, like Emma, had started out in security. The last she’d heard, he had moved to promoting bands. “New?”
He grinned. “New!” She nodded. She did not ask to see, nor did he move to remove it from its scabbard. There were just some things you didn’t do in a club. If you didn’t want trouble, that is. If he’d upgraded, he was probably doing well. Which was cool. Speedy was cool.
“Got a band you gotta hear," he screamed.
“Yeah?”
“They’re good. I’ll send you a file.”
“Yours?”
“Fuck no. I wish!”
“Still doing BlindMen?”
He nodded. She really wished she’d brought a PDA or something so she could text him. The metal band was quite bad, just impossible, to the point where she wondered why Al had bothered dragging them out here. Actually, she was surprised he hadn’t wrangled himself up on stage, as he usually did by this time, to sit in for a song or two. Maybe even Al was fed up with them.
Suddenly, There was Al, big as life, at her table. She made some quick shouted introductions. As she suspected, both Al and Speedy thought they had probably met before. Because, probably, they had.
She leaned over to scream in Al’s ear. “This band fucking SUCKS.” He nodded, happily. She shrugged, what the fuck?
He leaned into her ear. “Didn’t come to see the band. Came to find my dealer.” He pulled a baggie partway out of an inside pocket and grinned. She rolled her eyes. Great. Al was now using her as his escort to a buy.
It was difficult to know exactly how they knew, because the definitely didn’t hear anything. She looked down at the mosh pit. She noticed Speedy was standing, hand on hilt. She grabbed Al and screamed in his ear, “Where the FUCK is Roger?”
Al looked sheepish. He pointed. She gestured to Speedy, and they were down and around and under and finally broke through to the center of disruption. The band hadn’t let up, but nobody was dancing any more. There was a guy on the floor, rubbing a bloody nose, and two fucking huge guys, standing looking at fucking Roger, who was rubbing a bloodied fist.
The big guys had guns. They weren’t drawn yet, but it was obvious. Fuck.
She glanced at Speedy. He knocked her shoulder once. Got your back.
She stepped forward into the circle. She immediately got up in Roger’s face.
“RogerwhatthefuckingFUCK!” she screamed, having no clue whether it was getting through the hideously loud music and the earplugs and the various pharmaceuticals. Roger just blinked at her, bleary eyed.
The guy he decked was suddenly standing behind her, his “friends” looming just behind him.
She turned. “This guy is MY assclown. Let me fucking deal with him.”
“He fucking sucker punched me.”
“He’s a fucking idiot.” She was desperately hoping the “I’m madder at him than you’ll ever be” tack would work, and they could hustle Roger out. And maybe kick his ass. Often the sight of a guy getting his ass chewed by a not very large chick would be humiliating enough to diffuse the situation.
This guy, though, was evidently as stupid as he looked. “Nobody fucks with me.” He was close enough his spittle was spraying in her face.
“It told you, he’s an ass clown. I’ll take him out and kick his ass.” The music was pounding.
“We’ll take him out and fucking KILL HIM.” At that, the mooks went for their weapons. A lot of things happened very quickly then. She drew, powering up instantly, and had the first gun sliced through before Mook #1 could discharge it. Speedy grabbed Roger by the scruff and pulled. She had turned to Mook #2. He managed to get one poorly aimed round off, which she deflected. Then stroke up to disarm him, then a boot in the teeth to bring him down. She slammed her hilt back into the face of Mook #1, who had recovered enough to rush her. Then blade at the neck of Mr. Bloody Nose, who was just standing there, a bit stunned.
“STAY!” she mouthed. He looked frozen to the spot. Backing, but keeping her weapon out, she threaded through the crowd to catch up with Speedy, who was basically carrying the much larger Roger. She threw Roger’s other arm over her neck and they rushed him out the back door, and into the alley.
They threw Roger against the wall, where he more or less stayed. Speedy darted around to check they weren’t being followed. He came back and nodded, all clear.
“I am so sorry,” she began, digging out her earplugs.
Speedy grinned so hard she thought his face would split. He was removing his own plugs.
“DAMN!” he said. “You still got it! That was fun!”
Despite herself, she smiled. They heard crunching, and both turned in an instant, swords drawn, to see Al had come up behind them. He waved his hand. Speedy smiled and put away his blade. Emma grunted, reluctantly sheathed her weapon, and then flew at him. She put a finger in his face. “You fucking fuck. Don’t you EVER drag me on a fucking buy again.”
Al was babbling. “OK, OK, noted. It’s good stuff, though, did you want some? Hey, you guys are really good with those things. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody move so fast. It’s legendary.”
She shook her head. What was the use? She pointed to Roger. “Will you get this fucking guy in the car before he causes more trouble?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know, I got you an interview.”
“What?”
“An interview.”
“With this fucking band? They fucking suck.”
“No no no no no! With Bloody Turnstiles.”
“Bloody Turnstiles?” Emma stopped short. The 'Stiles were current college radio darlings, probably about as famous for their drinking and brawling as their music. Ray and Bob were brothers or half-brothers or something. But it didn't matter. It would get people to tune in at two fucking am.
“Yeah, Ray and Bob. With their tour manager. Here tonight,” smiled Al smugly.
“Doing what exactly?” asked Emma.
“Dunno. They probably get their stuff from my dealer, ha!”
Emma didn’t smile. “Ray and Bob?”
“Yeah, they say they’ll be by tomorrow night. You cool?”
Emma thought about it for a minute. “Yeah. Yeah, actually. We are cool.”
Speedy was at her shoulder. “Hey, I gotta hit it.”
“Thanks. I so owe you, dude,” Emma told him.
“Any time. Hey, I’ll send you that file. You gotta listen – they’ll change your life.”
“Cool. You can send it to the radio station. You know the one.”
“Later!”
“Later.”
She was not terribly surprised when Si Taylor showed up again midway through her next late night practice session.
“Your imaginary sparring partner cancel again, Si?” she asked, flicking off her sword in irritation.
“Actually, I go by Silas.” He cocked his head. “Bloody Turnstiles?” he read.
