I've always been disappointed with the Hi-Mocks. They're a cool idea, yeah? Make specialized training dummies to simulate a given opponent, scenario, or counter-play strategy, actually get to test your stuff in the field outside of a high-stress tournament. The build-options aren't a let down either: absorb systems, Funnel Builds, Transformers and Combiners, you can get loads of weird gimick builds loaded up. I've even got the Tryon 3 loaded up at easily 60% functionality from the Japanese Nationals, and that thing was nuts. No, the thing that consistently failed the dummies is that they are dumb as rocks.
Case in Point: The Hi-Mock Sengoku Zulu currently trying to fillet me. It's Sleek, deadly, and marketed on the promise that it can match the capabilities of Sauper's take on Nielsen's famous gunpla. In practice, well...I'm sure it'd be an interesting challenge for the K-3 circuit.
Unfortunately for it, I'm not in the K-3 Circuit. We're in the Shoal Zone, a ruined Salamis with a jagged gash down its belly dominates the center of the field and a cloud of debris and ruined mobile suits orbits around it. The Mock-Zulu's behind me, struggling to keep up. I twist the ship, lazily rolling between a pair of strikes, and race for the Salamis on a plume of thruster-fire. The Mock-Zulu follows meekly, flashes of sword-ki slicing up debris as they roll ineffectually past my fighter.
I peel away from him and roll past spilled cargo containers and into the gutted belly of the Salamis. My G-Defender flips and scoots into a dark-corner of the Salamis' belly, guns trained on the wound that the Mock would have to use to enter. I wait for tense seconds for my target, fingers hovering over the fire controls. Debris drifts through the wound as my thoughts begin to wander.
Then the Zulu dashes in on a plume of green fire, swords drawn and facing the wrong way entirely. I don't allow myself a grin, wins against something as braindead as a mock don't count, and open fire. Twin lances of bright, purple energy rip through the Zulu, the Salamis, and out through the Shoal Zone. I get a brief glimpse of the ragged holes I've ripped through the Zulu's torso and shoulder before its reactor goes critical and detonates messily.
"Hi-Mock Five and Six of Ten: Defeated. Deploying Final Hi-Mock Wave: Mock-Qubeley Papillon, Mock-Stark Jegan "Winterfell", Mock-Disco ShaZam!, and Mock-Perfect Gelgoog," booms the announcer.
I rack my brain for information on the gunpla. A modded Qubeley with invisible bits; Gelgoog with Trans-Am and Assimilation; a modified Stark with a directional I-Field, psycoframe and a massive longsword (Sword-ki user. Lost in the first round of Worlds last year because its opponent loaded up on missiles); aaaand...
Oh. Right.
I hit every thruster and afterburner I have on the G-Fighter and scream out of the Salamis' gut like the proverbial bat out of hell. Right behind me not one, not two, but four Large Mega-Particle Cannons rip through the Salamis and the space around it. I weave past the pillars of lethal light and turn towards their source.
The ShaZam! is off at the edge of the map and living up to its name. It's a monster based on the Big Zam, studded with as many beam cannons as its designer could fit on it, four Large Mega Particle Cannons, and its original Large Mega Particle Cannon replaced with a Hyper Mega Particle Cannon. Pillars of light constantly erupted from its surface, only to be redirected in my direction my a thick cloud of reflector bits. Getting close to it would be unpleasant in normal circumstances, and with two world-class suits and the Perfect Gelgoog to contend with...even against Mocks this is going to be a little tricky. I click open the weapon selector and start pulling closer while I plan my assault. I see the glimmer of the Qubeley's invisible funnels and the blue streak of the Stark Winterfell to my left. I pull right and-
"Battle Aborted"
The field disappears, my G-Fighter collapses onto the quartz, I spin around, looking for someone to yell at.
I find an eight year old standing by the kill-switch by the game-room door. She's Sayyid Amira Ahmed, a tall little Indian girl, and one of my little sister's many friends. She's holding a carrying case and is looking at me like I did something wrong. "Bhaijan says you were taking too long," she says.
