It was starting to happen more often. Adama sat on his bunk with his head in his hands and clenched his teeth. The dream began to wash over him as he fought to keep it at bay. He fixed his mind on trivial things, what he had been doing that morning, what he had eaten for lunch, but it was no use. Familiar smells began to wash over him, the fiery stink of phospherous from all the explosives, the cold hard smell of iron from his surroundings and the sweet, cloying smell of blood. He looked down and saw himself, smaller than he remembered, decked out in his breastplate and greaves, no weapon in his hands. They were coming, he knew they were coming, three of them at least. Why didn't he have a bloody weapon? Desperately he looked around for cover, for something to use in a fight. He was in a room with only one doorway, a second level above him. The arena was decked out like an abandonned city, stone buildings crumbling into ruin. He spotted a metal bar, part of the intfrastucture of a shattered wall, and wrenched at it. It was blessedly loose and he pulled it all the way out. He knew he would never best three of them, not with his current weapon, but he felt himself head towards where he knew they were coming from. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a ladder leading to an overhang. I could climb up and take them unawares he thought. Yes, thats my best bet. But he was still heading toward the hole in the wall that acted as a door. Where am I going? STOP! But he was already through, and there they were, startled at the sight of a seemingly unarmed opponent running at them. The first brought up his Enforcer and was met by a savage blow from the bar. There was a sickening crunch as his face collapsed. Adama felt himself bull rush into the dying man and send him flying at one of the others. He turned, trying to find the third and pain erupted in his shoulder as flak lanced into him. Luckily at such close range the flak had not had time to spread and only caught his shoulder, but the blow took him off his feet and flung him backward. God it hurt. He staggered up only to find the muzzle of the flak cannon pointed directly at his face. He had a moment, a brief moment, to look at the man wielding it. He was stocky, his scarred armour marking him as a veteran player, there was a large burnt patch of skin where the left side of his face should have been. It made his smile grotesque. Then there was a flash.
Adama screamed. With some of the waking dreams he resurfaced only mildly shaken, but Rage's dream frightened him deeply and he sometimes screamed after. It was the burnt man that he was screaming about. Most people were in the game because they had to be or for money or fame, but every once in a while there was one who did it purely for the kill, for the moment of power when you have the lives of men and women in your grasp. Adama was not scared of the burnt man himself, all men die, but of what he saw in his eyes. He saw the moment when an utterly evil man had complete control over his fate.
He flew backwards at the imagined impact of the flak and hit the wall of his sleeping cell. He took several deep breaths, sucking in air desperately. As his breathing returned to normal he ran through his excercise in his head. He did it every time he had one of his dreams, to try and understand what had happened, to try and fathom a way of changing how the dreams ended. Adama was sick and tired of always dying. Why can i never change the outcome? Why does my body never listen to my mind? It was not until he had reached the end of his excercise that he realised something was wrong. My body, it wasn't Rage's, it was Tactician's. Rage and Tactician were two of the names Adama had given to two of the collections of memories that seemed to float inside his mind. There were five in total: Rage was the appitome of strength, bloodlust and bravery, the desire to meet his opponents and break them always foremost in his mind. Tactician was a planner, he formulated strategies and collected information on his enemies to bring to bear later. Assassin was the name given to the dark and brooding memories Adama often encountered in his mind. Probing had revealed a master of the silent kill, skilled at short range and deadly in hand to hand combat. Leader was exactly what his name suggested, a born commander of men. He knew how to make men listen, to play to their arrogances and weaknesses so that they became his men. The fifth was Tech, knowledgeable about everything mechanical, or so it seemed to Adama. Whether weapons or vehicles Tech knew how it worked and new how to improve it. Adama had discovered them about five months ago, just after the blank period in his memory. He realised that the they must be linked, his missing time and these new 'friends' of his. Combined with his own knowledge the information and skills that the five brought to Adama made him a formidable player in the Tournament, or would have done if these constant memory dreams did not leave him a shaking wreck. The last time it happened it had almost cost him his life. He had collapsed onto his team's flag podium in a particularily brutal capture the flag match and just lay there. Luckily he had been carrying the opposing team's flag at the time and ended the match with his fall.
But that was Rage's dream, what was Tactician doing in it instead? The thought puzzled Adama but he did not have time to dwell on it as the door to his chamber announced several visitors. Adama looked at the view screen to the side of the door and let out a long sigh. It was Mace Kendell, sponsor and constant annoyance of Adama's Tournament career, escorted by two of his bodyguards. Adama buzzed them in.
"Wait outside." Mace told his guards. He stepped into Adama's cabin bringing the acrid smell of the cigars he loved so much with him. "We need to talk Ady."