She was wearing her new concert T shirt. “It’s a band.” She smiled. Al had come through, and two of the 'Stiles had indeed dragged their lame musician asses to her show last night. They had been herded along by their touring manager. Who, as it turned out, was not only an excellent musician wrangler, but really cute. Really, really cute.
“Mmm. About that. I have a proposal for you. I think you will find this to be mutually beneficial. Perhaps we could talk?”
Emma sighed and impatiently started bonking her ankle with her sword. “Yeah, whatever.” What choice did she have?
“I enjoyed our practice session last week, and would like to continue to explore those … er … techniques for a bit longer. For strictly personal reasons. As team captain, I have access to duelist records, and I’ve studied your practice schedule for the past few quarters.” She licked her lips and imagined her blade connecting with his soft neck. One of the many things that annoyed her about Si Taylor: she honestly didn't know if she could take him. Although at that moment, she wouldn't have minded trying.
“I have no problem accommodating completely to your schedule,” Si continued, “so that should banish that objection. Now, for your part, I have confirmed that you are indeed here thanks to a scholarship program. You are currently rated second class. You could improve the likelihood of your continued funding by upgrading your status, could you not?”
She nodded glumly. She dreaded confronting Foster if she had poor grades the previous term (which Foster seemed to regard as anything less than an A grade). She couldn't imagine what it would be like if she had to tell him she'd lost the scholarship.
“That is definitely something which, I think, we could achieve within a reasonable timeline.”
She contemplated her boot. “We?” she thought. Oh no….
“This would, of course, require a reasonable effort and dedication on your part. It’s quite obvious that you already possess a considerable facility with a blade. Though your technique could use some … er … refinement.”
“You want me to teach you street fighting?”
He nodded. “That’s the general idea, yes.”
She sighed. Too stupid to live. “OK. Here is how college gets all educational and stuff. Listen carefully. There is a word you have probably never heard before in your life. The word is no. It is spelled N-O. No.”
“Might I ask why?” Oddly, Si didn't seem at all put off.
“Why? Oh, god, where do I start? Yes, I am here on a scholarship. As you have no doubt deduced, I was trained as a street fighter. They know this. And in case you hadn’t noticed, these guys” she waved her hand around the empty gym “don’t exactly approve of street fighting. I try and teach some rich idiot some dangerous moves, and you hurt your precious pinkie finger, I’m not just out of here, I am dead! Dead! They’ll probably trample me underfoot! And salt the earth!”
He grinned his panther grin. And then went for the kill. “That may be true. But I would ask you to consider this additional point: as I am sure you are aware, there has been some … questionable … use of the dedicated training bot.” Her eyes snapped open, but she remained silent, staring like a deer in headlights. He continued. ”I must warn you, I am not the only person who is aware of this fact. And, as you can imagine, it has caused a certain amount of … consternation.”
Shit. Shit shit shit.
No, calm down, Emma, she told herself. Now she knew. He could indeed take her – though not with a sword.
There were better fighters. There were always better fighters. What you did was you kept your head. And you watched. And you waited.
Good fighter or not, no one went forever without making a mistake. No one.
“However, given that I have a certain amount of … influence,” Si was saying, “I believe I can and will be able to insure that there are no further consequences. Or, indeed, any additional inquiry.”
She was staring at him. But there was no longer fright showing in her eyes. Only determination. “You’re blackmailing me.”
“’Blackmail’ is such an ugly word, don’t you think?”
She wasn’t smiling. “So is ‘asshole,’” she finally said.
For the first time in her memory, Si sported a full, toothy grin. “Then, we have an agreement?”
The engineer popped his head in during her set that night. “Um, just checking in,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Everything OK?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Well, you’ve played ‘Obliterator’ three times in a row now. I mean. At least three times.”
“It’s a good song.” She looked at him. “OK, OK.” She moved over to the mike. “You just heard the song, ‘Obliterator.’ By the band, Obliterator. For which the only lyric anyone can decipher is ‘Obliterator obliterator obliterator.’ It is THEREFORE the best song ever in the history of the world. If you would like me to stop playing it, why don’t you call in and try to convince me I’m wrong?” The engineer laughed and dived back into his room to check the phone lines.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Electric swords and rock and roll and stuff
Warnings: Probably too much swearing.
Notes: Notes after the jump. NOT METALOCALYPSE.
To recap: this is an original fic I found lurking on an old hard drive. Instead of letting it lie, I stupidly uploaded it to the new 'pooter and started poking at it insistently with a sharp stick.
I posted a bit last week. I got some great suggestions from Tam (and no brickbats, which surprised) so I fixed up the first part a bit, and have added Part 2. If you wanna skip the last part, I have the new stuff marked, about halfway down. IF YOU WANNA SKIP THE WHOLE THING, please feel free too.
This is an alternate universe where dueling had never been outlawed - on the contrary, it's become how all disputes are settled, including in business matters, or academic squabbles. In this world, fencing has grown into a very formal, highly ritualized martial art, but then there's also a subculture that has grown of street fighters, who don't follow any of the formal rules. These fighters train since childhood to join an illegal circuit of street fighting bouts, but some of the graduates (those who survive) also land jobs as bodyguards and suchlike. The technology for sword fighting has progressed to the point that a good swordsman is a match for someone with a gun. One point upon which formal duelists and street fighters agree: guns are tacky.
And finally: this is an original deal. So, if it sucks or you personally don't like it or you would rather I write about sexy elephant gods drinking martinis, I can live with that, but please be mindful of that when and if you leave feedback? Channel your inner Ganesh, be classy, offer me a martini and a backrub!!
xxxxxxxxxx Part 1 xxxxxxxxxxx
Foster opened the door himself. It was rarely good news that came this time of night.
She looked so small. She was probably about the right size for her age, which appeared to be around five years. But, they always looked so small to him.
At first he thought he would refuse. He really didn’t have room right now. And a girl, to boot. They just weren’t as likely to be useful. Though he dreaded to think what would happen to her if he refused. He could imagine where they would take her next.
