"There it is, grasshoppers! Your home for the week!"

I would've groaned at the Sarge's use of the word "grasshopper," but we were all used to the term, used by Academy staff when casually referring to the students. After the sergeant finished his comment, I looked out the window next to my seat on the transport and analyzed the stage for what was to be know as the First Annual Southern Cross Junior War Games. Of course, there would only be opportunity for one more, but no one knew that then.

The field itself mas mostly forest, with trees about the same size as and at similar spacing to the concrete pillars back at the Academy. Unfortunately, trees aren't all trunk. On the plus side, the forest was riddled with clearings of various sizes. Four flags could be seen just inside the concrete barriers on each side. The barriers marked the boundary of the stage. The flags all had a different color - red for team 1, yellow for team 2, blue for team 3, and green for team 4, clockwise in that order, with red to the north.

Our transport was heading to the green flag. Each team was in a seperate transport, so I only knew who was on my team, which unfortunately didn't contain either Dana or Bowie. Conversation between participants on the transports was forbidden, so there was no way to find out which mecha my teammates would pilot.

We landed shortly at our staging area around the green flag. The mecha were unloaded, packs of equipment and rations were distributed, and the Sarge gathered us to point out our mecha.

"All right. George Wellington has a Logan. McKenzie Batten gets a Hovertank. Howard Esel will pilot that old VF-1..." The list went on. I was in no hurry to have my mecha announced, but I couldn't help chuckling at the two people who were stuck with Hovercycles, whose only weapons were mounted machine guns. "And finally, Michael Lynn gets the group's only Monster. Be glad he got it, and not someone without his ability." This last was to quiet the laughter that resulted from the announcement of my mecha.

I couldn't help adding, "You guys will sure be happy I've got the Monster when I blow up the Hovertank on your six." We all knew that nothing was going to actually blow up, but the survey satellites would assess each mecha's virtual damage and transmit a signal to the pilot when a wipeout would have actually occurred in real life. Failure to immediately leave the stage would result in the invalidation of the pilot's scores and any subsequent actions the pilot might take, such as shooting another mecha.

This drew some angry looks, and a girl named Rachel Parson, who would be piloting one of the new Thunderbirds, retorted, "Well, I'm not gonna let a Hovertank even see me, much less corral me!" This brought some nods from the rest of the team. I just sighed at their overconfidence. I knew their ratings on the sims, and no one on my team but me could best Dana in the Hovertank I just knew she pulled.

The discussion quickly turned to tactics. The plan agreed upon was to send out the two Hovercyclists to find or capture as many flags as possible. They would signal when they found anything by rising above the trees and waving at the three Logans who would monitor their progress. The tac net was reserved for emergencies because no encryption was allowed in the war games. Subsequent groups of at least two of our five Alphas, three VF-1's, and two Thunderbirds would be dispatched upon the cyclist's return to capture any flags that any opposing team had already claimed. The entire time, I and our four Hovertanks would remain near our flag to guard it and provide artillery fire as necessary. I was dubbed "captain of the guard," and Rachel Parson was "strike leader." A set of callsigns was also agreed upon to prevent our opponents from learning who was on our team. These nicknames were all ambiguous, except for mine: I remained "Shadow" as a warning to anyone who dared attack us.

Then, a thought struck me: "What if we could ally ourselves with another team?"

The others scoffed at me. Rachel, who seemed to really hate me, said, "Ha! You just want to gang up with your friends and form your Invincible Trio so you can rack up more points than anyone else!" I really hadn't thought of that, but then I noticed something else: everyone in my group had their clique with them, except me. That could've explained why the thought of alliances was so outlandish.

ooooo

I was getting bored. The cyclists had already returned and left on another scouting mission, and our entire strike force had set out to hopefully take flags claimed by the enemy. The Logans were still on lookout duty (they would also serve to privide coordinates to the artillery). The Hovertanks had wandered off somewhere, and I was left to mantain my vigil from behind a tree near the barrier. I found it strange how I could stand still for hours as a mecha without fidgeting or even sitting.

