Chapter 10: Fated Rivals

A roar of cheers erupted in the Colosseum. Protoforms in the stands could hardly sit still.

Obstin-8 marched slowly toward his opponent. Mass; momentum; he had qualities that everyone who wasn't him could perceive. He pulled the ground and the ground wanted to give way. Whisper-soft hydraulics concealed their immense force.

But Argent only smiled. His long, narrow face tipped down. He fed off the exhilaration in the crowd. Propping his feet up on their toeplates he began to strafe around his opponent. He kicked up filings with his sporadic bursts. He swayed and spun, taunting and teasing his foe.

"Ahh yes." He cackled. Argent had a pleasant voice, only he enjoyed it more than anyone else. "You sure tip the scales, I'll give you that. But I'd say you have too much armour, which I think slows you down and hinders your full range of motion. How high can you even kick? I'm just curious. C'mon. Just give the crowd ooone kick. They'll love it."

"Be kvie-yet!" Obstin-8 hissed.

"Why? This is the last time we get to talk, which I think is an opportunity too good to pass up." Argent stepped back, sizing up Obstin-8. "I just realized I'm taller than you. Not by much, which I think means they were getting pretty lazy when they built you. You look like you're what… two-thirds scale of something that might have been an actual challenge to fight? It must hurt to know they didn't care enough to build you full-scale. And hey, what's up with the blade? Why is it at an angle like that?"

"Vee are here to vight!" Grunted Obstin-8. "You're vaisting time!" He charged forward.

"Ahh yes." Argent's smile grew as he evaded and strode past the wide Obstin-8. "But we can't just have it all over and done with like that. Weeev gotta make a show for all our fans up there." Argent turned away to look at the crowd, fully prepared to hear the heaviest feet charge for him. "And I think it'll make a victory feel way, waaay more satisfying, don't you agree?"

"Who do you think's gunna win?" One spectator shouted over to Tracer.

"I don't know…" Tracer really didn't know how fights were won. He knew what enforcers were made for: hunting, executing… applying force… Size would make sense for the victor. "The big one…" he said. Although he wanted to believe that size didn't matter in a real fight.

After thinking about it, Tracer was interested in the fight. The energy of the crowd imbued him with passion for every step, every blow the combatants deal. He wanted to believe he could regress into their naïve fanaticism, but something in his mind refused.

Obstin-8 picked up his feet and sprinted. He drove his arm forward and clamped the jaws down. Argent's feet danced around as he weaved himself around the heavy arm. Dodging the clamp gracefully and spinning around to place one hand on Obstin-8's extended wrist.

Argent twisted Obstin-8's wrist, holding the arm straight in front of him. He drew back his other hand, opened it as he focused with the intensity of his harsh training. His hand shot forward to chop through the arm, striking the polished metal with all his strength. "H'YEAAW!" He felt a collapse of metal, as the shock travelled up his arm. The edge of his hand had a large dent in it, after only managing to put a single scratch in his target.

"Ha-HAH!" Chuckled Obstin-8 as the blade encircling his torso spun around. He rolled himself over and kept swinging his claws at the wily robot. Argent heard the blade, after a second the sound grew so soft it vanished. As a robot with electronic actuators and hydraulics, a silent machine stirred envy… but he'd never let it show. Although stocky, Obstin-8's body was a fine-tuned instrument. Argent hopped on his toeplates. Between strikes from the claws, he frantically ducked and lunged trying to stay away from the blade.

Despite the danger, Argent wasn't afraid. His signature smirk never left his face. He feinted to and fro, watching heavy arms grasp at empty air.

'Delightful.'

"Kvit hopping around!" Obstin-8 shouted. This was turning into a spectacle. He knew he only had to land a single blow and the fight would be over. Argent has speed but he can't even put a dent in Obstin-8's armour. To him, there can only be one outcome. It's only a matter of time.

"You von't vin!" Obstin-8 roared. The crowd's collective gasps and groans seemed to surge from every step they took. Obstin-8 moved slower to taunt Argent to do some actual damage. Argent gave a kick to his heavy thigh, leaped back and bounced forward again, dropping an elbow onto Obstin-8's waiting head. Metal collapsed; spectators howled. The Quintessons looked on, indifferent.