“One minute,” he said. He escorted her over to one of the training mats. He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down, so she was sitting on it. Sometimes, that would make them cry, right then.
She stood back up.
He pushed her down again. Not roughly, but using just enough force to take her down.
She got up again.
He pushed her down again, and she righted herself. He actually smiled a bit. He liked the tough ones.
He crouched down next to her. “What we’ll do here, If you stay with me, is we’ll knock you down. Again and again and again. With a hand, and a boot, and then a sword. And you’ll need to do just what you did now. Keep getting up. Will you do that for me? Can you do that?
She nodded. She doesn’t really understand, Foster thought, but he needed to hear it.
“OK,” she said.
“Do you have a name, little one?”
“Emma.”
“Please tell me WHY I can’t tell these fucking students to go see some live fucking music?”
Al chuckled and continued to smoke out the window.
“Al!”
“Yep?”
Small and cramped as the record library was, Al still couldn’t be bothered to turn his head to look at her when she was talking (well, ranting actually, but that was no surprise). And it annoyed her.
Al exhaled and watched the smoke curl. “Venues are fucking dangerous, Em. You know that.”
“That’s part of the fun.”
“Heh. For you, maybe. Helps to be able to cut guys heads off, doesn’t it?”
Emma grinned despite herself and nervously bounced her fencing blade against her boot. They were both hanging around the college radio station, which was no surprise, as they were both DJs here, although Al had by far the more prestigious shift. He was just coming off his shift, in fact, but Emma would not be required until the wee hours of the morning, still some time hence.
She regarded her colleague. He had a face that called to mind a glad-handing friend, big and round and ever smiling, though few seemed to notice the smile rarely reached his eyes. Although Al was not overweight (not yet, though he looked to be someone who had a gut waiting for him not to many years down the road) he was broad-shouldered and big-boned, and seemed much to large for the small room. He had pale blond hair that hung comfortably to his shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, in just the right light, a wispy blond mustache could be observed lurking on his upper lip.
Al was everybody's big buddy. Well, everybody but Emma. Trained as a fighter since the age of five, Emma was careful about sizing up potential opponents which, for her, included anybody and everybody she might encounter. She tracked the small things, subtle hints of body language and expression, as she had been carefully taught, and she was never overly certain about those pale blue eyes. They should be crinkling with the smile, but instead, seemed to ignore Al's friendly mouth, and ranged around on their own.
“Fucking spoiled rotten little rich fucks,” Emma grumbled, regarding the hypothetical college students. “It would do them good to go out into the real world.”
Al exhaled. “Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea. Get a bunch of 19 year old girlies out to a Bone Chillers concert, where they’re all raped and murdered and cut up and then raped AGAIN. See how much their rich and powerful daddies love us then.”
“How about this? It would go to fulfill our public service requirement.”
Al continued to ignore her. Emma tugged at one of the three loose t shirts she was currently wearing. All of her clothes – jeans, shirts and boots - tended to look at least one size to large for her. The loose style was currently popular with street fighters, but it ended up making Emma, who stood just a hair under medium height for a woman, look a bit smaller than she actually was. It was probably not an effect she would have wanted, but it was also arguable whether anyone else would have had the courage to clearly state this fact to her.
Suddenly, Al’s roaming eyes fixed. His gaze darkened. “Eh, speaking of rich losers.”
Emma toed a stack of ancient vinyl singles with a steel-toed boot. “What?”
“That fuck.” He gestured with his cigarette, and she moved over to the windowsill where he was sitting to follow his gaze. A large sedan had pulled up on campus drive. Visible in the moonlight down below on the drive were two figures emerging, the male figure politely holding out a hand for the graceful female one.
“You mean Silas Taylor?”
“Rich asshole.”
“Heh. You been trying to put the make on that girl or something?”
Al finally turned to look at her, annoyed. Though she noticed he didn’t deny it.
“You not content with your groupie army, dude?
Al looked offended. “Look at her. Her legs go up to Canada. What the fuck is she doing with Si Taylor? That bastard is gay for one thing.”
Emma, already in an obnoxious mood, decided to play devil’s advocate. “Me, I kinda feel sorry for him.”
“Feel sorry? For THAT piece of shit?”
She leaned her butt back against the record-strewn desk. “Figure,” she said, “Pre-programmed life. I mean, he’s gotta date this certain kinda girl, do his fencing team, study his pre law, so he can some day take over some boring ass company his family started in 1620 or whatever.”
Al considered his cigarette.
“Quiet desperation and all that shit,” Emma concluded, somewhat lamely.
“Yeah, quiet desperation with fuckloads of cash. I’d be quietly desperate like that.”
She sighed and bonked her sword on her boot. They were quiet for a moment. “Fuck, Al, they keep taking it away from us, you know, little by little? First it’s what you can say, next it’s gonna be what you can play. Gonna be playing fucking Muzak soon.”
“Heh. Thought you were quitting in protest. Again.”
She looked daggers at him, then hiked her sword over her shoulder and rose off the desk. She brushed some of the dust off her butt.
“Gonna go kick some ass?” Al asked.
“Eh. I gotta put in some time battling The Bitch. But maybe I’ll find a rich boy to beat up for you.” Al puffed out a ball of smoke with his chortle.
The gym smelled like every gym ever had, and ever would. No matter that they had tried to make it all shiny bright and airy. On Saturday nights, as a special bonus, it was fairly deserted, as everybody else in the world was out doing shit, or whatever.
Which was exactly how she liked it.
After making sure her shield was fastened securely in her belt, she went straight to a Fencing Master booth and shut the door. In order to keep your team qualification, you had to put in a certain amount of time sparring with your boring teammates, and a certain amount of time against a bot. Emma’s favorite bot, as it happened, was a big one she’d dubbed The Bitch. But since she was on the women’s team, and second ranked to boot, her priority for getting time on a bot was pretty low. Fortunately, Emma had always run a bit nocturnal, and since, thanks to all the rich mommies and daddies with kids on the fencing team, they ran this gym pretty much 24/7, it wasn’t hard to find quality time with The Bitch late at night.
Which was also probably how she’d stumbled on to other, more entertaining, uses for the bot.