"I was not!" I protest, "I still have..." I take a glance at the clock. It's Four Forty. My reservation ended at Four. "...Oh. Astaghfirullah." Amira just nods sagely at me as I grab open my briefcase and start packing my gunpla.
A moment later, Amira interrupts me again. "Bhaijan wants to come in," she says. I pause for a moment and poke at my hijab and niqab to double check, then give her the OK.
A pair of brothers, the older Sayyids, enter the room. The younger's Amir Ahmed, nineteen, Gunpla Ace for UCSD's Tri-Stars. He's pencil-thin, my height and errs on the side of anti-social around strangers. He's got a carrying case, but it's too small for the Mobile Armors he's semi-famous for. The elder's Nadhir Ahmed, twenty one (My age), used to play for Granada's Golden Eagles when we were both in the Madrassa, but he dropped the sport in high school. He's tall, fat, and probably the most outgoing of the three. He watches my siblings for my parents sometimes.
"Salaam," I say. I let the brothers return the greeting before I continue. "You know Nadhir, it's the MCA's gameroom," I say, "You can generally assume I'm decent."
Nadhir shrugs. "I'll keep it in mind," he says, "Training go well?"
"It was going just fine," I say, "How about you? Rejoining the civilized world in the tourney circuit?"
Nadhir opens his mouth to say something but Amira grabs his shirt and says, "Don't say anything!" each time he tries to explain.
"Amira wants to beat me up," says Amir as explanation, prompting Amira to start shouting him down as well.
"Good!" I say. I lock my carrying case and head for the door, "Ustadha Khan's gonna chew me out for being late, so I've gotta go. Beat up your brother for me, OK Amira?" I ruffle her hair and she sulks a little, then I say Salaam to her brothers and leave.
The match is at seven, at the San Jose Convention Center. They've stuffed a large Gunpla Battle arena into one of the exhibition halls, and a couple thousand people are packed into the stands. Massive screens hang from the roof, the lights are dim, and there are two brightly lit walkways for the contestants to walk down as they approach the field. Me and Ustadha Khan arrived with time to spare, not that you could tell with the lecture I received on the way over. I can vaguely see my opposite number on the opposite side of the field.
The announcer calls our name, and we start the walk as he rattles off our battle history, affiliations, and some notable events in our careers. My opposite number's Michael Tatsuda, a tall, handsome, twenty-year old Japanese-American with a history in medieval re-enactment. Some spanish fencing style or sommat, which was why he had that dumb blunted sword on him all the time and dressed like he'd walked off the set of Pride and Prejudice.
Like me he's a Dark Horse, trained heavily in unranked matches and then let loose on some poor, unsuspecting qualifying tournament to wreck face. He's been evasive about his playstyle the whole tournament, spent most of it wrecking poor low-ranked dudes in a missile-focused Jesta, but he showed his true colors in the Quarters. Bad luck, really, he drew a match with a Nationals vet, Andy Strauss, panicked, and deployed the Perfect Gelgoog. He won, but the violence of the fight meant that I had pretty solid data on him.
I stride into the spotlight. I'm wearing a long dupatta, green, with gold decoration, along with white gloves and a red niqab. I carry a transparent carrying case in one hand, giving the camera a good look at my Grimoire and its Fry-Schop. I step up to my position at the arena and glance at the screen as it flashes a close-up of the calligraphy I've painted onto the Grimoire's knuckles.
"It's a pleasure to face you on the field, Ms Abbas," says Tatsuda. He flourishes his longsword, tucks the blade under one armpit, and honest-to-god bows like we were in medieval england or something. "I wish you better luck next year," he says, a giant stupid grin on his face.
"Battle Damage Level Set to A. Please set your GP base," intones the announcer.
"Salaam," I say, "Inshallah, the best woman will win."
"Field 01: Space."
A starfield fades into view. The battlefield is utterly bare of cover or distinguishing features, simply a large, black void, glittering with distant starlight.
"Michael Tatsuda, Perfect Gelgoog! To glory!"
"Nusaybah Abbas. Grimoire Platinum. Launching Fi Sabilillah."
