Kids' Game
by Bluestar
Disclaimer: Heavy Gear and all associated characters, places etc. do not belong to me. Never has, never will. I'm not making any profit on this story.
But you know that if you cross your fingers,
And if you count from one to ten,
You can get up off the ground again,
It doesn't matter,
The whole thing's just a game.
- Kid's Game, Blood Brothers
"Sorry, Major," Marcus mocked as he rounded one of the blocks of ferroconcrete that lined the floor of Trash City Arena. "I'm not gonna lose."
"Oh, I think you are, Rover," Wallis said in satisfaction as he pressed a button on the control panel of his Gear.
A bright explosion blinded everyone for a moment. There was a brief scream, and when the smoke cleared, a twisted red mass of metal that barely resembled a Gear lay still on the arena floor.
* * *
Greco sat by Marcus' side in the hospital, holding his nephew's hand. What little he could see of him was covered in fresh purple bruises. Despite the hopeful words of the doctors, he could sense a chill in the air. For a moment, the only sound was that of the monitors, beeping steadily.
"I promised your father I'd keep you away from the dueling circuit," Greco said eventually, not knowing whether Marcus could hear him or not. "I said I wouldn't let this happen. And it did. The arena took you the way it did Henry."
* * *
Greco was drowsing in the hard plastic chair when he felt it. He didn't know how he knew, but somehow, he did. "Marcus! No!"
But his shout went unheard as the steady, one-note tone of the lifesigns monitor continued under his desperate voice. The other Dragons rushed in, but it was already too late.
The dawn light washed over Marcus' peaceful face as he lay there. He almost looked as if he was sleeping.
* * *
It was a week after that fateful tournament. The funeral had been two days ago. The Dragons were still in shock, but Greco had taken it harder than any other. Unable to sleep without seeing that nightmare flash, he was sat in a chair in the corner of his living room with half a glass of Fort James whiskey in one shaking hand. He had almost taken for granted Marcus' presence, had thought somehow that he would always be there. No uncle should have to outlive his nephew, he thought bitterly.
Eventually, he finished the whiskey and fell asleep.
* * *
In his dreams, he found himself in Trash City Arena. It was broad daylight, the sun beating down on the hot sands. The place was silent - there were no crowds, no Gears, and especially no Maddox. He felt peculiarly calm.
"It's strange to see it like this, isn't it?" said a voice with a touch of mild amusement. "So empty..."
"Yeah, it is," Greco agreed. He turned around. He wasn't surprised to see Marcus standing by his shoulder. Marcus smiled up at his uncle, his brown eyes glinting faintly in the sunlight. When was the last time he'd seen him smile like that? "Why are we here?"
"You're dreaming, Greco."
Greco took a deep breath. "Marcus, I'm sorry," he said. "The Vanguard will pay for this, I swear. I didn't know, or I . . ."
Marcus shook his head. "It's all right." His face grew serious. "Promise me one thing, Greco. Promise me that you will live - for me."
"I will," he said, reaching out touch his nephew. Marcus was reassuringly solid. "I promise you, I will."
For a while neither said anything as they hugged fiercely. Then Marcus pulled back slightly so he could face his uncle again. "I don't know how much longer we have."
Greco looked at him, but didn't know how to answer, and as he was about to speak Marcus melted away from his grasp and was gone.