The walls of the booth were constructed of some kind of transparent material, but it was pretty well soundproofed, so if you didn’t look around too much (easy enough when you had a knife-wielding machine up in your face) there was at least an illusion of solitude. After fiddling with the controls a bit and running through the usual safety checks to ensure the bot probably wouldn’t kill her accidentally, she programmed in the normal practice routine into The Bitch’s heads up display. She activated her shielding and whacked her blade against her ankle a couple of times to make sure it was safely grounding the electricity.
Satisfied, she set the ON button and stepped back. She dug her earbuds out of her collar and set them in her ears. She held her sword up almost straight, two-handed, sort of like you’d hold a baseball bat. She called out the setting, “Three!” Finally, she ignited her sword. With the music going, she couldn’t hear the electricity arcing through the blade, but she definitely felt the faint vibration in the handle.
Instantly, the Fencing Master sprang to life. Thrust. Parry parry. Score. Break. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
She actually found few things in life quite as boring as fencing practice. Of late, she had been trying to amuse herself by lining up her moves with her chosen musical score. She had reggae on repeat tonight. It was a bit of fun, as you would have to figure out how to avoid getting pasted while putting a delay of about a beat from your usual move.
Unfortunately, it was only a bit of fun. And, truth be told, it was most unlikely that anyone would score points from the judges with choreography. The street fighters had an expression for the duelists: dead below the waist. And compared to the liveliness and athleticism she felt from the sport she’d been training for since childhood, that wasn’t only what fencing looked like, it was what it felt like, if someone were so cruel as to force you to practice it. But the terms of Emma’s scholarship were quite clear: she needed to maintain team eligibility if she wanted them to keep from chucking her sorry ass off campus.
The women’s coach had seemed especially sour about the whole thing. No matter how many high school team ribbons she had in her locker, she could just tell he smelled street fighter, and he didn’t care for the odor. Sometimes with people like that Emma could, though sheer hard work and pluck, overcome this. It had in fact happened in high school. When she had first joined the team, several of the parents had wanted to come after he with torches and pitchforks. But after she started helping out their little darlings, and winning tournaments, they were suddenly supportive. And had been all along – imagine that!
But Coach Loader wasn’t a “pluck” person. He was, she reflected, a giant asshole. The worst part was, he had offered her almost no guidance nor coaching. Which meant her scholarship status, if she didn’t improve enough to make the actual dueling team, was on shaky ground.
She switched off her blade and relaxed for a bit. She also carefully cast her eyes around the gym. The few souls who’d been hanging around seemed to have departed. All clear. She sauntered as casually as she could over to The Bitch’s interface and opened the heads up again. She carefully plucked at the glowing images until she found a screen with a prompt. She brought up a keyboard, and with a final glance around, she typed in a few lines of code. The program had some safety features, but it really wasn’t terribly difficult to hack around. Basically, you were only changing the settings to super fast and “random.” She liked to think of it as “berserker mode.” Which probably wasn’t too far from the truth. In actuality, In actuality, going up against The Bitch in this mode was less like practice and more like a death wish.
She backed up a few steps. She pulled the elastic band out of her hair to retighten her topknot. A cloud of hair cascaded down everywhere. She was annoyed to observe that that the awesome purple dye she’d used last weekend had already faded pretty badly, and once again a disappointing and not terribly dangerous-looking strawberry blond color was peeking out. She sighed. It was impossible to be menaced by a redhead, it just was. Thinking she would try crimson next time, and maybe do her fingernails to match, she squared away her hair situation. She dug out her pod once again, changing the setting from reggae to something crunchier, and cranking up the volume. She shook out a bit, hopped up and down, and compulsively bonked the end of her sword on her ankle twice. This time, she got into a half crouch, her blade swung out loosely, almost casually, to the side.
“Five,” she called. More softly, she muttered, “Flame on, bitch.”
She hit the ignition trigger, and the blade vibrated with electricity.
Simultaneously, the blade on the bot crackled to life. It came out swinging.
She started slowly, with a few backhanded moves. Then she did some duck unders, and some hop overs, then some combinations. She tried a flip off the wall. The bot read her moves, and tried to predict her next move, but this kind of thing completely fucked its algorithms, she knew.
She had started to hit a groove, running up the wall and launching off, flipping up and over, bouncing off the ceiling. Up and over, around and down.
It was not a bad round, over all. She had managed to parry almost everything the machine could spit out with no major mistake. Well, until she landed a bit wonky and got around a split second too late and it gave her a pretty good crack in the ribs. Her shielding had absorbed the electrical charge but – damn! – it kind of knocked the wind out of her. She clicked off her sword for a moment and checked her side to see if she had sustained any major organ damage. She pulled up her shirt. Well, that would leave a bruise, but she probably wouldn’t die.
Emma blinked as the lights in the practice room suddenly brightened. It was automatic, meaning some fool had opened the door. She turned. There was a guy standing there. She popped out her earbuds.
“I’m sorry,” said Silas Makepeace Taylor.
Emma blinked.
Oh, crap.
Near or far away, she always got a funny “not quite right” vibe from Si. He was about medium height, with a fairly spare build. He kept his hair on the short side, which was weird for a swordsman, especially the high class duelists – usually they favored growing their hair out long so they could prance around wearing a fancy topknot. Emma at least approved of the hair length, as she always thought long haired men looked a bit foolish. His hair was black and wiry and always seemed to be rebelliously heading in the wrong direction, either falling in his eyes, or sticking up where it shouldn’t. His hair was also much too dark for his skin tone, which you might describe as either fine alabaster or pasty white, depending on your inclination towards him. It was fitting that you never seemed to see him around during daylight hours, she thought, as he didn’t seem to have a spot of melanin on his body. To add to the creepy effect, he perpetually wore wire rimmed glasses with dark lenses, even indoors, and even at night, as he was doing now. She supposed they were nominally supposed to be those fancy eyeglass lenses that change color in the daylight, but she had yet to see them clarify to the extent you could actually see his eyes through them.