I launch, my Grimoire crouching low on top of the Fry-Schop. There's a flare of light on the other side of the field as the Perfect launches and guns it for me. I kick a black box off the back of the Fry-Schop then dive.
Tatsuda grunts his annoyance across the comm, pretty transparently unamused by the plan. I grin. The Perfect's a hyper-specialized melee combatant, at this range I can just shoot him until bits start falling off. That means that he has to close with me, and he knows it.
Now, we both know that he can't actually close with the Fry-Schop at normal speed, which means he has to augment it (Or trap me) somehow, Trans-Am and Assimilation are both irreversible and cap his effective endurance, his machine cannon won't hit me at this range, and his only other option is to pull something new out of his hat at extreme range, giving me time to figure out what it is and punish him for it.
Zugzwang in the first twenty seconds. A downside to the Perfect's hyperfocus on melee.
The Perfect opens fire. I roll left with time to spare and a pulsating column of blue-red particles screams into the night. A Beam Magnum. Nifty, but not going to help him much. I throw another black box off of the Fry-Schop and jet away once more.
A second beam rips past harmlessly, but I can see his play now. His thruster plume color has changed. He's flipped on the RG system for speed and is screening himself with Beam Magnum fire. Probably his best option, he's burned some particles and gave me the Magnum's recharge time, but neither of those are huge losses.
I spray him with submachine gun fire as he closes, pinpricks of light pinging against his shield, and oblige his rush. A third black box leaves the Fry-Schop then I grab a shield and kick off, letting my ride jet away into the void.
He fires a last Magnum round, covering the last leg of his approach. I spin clear, gun firing wildly as he approaches melee range, and get a good, up-close look at the Perfect. The Perfect Gelgoog's a right hodgepodge. It's been repainted in Gundam White and Blue, and the Red comes in when pushes Trans-Am. There's an oversized backpack hiding its GN drive, and a bevy of new verniers for some fencing style Tatsuda specializes in. The verniers are fake, though surprisingly realistic, as all of the acceleration is provided by the GN-Drive. A longsword hangs on the Perfect's hip, it's got a basic Gelgoog Shield in one hand, and a pretty clean fusion of the Beam Magnum and BOWA Long Beam Rifle in the other.
"A nice chase," says Tatsuda, "But running away isn't going to save you here." The Beam-Magnum switches modes, a blue-red coruscating beam-blade growing from the barrel tip. "Destraza School: Imperfect Acomitiento!" he says, then the Perfect lunges at me with the magnum held like a spear. It's a good lunge, power, speed, aim, and he's got enough lateral thrust that I can't just dodge out of the way. Very Reiji, all showy yelling and aggressive dueling. I've got no interest in playing along.
The Grimoire's eyes flash red for the briefest of moments and the Beam Magnum detonates mid-lunge.
I hear Tatsuda yelp across the comm as I spray weapons fire at the Perfect. He recovers quickly, placing his slowly-disintegrating shield between us. The Grimoire's eyes flash red again, but he's already figured out the trick. He dances backwards and the next recoilless rifle shell zips by him harmlessly. Off in the distance, at my deployment, we both see the faint flare of my first black box repositioning itself.
"You don't have a Psycommu on that," says Tatsuda, "How are you commanding those bits?" I burn thrusters and strafe around him, forcing him to keep his shield towards me. He watches me like a hawk, slams the thrusters when the Grimoire's eyes flash red again, but no shot follows. "That's...an EXAM system!"
He's right, actually. I stole it right off the Renato brothers. It's a neat trick, you jury-rig an EXAM to help you remote control stuff without using a Psycommu and giving away the trick to high-tier builders, and most people don't see it coming since they're expecting a funnel-build to incorporate a full Psycoframe. Tatsuda huffs loudly, likely having gone through the same logic chain. "A cheap trick, but not enough to save you!" he says
"Well I think it's pretty nice," I mutter. I spray at him, he dashes sideways, trying to get a bead with his wrist-mounted machine cannon. I duck behind my shield and call in another rifle round that rips the top off his shield and sends cracks running through its frame. He hesitates a moment, then presents what remains of his shield to me and opens fire on the black box.