"D'you zink zat hurt?" Obstin-8 laughed. Before Argent could retreat his opponent clamped a jaw on the very edge of his hip-joint. Argent felt the heavy mass lock onto him. His thin armour crumpled; the crowd wailed.

"This is gunna be brutal!" someone shouted near Tracer. Although he couldn't let himself look away, in this moment he wanted the match to be over: to let both the protoforms walk away. But he felt a chill in his spark that this fight could not be stopped.

Obstin-8 flung Argent around. Striking him against the ground and then twirling him around again. He wanted to beat all that cocky bravado out of his circuits. He hurled with all his weight, enjoying the sight of those limp appendages flailing helplessly. He watched for the fear in Argent's eyes; caught a glimpse of his face… only to see a smirk of pure delight.

"HORAAAAAH!" Obstin-8 howled as he lobbed the lanky lightweight in his grasp. Trying to slam him into the ground hard enough to break that smirk right off his face. He swung… and felt the weak metal of Argent rip and break. Argent arced through the air. While airborne, he gave the slightest possible wave to the thrilled audience. He skidded across the metal pit, slowly finding his feet again.

[BRUUUUUUULLLLLMMMMM]

The ground beneath Argent jolted sharply down. Spectators watched the circle at the very centre of the arena slowly slide open to reveal a great pool of red-hot molten metal. Heavy slices of floor furled into mechanisms concealed below the surface. Argent flinched to maintain his balance as the ground beneath him pulled him toward his waiting adversary. A draft of air hot enough to melt the finish off his chassis rolled out behind him. Danger was taunting him from all sides, and all he could do was smirk. He locked eyes while he pivoted on his one leg, this was his way of covertly ensuring his mobility had not been compromised. His hip was damaged, but still usable. Argent dashed. His legs pounded against the moving ground toward the anxious Obstin-8… who was suddenly composing a smirk of his own.

Argent paced out his strides. As he closed in he shifted wildly, dodging left and right in chaotic haste. Obstin-8 widened his stance, holding his arms out ready to snatch the wily robot whichever side he chose. His jawlike clamps opened as he held his ground. The blade in his torso continued to spin, filling the air with its cool, noiseless slice.

Argent passed the edge where the floor panels shifted below the surface. His rival was only a few strides ahead of him. Within the space of two steps he sharply hopped left to right. Obstin-8 was ready to pounce at either side. His arms fanned out as he shifted forward, just as Argent finally chose which side to strike from… he chose neither.

In a split-second, Argent slid feet-first under Obstin-8. Turning his body enough to reach up and help the heavy fighter tumble forward. Argent compressed himself beneath the heavy mass collapsing onto him. He felt the blade cut through his shoulder, and grind into the ground beneath. Sparks sprayed out as it cut, pulling him fully off Argent and toward the molten pool. Obstin-8 clamped the brakes onto the blade to regain control. Unlike the blade and its motor, the break system performed rather poorly; the heavy blade slowed, but wouldn't stop for a few seconds. The slower blade continued to grip the ground. He threw out his limbs to stop himself, twisting the blade embedded in the ground until it shattered. The entire disc exploded off him, flinging shards of scorched metal out, some far enough to land in the stands.

A severely scratched and furious Obstin-8 rose to his feet as the ground beneath him tremorred. He was standing at the very edge just over the red-hot pool. Again, their came a deep sound from beneath the arena.

[BRUUUUUUULLLLLMMMMM]

The ground beneath both of them rose up—throwing off Obstin-8's balance causing him to misstep. His heavy feet rocked on the edge of the rising platform. He threw his arms forward to keep him from falling into the pit. He strained to push his weight forward, trying not to think about the calm, sinister footsteps sauntering toward him.

Obstin-8 looked into Argent's eyes. He huffed and cursed that his own hatred could pull the despicable vermin down into the waiting pit with him. But Argent smiled as he savoured the expression of pure hatred he rightfully earned. He took one step, pivoted gracefully on his heel, spun around and dealt Obstin-8 a swift kick to the chest; knocking him clear off the edge. Obstin-8 howled with all his spark as he landed in the inferno.