The genuinely striking thing about him, to Emma, watching him with practiced swordsman’s eyes, was more how he carried himself. Some guys looked like they could take a punch, and other guys looked like you could put them on their ass with a good kick. As for Taylor, it looked like it would take a freight train to flip him off his feet. He seemed supernaturally steady. It was like he’d been a panther in a past life or something.
“As I was saying,” he said, leaning elegantly against the door, “my sparring partner appears to have cancelled on me.”
“Your sparring partner?” she asked, still blinking. Who fucking spars at 2 am? she thought. Well, other than me.
“Yes, I need a sparring partner.”
She thought, but didn’t say, Well, gee, I can’t possibly see why someone would cancel on you kicking his ass.
“And?” was what she finally said.
“I was wondering if you might oblige me?” He inclined his head slightly out towards the mats.
She quickly stifled a laugh. “OK. I realize it’s kind of late and pickings are slim. But, I’m not going to be much of a match for you.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m second class, dude. On the girls team.”
Just the corner of Si’s mouth moved slightly, edging a small smile. “How do you know my ranking?” It was an annoying question. Not only was Si Makepeace Taylor a rich fuck, he was a rich fuck three-time fencing champion. As he must have known anybody would know. As he especially would have known she would know.
She tried again. “You’re a lot better than me. We would not just be mismatched, we would be mind-bendingly mismatched.” She wanted to tell him to go bother somebody else, but there was quite literally no one else around to bother.
“I find I learn something from everybody, don’t you?” Oh, what is this, she thought, I’ll kick your ass, and it will be An Important Lesson? He straightened up from the door and jerked his head again in the direction of the sparring range. In other words, she wasn’t getting out of this one. One thing one just didn’t – couldn’t – do was turn down a spar. It was almost as bad as ignoring a challenge. Dishonorable. Just one more way all this custom and tradition shit had taken fencing and fucking ruined it. In her humble opinion, at least.
Her brain pinballed through a list of unspoken questions. What if you kill me? Can I sue you? What the fuck happened to the girl you were with like five minutes ago (actually it had been over an hour, but still) and if you’re through with her can Al have her phone number? Instead, she was nodding wearily and walking with him towards the practice mats.
To give Si his due, and she’d seen probably every single match he’d ever won while she was on the team, and the smug bastard, for what it was, made fencing look pretty elegant and cool. She was really not even quite sure when the fucker even moved. It was like, one second, he was in that stance, the next, here’s his sword at your neck. Pretty sweet. Though it would be even sweeter, she thought, if they’d let them jack up the Teslas to like 8 or 9. Maybe some heads popping off.
They had reached the mat. She backed up the requisite number of steps, and bowed formally. She then drew back to her formal stance. She waited. Si didn’t even raise his sword. Instead, he looked on quizzically through the grey lenses, and finally said, “I’m sorry?”
Oh fucking now what?
She dropped the stance. It took all her effort to keep any hint of frustration from her voice. “Yes?” He’s probably going to correct my stance. At which point I will murder him and stuff him in a bag.
“Am I correct in saying that wasn’t the stance you were using just now?” He gestured. “On the bot?”
Oh, shit.
“Um, just now?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Shit shit shit. She was so off the team. And, probably kicked out of college. And, possibly buried in a deep, deep pit.
What she said was, “No. That was not the stance I was using just now. With the bitch. I mean. On the bot.” She grimaced and braced for the coming tirade.
“I’d be interested in seeing it.”
She cocked her head for a moment. Well, that was unexpected. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “Um. Can I ask … why?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not regulation.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Well. I thought you needed a sparring partner? That kind of thing wouldn’t really be practice.”
The faint smile inched in again. If he ever really smiles, will I get to see the fangs? She wondered. “Would you call what you were doing just before I interrupted you,‘practice?’”
She frowned. Of course not. I was abusing the equipment. And, you caught me.
Well, there would be no getting around this one. “OK, to be clear, you want me to mix it up with you, like I was doing with the bot? In other words, NON-REGULATION PLAY?” She felt like she needed a document or something. In fucking triplicate.
“Sure. Why not? I’m in an … expansive mood tonight.”
She shrugged. OK, whatever asshole. It wasn’t possible to actually see his eyes through those stupid glasses, but she kept her glare lasered to where she assumed his eyes were hiding as she silently pulled back into her street crouch. She gestured for him to ignite his blade when he was ready. He considered for a moment, and then took his own stance.
“Three,” he called. She nodded and set to three.
She heard the hum.
Then she was in up his face, on him in one leap.
To give him his due, he actually mounted a halfway decent defense. A lesser foe would have been rattled at least. He was taller and stronger than her, and had a longer reach, but getting close up blasted away that advantage. When he did get a straight shot, she darted away, aiming a boot at something vital. If he aimed high, she’d duck under, and if he tried a low shot, she’d bounce right over it. Of course, she could never quite land a killing blow either, but she was having so much fun, it was only a minor frustration. She threw in one of her favorite prank moves, flipping over his head to stab him in the back. He managed to get himself turned around in time to parry, but only just. She noted with some satisfaction that he was limiting his moves to defense, as he hadn’t seemed to have put together how to mount an attack against what was basically a random barrage from all sides.
After a bit, he signaled for a break. Had enough of slumming, have we? she thought. She snapped off her blade. Though he hadn’t seemed flustered, and didn’t appear to be as out of breath as she, she noticed that the glasses had slipped down his nose a bit. Well, made him break a sweat, that’s something.
He was now peering over his glasses at her. His eyes were grey. “You told me you were ranked as second class in traditional fencing?”
She nodded.
“Does … that style have an equivalent ranking system?”
She considered. “Not really. Dead versus not dead yet?” She grinned.
He pushed the glasses back up. “I hadn’t experienced a lot of these techniques before. Where did you pick them up?”
She shrugged. “Here and there.”
He considered her for a long minute. She nervously started bonking her sword on her ankle. She was feeling a bit like a bug pinned down on a bulletin board. “Is my information correct, that you are currently a scholarship student?” She nodded again, though this time she felt a small chill.