I stow my submachine gun rush him. The black box winks off the EXAM's tracker, either a lucky shot or surprisingly spectacular aim. Tatsuda turns towards me, expecting to find me at range, and goes for his sword.
Too late.
The Grimoire's eyes turn red and stay that way. EXAM starts pumping me combat data, possible movements, AMBAC maneuverability, a bunch of things you normally have to estimate, even as it smooths out and compensates the human imperfections in my own movements. I'm on the Perfect before Tatsuda can act. One hand grabs his shield-arm, the other drives my shield right into his face in a spray of cracked plastic.
He recoils, tries to maneuver his sword around both of our shields to stab me. I retaliate by kneeing the Perfect in the elbow, shattering the polycap and sending plastic spraying everywhere. Its shield arm falls limp, Tatsuda activates the trans-am, and I kick away. A red glow envelopes the Perfect, suffusing its cracked armor as its backpack falls away.
The Perfect fades into a red blur as he strafes around me in a wide arc. EXAM feeds me rough co-ordinates and two black boxes unfold, filling the space around him with rifle shells. There are a few detonations, clean impacts, but he doesn't slow or switch his attention.
"Destreza School: Perfect Reves!" he says. The Perfect reappears suddenly, above me and to the left, then dives for my head with blade outstretched. I raise my shield and jet forward to meet him. He adjusts his approach mid-flight, but I've seen these moves in his previous matches. I barely have to consult the EXAM to angle my shield to catch the lunge and cock the Grimoire's free hand back in anticipation. I feel, more than see, the sword-ki that launches ahead of him and rips a jagged gash in my shield, then we're on each other.
I catch the slash on my shield, which promptly shatters violently. The blow's deflected at an odd angle, Tatsuda's decapitation strike flying well above my head. I continue well into his reach, pop the RG system to push particles to my arms, and the Grimoire's right hand comes up in a vicious right hook, smashing into the Gelgoog's chest in a spray of plastic. I call another rifle round into its back, then grab the Perfect's sword arm with the Grimoire's left hand and launch an elbow into its face. He can't get his longsword into position, can't disengage, can't utilize the transitory advantages he has. My blows are knocking him about like a ragdoll and between my punches and the rifle rounds even Trans-Am won't protect him for long.
Then my Grimoire's thrown away from the Perfect in an explosion of green light. I slam the boosters and twist the Grimoire's arms, stopping my spin and letting me turn towards Tatsuda.
The Perfect Gelgoog glows green through the myriad cracks in its armor. Its sword arm is raised high, blade pointed at the heavens. An aura of green light surrounds it, several rifle shells frozen in the air, as it slowly lowers its blade to point at me.
"Destraza School: Perfect Estocada!" says Tatsuda. The Perfect leaps forwards, longsword thrust defiantly forwards. The green light sharpens around the sword, a simple streak in the sky at first but sharpening into the visage of a wolf as the Perfect approaches. It flickers, seemingly teleporting from side to side as it roars towards me.
I grin.
I thrust one of the Grimoire's hands above its head. "Psyco-Jammer!" I say, voice as level as I can manage, "Make up!"
A half-dozen funnels, discretely deployed by the Fry-Schop while I stalled, flare to life. I can't quite see Tatsuda's face as the octahedral frame snaps into place around the Perfect, but if I'm to be perfectly honest I don't need to. My imagination is better than whatever is actually plastered across his face. The green glow around the Perfect's skeleton fades, the light around its longsword dissipates into the void. The reddish tint from Trans-Am's still there, but that's not important. He's out of Assimilation which means I can beat on him at will without-
He isn't moving.
"Tatsuda?" I say. Please let me not have hospitalized someone here.
"What did you do?" comes the outraged reply. The Perfect slowly starts to re-orient itself as Tatsuda recovers.
I let out a breath and a mumbled prayer of thanks. "Win," I say. I cock one fist back and push the Grimoire into melee. I switch the RG to full mode, flooding the Grimoire with particles as I grab the Perfect with the one arm and-
"Battle Ended."