My motionlessness paid off eventually. I was just about to move to stand behind another tree in a more defensible position when I heard the sound of whipping branches along with the unmistakable tone of Hovertank engines about a hundred yards to the left, heading straight toward me. Without turning the mecha, I saw out of the edge of my vision two red-trimmed Hovertanks in tank mode crashing through the forest in an apparent rush on our flag. That they hadn't fired yet meant they hadn't seen me. That they were an advance force meant one of them was Dana. Good, my lucky day.

When they were nearly on top of me, I quickly turned and fired. I caught one of them dead-center with multiple hits, painting it orange, green, and white. The other one, presumably Dana, dodged with amazing reflexes in response to my quick movement. At the same time, she turned her tank's main cannon to bear on me. I cursed my mecha's slow speed and wished it could mechamorph into a more mobile form. Waiting to get covered in purple, I instead beheld the enemy Hovertank pause. I took advantage of the situation and started running away. Wait a second... Monsters can't run! And how did I just push that tree over with my hands, when Monsters don't have hands, either!

I looked down at myself and nearly fainted when I saw something similar to Quadrono power armor. I had transformed my mecha into a more desirable shape with a thought! I made note of the Monster's cannons still mounted to its shoulders, with some attached to its new forearms, and the fact that it no longer had space for a pilot to control it.

Dana's voice came over the net: "Mike, what in the world did you DO?" I inferred that she had determined my identity by the lack of pilot. The Logans quickly responded to the break in radio silence and swooped down at Dana, guns blazing. She cursed, shut off her radio, and bolted for the safety of thicker foliage. The Logans quickly lost track of her. I was still marvelling at this new display of my abilities.

ooooo

A little while later, I found the four Hovertanks assigned to my command. They initially panicked at the sight of an unfamiliar mecha, but I informed them of my identity via the mecha's external speakers. They were suspicious at first, but I managed to convince them by imagining myself out of the mecha. With a burst of blue light, I then found myself hanging for dear life to the front of the mecha.

I yelled at my teammates, "Now do you believe me?"

They quickly responded in unison: "Sir, yes, sir!"

I quickly imagined myself as the mecha once more.

I began to speak: "Now, let's return to our jobs before - " I was interrupted by a green-trimmed Thunderbird trailing smoke crashing into me. It was all I could do to brace my feet for impact and extend my arms to catch the Battloid. Even so, I fell on my back with a force that would have knocked my teeth loose, had I had any as a mecha. After re-assessing what had happened, I gently slid the ruined mecha off of me and repaired the minor damage to myself with a thought.

I called out, "Are you all right?" No response from the helmeted figure inside. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

Still nothng.

I reached out and pulled the cockpit module off the Thunderbird. I gently pried it open and carefully lifted the pilot out. I laid the pilot on the grass and imagined myself on the ground next to my mecha. I walked over to the prone figure and bent to remove its helmet. I identified the pilot as Rachel Parson and attempted to wake her with a gentle slap to the cheek.

After a few seconds of this, she groaned and began to rolled over. I grabbed her shoulder to keep her still and asked, "Are you hurt?"

Her eyes snapped open. "Huh? - Ow!" She hissed in pain and held her side. I assumed she had a broken rib or two, but I had to assess the damage. Unfortunately, this would be impossible to do without completely preserving her dignity.

"Could you please unzip your flight suit so I can see how badly you're hurt?" I didn't dare reach out and do it myself.

She sucked her breath in and glared at me with pure hatred. "Get away from me, ALIEN!"

I recoiled from her words. That was why she hated me: she had a case of xenophobia. "Please! You're hurt! I can't help you if you don't cooperate!"

"...Never! ..." She seemed to hesitate with that last word before her head lolled to the side. At this point, my teammates had recovered and were calling the Academy personnel stationed just outside the barriers, alerting them of Rachel's condition.

I placed my finger on her neck. She still had a light pulse. I then sat next to her and waited for the medics to arrive, wondering how someone could crash a Battloid when all weapons in use in the war games were fake.

ooooo

To be continued...