“And you find me to be at least somewhat insufferable?” Panther smile. She tried to keep her face frozen. “I mean, possibly more annoying than you find people in general?” There also seemed to be something going on, wheels turning behind those dark glasses, though she couldn’t tell what.
He was quiet for a bit, perhaps waiting for a reaction that was unforthcoming. Finally he said, “Would you mind terribly if we broke down a couple of those moves?”
She shrugged.
His questions were actually intelligent enough to be minimally annoying. He seemed particularly curious about the sweeping motions. When she told him it was for bullets, he didn’t seem to believe her.
“Look, you get it right?” she asked him. “You meet a guy in the street, he’s not gonna bow to you and all that shit. He may have a sword, or he may have guns. Or worse. So you crank it full Tesla and go.”
“You can really deflect bullets?”
“Shit yeah.” He still looked skeptical. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen it done?”
“I assumed it was a kind of magic trick. Am I to understand that you, personally, have done something like that?’
“When I need to. Yes. I do.”
His eyebrows went up quizzically. She’d used the present tense deliberately.
“Anyway, don’t guys like you always have assholes with guns around or whatever?”
“Guys like me?” He smiled and appeared to think about it. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Guns would seem to be rather more trouble then they’re worth in many situations.”
“Hrm.” She was impressed. “You got that right.”
She reluctantly found herself helping him practice a couple of moves. She noticed that he not only had freakishly fast reflexes, he usually only needed a couple of demonstrations to master a new stroke. Though his legwork left something to be desired. Actually, his legwork left a lot to be desired. She finally put down her own sword in frustration and began to physically wrestle his arms and legs into a form she approved of.
“Dead below the waist,” she sighed, repeating the street dis. Though, to be honest, street fighters rarely said this kind of thing in front of a fencer. Not that street fighters often found themselves in close proximity to a formal duelist.
“Huh?” Si appeared not entirely accustomed to having his thighs grabbed like that by a woman he didn’t know terribly well, but Emma, who had been sparring with men most of her life, didn't pick up on it, or ignored it.
He actually let out a small sigh when she finally released him. She was gesturing at him. He realized he was supposed to attempt the stroke again. He swung.
“Oh!” he said.
“Better, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, trying again. She stopped him again and did a bit more pushing and pulling. He put up a bit less resistance to the molestation, which seemed to abbreviate it somewhat. He tried again.
“Wow.”
“Dude, you’ve got to loosen up your stance.”
“Loosen up?”
“Don’t you ever dance for fuck’s sake?”
“Um. Not really. Should I?”
“I’ll make you a mix tape. Music is actually…. SHIT!” She looked up and saw the clock. “Shit shit shit.” She dived for her sword. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so late, I really gotta go.”
“That’s fine.” He smiled, and tilted his head. “I wouldn’t want you to be late for your show on my account.”
She looked up at him, startled. “Uh, yeah.”
“I much appreciated the tutelage,” he called after her. Who actually says “tutelage,” she thought.
Si stood and watched her skitter away, faint smile on his face. Here was something unexpected, he was thinking. There weren’t a whole lot of things in his life that took him completely by surprise.
The engineer had thoughtfully loaded the tape with her show’s jingle by the time Emma burst into the control room, sword in hand. “What happened, Em?” he grinned. “You need to stop and kill a guy?”
“Almost,” she grunted.
From Silas Makepeace Taylor’s private journal.
My World History professor is definitely an ignoramus of unfathomable proportions.
Late dinner with Gloria C. Lovely little Italian place, should visit again. Unfortunately, G. spent the evening nattering about this or that friend’s engagement. Find myself getting utterly bored again. Grandmama will not be pleased, unfortunately, as this was yet another of her matches.
Discovered identity of person who has been abusing the fencing bot. Unsurprisingly, it is the girl with the street fighting background. Had brief interview, in which she swore to the truth of some sillier street fighting myths. Emma, I believe her name is. She is surly, and has an underdeveloped grasp of the concept of personal space, however, seems quite facile with certain intriguing techniques. Intend to pursue the matter.
Silas pressed SAVE and shut down his heads up display. He rolled back on his bed and put his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, as he liked to do when he was thinking. He had certainly encountered his share of oddballs at this college, but Emma clearly stood out from the pack. With the clothes and the hair and the boots and the attitude, she looked for all the world to be someone feigning toughness. And yet she honestly appeared to possess some talent as a swordsman. Did street fighting dojos now enroll college coeds? It was damned puzzling.
Silas smiled. He rather liked puzzles.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx Part 2 xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
She had told Al no girlfriends. And for once he actually listened.
Instead, he had brought along his idiot friend, Roger, who was frankly just as bad.
She suspected that, as a sophomore, the only reason she’d been added to the radio station roster, albeit on a not terribly desirable 2 am broadcast, was that Al found it useful to have her as an escort when he and his ever changing entourage deemed to venture into the seedier venues. And, as far as Al was concerned, the seedier the better.
She wasn’t as annoyed as she might have been, as it definitely got her into a lot of live shows, and for free to boot. If any of his stories were to be believed, Back in the Day, Al had played keyboards for an endless number of marginally successful bands, so was always connected enough to get on the list. And he really didn’t seem to give a shit what she did once she got in, whether she’d arrange interviews with band members or surreptitiously record a set or even schmooze with other hovering musicians (and there were always hovering musicians). Just as long as she kept him from getting his head knocked off.
So, she would come armed, and wearing her most frightening leather gear, and generally, that was enough to stave off any unpleasantness.
As a bonus, oftentimes the “street fighter chick” drag successfully earned her the favorable attention of someone in the band's organization (given that the band had itself together to the extent to possess an “organization”). Now, as for the actual musicians themselves, in Emma's opinion, the world would be better off if they would all be good enough to vanish in a poof once the spotlight flicked off. Maybe they could all be transported in little jars by the touring manager, or some person who had a lick of sense.
On the other hand, if you could get to talking (OK, flirting might be a more accurate term) with someone like said tour manager, they might inclined as well as able to wrangle a couple of grumpy musicians to a live session on a local college radio station. Because, much as Emma rather disdained them, other people seemed clearly drawn to musicians.