Argent stepped to the edge to watch. Obstin-8 writhed as the molten pool heated his plating until it turned soft and sagged. His struggling slowed, his arms dropped limp and his optics closed. He lay back as his plating glowed red hot. Argent watched as the features of his first opponent melted away. He watched closely that he might see a small energy containment chamber inside the remains, and the delicate sphere of pulsing energy extinguish. He could not see such a chamber, but he watched the rivets, hands and face smooth over as the single mass began to disperse into the pool. It wasn't long before there was no trace of Obstin-8 left.

A thunderous cheer filled the air. The crowd was well energized. Argent raised a hand to salute the Quintessons as the arena floor configured to its original, featureless state.

Tracer felt the tension leave through his hands. Just like that, it was over. He got what he had wanted, and it hurt like a ruptured fuel cell. 'A protoform was killed. And they all enjoyed it…'

'I enjoyed it.'

The self-admission of the fact left an incomplete feeling in his spark. Something inside his very core had shut down. He looked over to TL. Her optics weren't holding back any contempt. Her posture was calm, almost unaffected. Tracer realized he bore a guilt-ridden expression.

"What?" She asked. "What a rush, eh? I thought you males got a kick out of violence, or whatever. Those bots knew what they were getting into. Besides, dangerous jobs are what we protoforms do best. I don't think a drone would have lasted half that time."

Tracer remembered the scuffle with Rubbish. He never told her that story, he never told anyone. He has seen danger, been close enough read its serial number. He didn't see it as something to gloat about. It didn't bring him any satisfaction to have met it, only to have escaped. He realized the encounter wasn't a challenge he chose, but one that found him, stalked him. There would certainly be luxury in choosing when to fight: to prepare yourself mentally to achieve a goal. He realized that a protoform made to fight would not have been given a choice.

If they had been, the choice would have been 'fight or die.'

"There must be something wrong with me then." Tracer began. "I got that rush you mentioned, but didn't you feel a… subtraction in your spark? Don't you have the least amount of pity for them? I… I can't sit here and watch anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

"This whole thing! The very idea of all this… it's just wrong! Why should the only sport be so… deadly? I guess to you, that was just another male, nobody that mattered. You could certainly do with a hundred less of us easily."

"Hey, easy! Alright?" TL assured. "It's not like that."

"Isn't it? They said any of us could be picked up, carried off and forced to fight! Would you have cheered at the death of a female? Someone you knew?"

"That won't happen. C'mon, this is supposed to be fun… and, what? Are you saying you knew him?"

"Well. no…"

"Then why are you so mad?"

"Maybe I see sparks differently because of everything I've seen. I've seen where we come from. I've seen how we end up. And if that makes me the outcast, I'll be happy to leave."

"Tracer, don't…"

[DWAAAAAAAAN]

The Quintessons raised their hands to claim the attention of the crowd again. A horned skull-mask of Malice gave a toothless grin as he took the centre slot.

"I'm coming with you…" TL said, ignoring her creators.

Malice's voice rose up over the open structure. "Our loyal subjects, we have our first winner!" A soft cheer rose from the stands. Contempt gripped Tracer as he let their words fuel his anger. He didn't wish to see another fight. But rage was taking him, taunting him to feed his drive for justice. A tiny voice in his head pushed him to tolerate their disdainful arrogance for another moment.

"Listen." Tracer huffed. "I bet they're going to commend him for his merciless allegiance. They'll make him look like some kind of hero."

"… As you can see, the winner isn't always determined by who is stronger. A winner must seize opportunity. A winner must not be afraid to approach danger. Our first winner has flawlessly demonstrated this… well done, Argent. May you continue to fight with all the skill we saw today."

Argent saluted the masters once more. There was pride in knowing he was the first protoform to kill another in this style of combat. History was made on this day, and it would remain his forever. The exhilaration was incomparable. He needed to experience this feeling again and again. Argent would be proud to know savagery like his would emerge again eons after him. There would come a day when a protoform-descendent would stand over the bodies of their own kind and howl for the coming of a new age of civil war. One day, many lifetimes hence.

A final wave from the Quintessons told him to take his leave. He gave a bow, turned, and marched towards the archway from where he'd come.

Inquiry took position, pacing their body around the balcony as he gesticulated. "We have now witnessed dedicated combat units in action. But perhaps you may be wondering, 'can they really be superior to a common enforcer?'"