"Do you mind putting that out, you know I hate the smell," said Adama, he was sitting on his bed with his legs over the side. "Thanks," he said when Mace obliged, "what can I do for you?"
"I'm gonna get straight to the point Ady, i'm withdrawing my sponsorship. Theres some very promising new blood coming in and I need all my resources to secure some of them. Gonna be real big some of these newbies, one girl in particular. Heartsbane they're calling her, as beautiful to look at as she is deadly apparently." Adama studied Mace for a moment, he was a strong looking man, not particularly tall but not short eiter. He had a well trimmed moustache drooping down towards his mouth and his fingernails were going yellow from tabacco overuse. Adama sighed again and let his head fall back onto the wall behind the bed.
"You picked a great time to tell me, what am I supposed to do with the Garaxis Cup just around the corner? Not compete? That would finish me after my recent performaces, you know that Mace." He had a resigned tone to his voice. He was still shaken after his dream.
"Relax hotshot, i've got you all paid up until after the Garaxis, you can even keep all your winnings, call it a parting gift."
"You're too kind Mace," said Adama sarcastically, he got up off his bed so he was face to face with his ex-sponsor, "good luck with the fresh meat." Mace Kendell grunted, and turned to leave. He stopped in the doorway.
"Look Adama, you know as well as I do that you've seen better days," he said turning, "maybe if you do well this season i'll carry you through the next, but lets face it, you don't have the makings of a champion, not any more." The door slid closed behind him, leaving Adama to his thoughts. Shit, was foremost amongst them. He could faintly feel the reactions of his 'friends' in his head. Rage wanted nothing more than to rip Kendell's head off, that made Adama smile. You and me both buddy. But deep down Adama knew what Mace said was true, his career had gone from bad to worse, ever since that month when he had dissapeared only to reappear confused and without a memory of the previous thirty days. What happened? I used to be good. It was after his dissapearance that the dreams had begun, the first few times Adama had shrugged them off as regular nightmares but then it had happened in the middle of the day, in the Tournament. Luckily that first time had been in a sim-match, where there are constant respawns and nobody actually gets hurt. Adama had been the whipping boy of that game, he died fourty eight times. He had no choice now but to keep to the sim-matches, one dream in a blood match, as they were known, and that would be the end. Unfortunately it was the blood matches where all the good money was, where you made a name for yourself. They weren't always to the death, people sometimes came away missing limbs but still with their lives, often the blood deathmatches would be until only five players remained, the Tournament wanted to keep some of the best fighters alive so they would keep raking in the crowds.
Adama gave one last shudder at the dream and put it out of his mind. The Garaxis Cup was in a few days and he needed to sign up to some matches. He grabbed his ID token from his bedside table, the only piece of furniture in the small room other than the bed and a locker for his belongings, and made for the Tournament player's hall. As he stepped out of his cell he saw his reflection on the shimmering metal wall opposite. Do I really look that tired? The reflection that stared back at him showed a man of average height, about 5'11, and of average build, but well muscled. He had a handsome face framed by short dirty-blonde hair, but recently his face had taken on a haggard look. He was 25 years old, but at the moment looked a lot older. I need dreamless sleep, he decided, i'll call on the medic department and see if they have anything that'll knock me out cold. The Tournament kept a group of highly skilled doctors, paramedics, nurses and surgeons to tend to the players after battles and while they stayed in the tourney grounds. There was no point having damaged merchandise, a healthy fighter puts on a better show. That was their motto. The Tournament grounds themselves were huge, Adama walked through several passageways of player sleeping cells, much similar to his own, until he reached the main corridor of his building. The upper floors held better accomodation for higher ranked fighters, Adama used to have a room up there himself but recently he'd had to move down. Too expensive for a start. All the accomodation blocks had a central corridor that led into the player's hall, it had a high vaulted ceiling and could easily contain all the fighters that the rooms could cater for. In a word, it was massive. Near the middle of the hall was a collection of computer terminals where players could access the Tournament's database, this was where all records of battles were kept, descriptions of all the players and the sign-up register. Adama wended his way past the bars and seating areas and took a seat in front of one of the terminals and brought up the sheets he wanted. Hmmm, a classic sim-deathmatch competition, a sim-capture the flag with either pre-existing or random generated teams and a blood-deathmatch. He put his name down for the two sim competitions, inserting his ID token to prove who he was. He would have loved to go for the blood match but it was just too risky with his dreams.
As he was getting up to leave he heard shouting from the far end of the hall. He recognised Mace Kendell immediately but it took a few moments for him to place the two players he was talking to. Even after he recognised them he could not think of their names, it was them who were shouting. Adama guessed what was happening, great, hes laying them off too, does that put me on a level with those nobodies? Shaking his head he started back to his cell.