And tour managers tended to have boxes of cool concert Ts. If events should tend to go that way.
Kranks was really more of a bar than a venue. Which meant little chance of finding someone as official as a manager (not to mention valuable prizes, like concert T shirts). And it also meant an increased risk of violence. On the plus side, the head thrash genre meant there would likely be a mosh pit, so the duffers could at least burn out their aggression that way.
Before they debarked Al’s rattly old barge of a car, he stuck out his hands her way. “Speed? Earplugs?” She grabbed some of both. She noticed Roger just grabbed the pills. She sighed, and followed them out of the car. It was one of those venues you could hear before you could see. She surveyed the area. Darkened Mystery Businesses, interspersed with shady characters. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, but kept her hand on her hilt. At the door, they quickly found Al’s name where it always was, on the list. The bouncer at the door eyed her. “You wanna check that?” he said, indicating her sword.
“No.”
He nodded, and let her pass. As they always did.
It was freakishly loud inside, even with the earplugs. She was surprised to see many of the patrons were festooned with even more leather gear than she. Al’s speed was ramping up so, with a gesture to Al and Roger, she made for the bar for something to take the edge off.
“MOTHERFUCKER!” She was sitting nursing a bottle of amber when the voice pierced the din.
“ASSHOLE!” she screamed in response. They embraced, with back pats.
“Speedy!” she screamed in his ear. “What the fuck are you doing here, you fucker?”
“Seeing these assholes!” He gestured to the stage.
“They fucking SUCK!”
“They SO fucking suck!”
“Assholes!”
“What about you?”
She tried to pick out Al and Roger from the increasingly crowded mosh pit. “College radio. With these dudes.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Cool! How's Sifu?” He used the title of their shared mentor, Foster.
“Same as ever.”
“He'll never change, old bastard!” laughed Speedy.
She gestured to his sidearm. Speedy, like Emma, had started out in security. The last she’d heard, he had moved to promoting bands. “New?”
He grinned. “New!” She nodded. She did not ask to see, nor did he move to remove it from its scabbard. There were just some things you didn’t do in a club. If you didn’t want trouble, that is. If he’d upgraded, he was probably doing well. Which was cool. Speedy was cool.
“Got a band you gotta hear," he screamed.
“Yeah?”
“They’re good. I’ll send you a file.”
“Yours?”
“Fuck no. I wish!”
“Still doing BlindMen?”
He nodded. She really wished she’d brought a PDA or something so she could text him. The metal band was quite bad, just impossible, to the point where she wondered why Al had bothered dragging them out here. Actually, she was surprised he hadn’t wrangled himself up on stage, as he usually did by this time, to sit in for a song or two. Maybe even Al was fed up with them.
Suddenly, There was Al, big as life, at her table. She made some quick shouted introductions. As she suspected, both Al and Speedy thought they had probably met before. Because, probably, they had.
She leaned over to scream in Al’s ear. “This band fucking SUCKS.” He nodded, happily. She shrugged, what the fuck?
He leaned into her ear. “Didn’t come to see the band. Came to find my dealer.” He pulled a baggie partway out of an inside pocket and grinned. She rolled her eyes. Great. Al was now using her as his escort to a buy.
It was difficult to know exactly how they knew, because the definitely didn’t hear anything. She looked down at the mosh pit. She noticed Speedy was standing, hand on hilt. She grabbed Al and screamed in his ear, “Where the FUCK is Roger?”
Al looked sheepish. He pointed. She gestured to Speedy, and they were down and around and under and finally broke through to the center of disruption. The band hadn’t let up, but nobody was dancing any more. There was a guy on the floor, rubbing a bloody nose, and two fucking huge guys, standing looking at fucking Roger, who was rubbing a bloodied fist.
The big guys had guns. They weren’t drawn yet, but it was obvious. Fuck.
She glanced at Speedy. He knocked her shoulder once. Got your back.
She stepped forward into the circle. She immediately got up in Roger’s face.
“RogerwhatthefuckingFUCK!” she screamed, having no clue whether it was getting through the hideously loud music and the earplugs and the various pharmaceuticals. Roger just blinked at her, bleary eyed.
The guy he decked was suddenly standing behind her, his “friends” looming just behind him.
She turned. “This guy is MY assclown. Let me fucking deal with him.”
“He fucking sucker punched me.”
“He’s a fucking idiot.” She was desperately hoping the “I’m madder at him than you’ll ever be” tack would work, and they could hustle Roger out. And maybe kick his ass. Often the sight of a guy getting his ass chewed by a not very large chick would be humiliating enough to diffuse the situation.
This guy, though, was evidently as stupid as he looked. “Nobody fucks with me.” He was close enough his spittle was spraying in her face.
“It told you, he’s an ass clown. I’ll take him out and kick his ass.” The music was pounding.
“We’ll take him out and fucking KILL HIM.” At that, the mooks went for their weapons. A lot of things happened very quickly then. She drew, powering up instantly, and had the first gun sliced through before Mook #1 could discharge it. Speedy grabbed Roger by the scruff and pulled. She had turned to Mook #2. He managed to get one poorly aimed round off, which she deflected. Then stroke up to disarm him, then a boot in the teeth to bring him down. She slammed her hilt back into the face of Mook #1, who had recovered enough to rush her. Then blade at the neck of Mr. Bloody Nose, who was just standing there, a bit stunned.
“STAY!” she mouthed. He looked frozen to the spot. Backing, but keeping her weapon out, she threaded through the crowd to catch up with Speedy, who was basically carrying the much larger Roger. She threw Roger’s other arm over her neck and they rushed him out the back door, and into the alley.
They threw Roger against the wall, where he more or less stayed. Speedy darted around to check they weren’t being followed. He came back and nodded, all clear.
“I am so sorry,” she began, digging out her earplugs.
Speedy grinned so hard she thought his face would split. He was removing his own plugs.
“DAMN!” he said. “You still got it! That was fun!”