-he surrenders. Ugh. Fights an entire battle on Reiji romantic ideals and won't stick it out till the end. Figures.
The crowd erupts in cheers. I throw Tatsuda a polite Good Game and try to bail before the some hobby mag's rep shows up looking for an interview.
I meet Ustadha Khan in the MCA's newest building the next day. They Masjid Board finalized the purchase last month, as part of the never-ending drive to create a Little Caliphate inside of a business district in Santa Clara, and every club, youth group, or facility attached to the community was clamoring for a room or two inside of it.
We, uh, don't technically have this one yet, but until it's officially assigned anyone can reserve it. It is a pretty nice room, a former corporate meeting room with loads of rolling chairs, a giant table with outlets and stuff, a giant projector you could hook stuff up to, and decor that isn't actively ugly.
By the time I arrive Khan's already there, sitting all prim at the head of the table with her laptop set up and a large suitcase thrown onto the table next to her. She's an american convert, married some engineer a couple years after she converted. She's white, tall, about 40, and wears long-sleeved shirts with formal pants but doesn't bother with a hijab. She runs Granada's Golden Eagles, and has done so for as long as I can remember. She's also my coach, for all practical purposes.
"Assalamu Alaikum," she says as I walk in, "Take a seat."
"Walaikum Assalam," I reply. I drop my cargo, a bunch of spare parts, tools, and Grimoire Platinum, on the table and sit down.
"I trust your match yesterday was fun?" she says.
"He resigned when he realized I'd won," I say. I remove Grimoire Platinum from its carrying case and spread the Mobile Suit, my Fry-Schop, and the assorted Bits and weapons across the table.
"Really? How shameful! All those Reiji ideas and he won't even see it through to the end of the match?" she says, "I blame his coach."
"We don't even know his coach," I say. I filter through the pieces, the Fry-Schop's fine, though evidently some of those Beam Magnum blasts were closer than I thought as the paint's scorched in places. I peel off the most badly marred pieces and put them into a pile to paint later.
"I blame them anyways," she says, "How'd the Psyco-Jammer work?"
"No injuries, Masha'allah," I say, "Booted him out all safe-like. Didn't even need to call the medics." Most of the Bits, including the Psyco-Jammer funnels, are fine. They go into a re-use pile, while the sniper rifle bit Tatsuda managed to shoot goes into a repair pile. The Grimoire's shield is a wreck, but the rest of its weapons are good as new, and they're allocated accordingly.
"Very nice," she says, "Have you read up on the rest of the Challengers?"
"Nah," I say. I pore over the Grimoire, looking for minor defects. Khan starts talking about how it was a bad year for new blood, evidently twenty of the thirty three Nationals players who got booted down to Zonals kept their spot, meaning that there were only ten new entries, most of whom were known quantities (UCSD's Tri-Stars, Jeremiah Kennedy the Second, and Yale's Team Patriots). She'd gotten into the names of the other three unknowns when I punch the table loudly.
"What's wrong?" says Khan. She's leaning over the table, trying to figure out what had happened.
I thrust the Grimoire at her, pointing at the ruinous damage to its knuckles with my free hand. "I damaged my calligraphy punching the Perfect!" I say, "That takes hours to fix! An entire evening gone rewriting that, and he quit before we finished."
"You poor dear," says Khan, "And here I was afraid you'd torn those gloves of yours." I glare at her across the table. "Anyways, as I was saying," she says, pointedly ignoring my displeasure, "Most of the Nationals players are coming in from out of town. So, to be hospitable all of us coaches have gone ahead and arranged a big party before the tournament starts."
"I hope you have fun," I say.
"I will!" she says, "After all, my darling protege will be there with me."
"Ustadha, you have another protege? I feel cheated!" I say.
Khan glares at me. "You're going to the party," she says, "You will, on some level, mingle, and you'll meet the other fighters while you do. Got it?"
I sigh. "Yes Ustadha," I say.
"Excellent," she says, "Now, I have to go catch up on work. You have the room for four hours, so take your time on repairs. Send me the requisitions list tonight, alright? Salaam."
"Of course," I say, "Salaam."