Despite herself, she smiled. They heard crunching, and both turned in an instant, swords drawn, to see Al had come up behind them. He waved his hand. Speedy smiled and put away his blade. Emma grunted, reluctantly sheathed her weapon, and then flew at him. She put a finger in his face. “You fucking fuck. Don’t you EVER drag me on a fucking buy again.”
Al was babbling. “OK, OK, noted. It’s good stuff, though, did you want some? Hey, you guys are really good with those things. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody move so fast. It’s legendary.”
She shook her head. What was the use? She pointed to Roger. “Will you get this fucking guy in the car before he causes more trouble?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know, I got you an interview.”
“What?”
“An interview.”
“With this fucking band? They fucking suck.”
“No no no no no! With Bloody Turnstiles.”
“Bloody Turnstiles?” Emma stopped short. The 'Stiles were current college radio darlings, probably about as famous for their drinking and brawling as their music. Ray and Bob were brothers or half-brothers or something. But it didn't matter. It would get people to tune in at two fucking am.
“Yeah, Ray and Bob. With their tour manager. Here tonight,” smiled Al smugly.
“Doing what exactly?” asked Emma.
“Dunno. They probably get their stuff from my dealer, ha!”
Emma didn’t smile. “Ray and Bob?”
“Yeah, they say they’ll be by tomorrow night. You cool?”
Emma thought about it for a minute. “Yeah. Yeah, actually. We are cool.”
Speedy was at her shoulder. “Hey, I gotta hit it.”
“Thanks. I so owe you, dude,” Emma told him.
“Any time. Hey, I’ll send you that file. You gotta listen – they’ll change your life.”
“Cool. You can send it to the radio station. You know the one.”
“Later!”
“Later.”
She was not terribly surprised when Si Taylor showed up again midway through her next late night practice session.
“Your imaginary sparring partner cancel again, Si?” she asked, flicking off her sword in irritation.
“Actually, I go by Silas.” He cocked his head. “Bloody Turnstiles?” he read.
She was wearing her new concert T shirt. “It’s a band.” She smiled. Al had come through, and two of the 'Stiles had indeed dragged their lame musician asses to her show last night. They had been herded along by their touring manager. Who, as it turned out, was not only an excellent musician wrangler, but really cute. Really, really cute.
“Mmm. About that. I have a proposal for you. I think you will find this to be mutually beneficial. Perhaps we could talk?”
Emma sighed and impatiently started bonking her ankle with her sword. “Yeah, whatever.” What choice did she have?
“I enjoyed our practice session last week, and would like to continue to explore those … er … techniques for a bit longer. For strictly personal reasons. As team captain, I have access to duelist records, and I’ve studied your practice schedule for the past few quarters.” She licked her lips and imagined her blade connecting with his soft neck. One of the many things that annoyed her about Si Taylor: she honestly didn't know if she could take him. Although at that moment, she wouldn't have minded trying.
“I have no problem accommodating completely to your schedule,” Si continued, “so that should banish that objection. Now, for your part, I have confirmed that you are indeed here thanks to a scholarship program. You are currently rated second class. You could improve the likelihood of your continued funding by upgrading your status, could you not?”
She nodded glumly. She dreaded confronting Foster if she had poor grades the previous term (which Foster seemed to regard as anything less than an A grade). She couldn't imagine what it would be like if she had to tell him she'd lost the scholarship.
“That is definitely something which, I think, we could achieve within a reasonable timeline.”
She contemplated her boot. “We?” she thought. Oh no….
“This would, of course, require a reasonable effort and dedication on your part. It’s quite obvious that you already possess a considerable facility with a blade. Though your technique could use some … er … refinement.”
“You want me to teach you street fighting?”
He nodded. “That’s the general idea, yes.”
She sighed. Too stupid to live. “OK. Here is how college gets all educational and stuff. Listen carefully. There is a word you have probably never heard before in your life. The word is no. It is spelled N-O. No.”
“Might I ask why?” Oddly, Si didn't seem at all put off.
“Why? Oh, god, where do I start? Yes, I am here on a scholarship. As you have no doubt deduced, I was trained as a street fighter. They know this. And in case you hadn’t noticed, these guys” she waved her hand around the empty gym “don’t exactly approve of street fighting. I try and teach some rich idiot some dangerous moves, and you hurt your precious pinkie finger, I’m not just out of here, I am dead! Dead! They’ll probably trample me underfoot! And salt the earth!”
He grinned his panther grin. And then went for the kill. “That may be true. But I would ask you to consider this additional point: as I am sure you are aware, there has been some … questionable … use of the dedicated training bot.” Her eyes snapped open, but she remained silent, staring like a deer in headlights. He continued. ”I must warn you, I am not the only person who is aware of this fact. And, as you can imagine, it has caused a certain amount of … consternation.”
Shit. Shit shit shit.
No, calm down, Emma, she told herself. Now she knew. He could indeed take her – though not with a sword.
There were better fighters. There were always better fighters. What you did was you kept your head. And you watched. And you waited.
Good fighter or not, no one went forever without making a mistake. No one.
“However, given that I have a certain amount of … influence,” Si was saying, “I believe I can and will be able to insure that there are no further consequences. Or, indeed, any additional inquiry.”
She was staring at him. But there was no longer fright showing in her eyes. Only determination. “You’re blackmailing me.”
“’Blackmail’ is such an ugly word, don’t you think?”
She wasn’t smiling. “So is ‘asshole,’” she finally said.
For the first time in her memory, Si sported a full, toothy grin. “Then, we have an agreement?”
The engineer popped his head in during her set that night. “Um, just checking in,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Everything OK?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?
“Well, you’ve played ‘Obliterator’ three times in a row now. I mean. At least three times.”
“It’s a good song.” She looked at him. “OK, OK.” She moved over to the mike. “You just heard the song, ‘Obliterator.’ By the band, Obliterator. For which the only lyric anyone can decipher is ‘Obliterator obliterator obliterator.’ It is THEREFORE the best song ever in the history of the world. If you would like me to stop playing it, why don’t you call in and try to convince me I’m wrong?” The engineer laughed and dived back into his room to check the phone lines.