The gate had already been opening. Argent saw the new combatant enter. An imposing enforcer trudged in. His eyes focused. He had rows of tall spikes on his shoulders, shins and forearms. Two twisted horns pointed forward from his helmet. In one hand he carried a spear. He focused his eyes ahead into the closed portcullis opposite him, tightening his grip on the spear.

Argent passed him before reaching the open archway. The enforcer's eyes stared straight ahead, unmoving. And jaws: two rows of jagged teeth clenched together. Mech fluid dripped across them, suggesting either the hydraulics were under constant, intense pressure… or these jaws were actually stained from his latest victim. Argent kept spring in his knees and stepped light on his toeplates. The armour made this bot look heavy, but they had a hollow sound over the whine of heavy hydraulics. Argent registered him like a charged dynaspring that could go off in a nanoclick. His training could not let him accept this was a moment without danger. As their shoulders passed one another, Argent turned his head, keeping the enforcer in peripheral view until he was within the Colosseum substructure.

"Another day, perhaps…" He whispered. "I'll be ready."

"I thought you didn't want to watch…" TL said.

"I don't…" Tracer trailed off as he slowly stepped away from the stairway to get a look at this enforcer. He partially expected to see Predator. But the focused stare and different choice of weaponry suggested a new class of program altogether was at work inside.

"My good protoforms. Let us welcome, fresh from the line of duty… Fang-Core!"

A collective, hesitant groan pierced the arena. The Quintessons smiled.

The other portcullis drew up and a lean protoform moseyed in. Tracer turned. This one had a large transparent face-shield permanently tipped up and out of the way… fully defeating its purpose. He awkwardly carried a medium sized, well balanced axe in the industrial clamps where hands should be. It had a crescent blade on one face and a single sharp spike on the opposite side. By far his most distinguishing traits were that his arms and chest were too big for a robot of his size.

Tracer froze in his feet. Optics wide. The protoform in the arena was Lug, his former mentor. He turned to TL. "I… know him!"

Greed contained a chuckle as he took control. "Take a good look. Some of you may even recognize this one. Behold, one of your own... Lug… A simple name for a simple worker. He wasn't built to fight. He is but a mere loader. But obedience is a necessity in our service, and when he became obsolete, well… let's say he did not enter this tournament willingly."

Malice slid in. "You all would do well to remember to follow orders, or you too will stand where he stands now."

Lug reached the inner circle of the arena. The axe wavered low with the intention of being promptly discarded. He didn't look his opponent over. There was no need. He didn't wonder about how he might win. He formed his plan the moment he was told who he'd face in the arena. He slacked back his dense shoulder-girdle, looked right into the flat, shallow, motionless optics of the enforcer. They were optics restless and hungry for carnage. Lug looked into them and smiled, swaying on his slender hips.

"Well I'll be… if it 'aint 'ol fang-face. Hah-ah!" Lug chuckled heavily. "I'd ask them-there crowd to give you a hand, but—oh, that's right… I gave you two 'o mine already… He-yup, you're about to get up-close and personal with the cruncher twins. Ooow, I don't blame you fer being a bit scared, tell-truth I scare myself sometimes. These-here will be hype-dang impossible to pop off. I guarantee!"

"… But hey-now, where's the rest o them?" Lug exaggerated trying to look past the enforcer. "As I recall, it done-took three uh you enforcers to bring me in. Now don't you go tellin' me I done have to go easy on you just to get them-there audience all riled up. Way I see it, you and I got a score to settle, and it's been a long time coming. See, somewhere in that-there empty dome o'yers there's a unopened file labeled 'pain,' an I'm sure as shrapnel gunna show you where it is!"

Fang-Core turned to face the Quintessons' balcony.

Pride stared down with his chin turned up. "Lug, Fang-Core: salute your masters!" There was less formality in his tone. He was demanding obedience.

Fang-Core raised his spear high. Lug paused to squint through one optic up to the distant rulers. He slowly raised one clamp up. Looking down his arm's length to place the Quintessons inside his grasp. He closed the clamp, laughing to himself with the thought of seeing them crushed.

Faith scowled at the gesture. Muttering amongst his fellow judges "I would expect no less from his type." He then spoke to the audience "Let the match… Begin!"

"Finally!" Lug dropped the axe and got into a full sprint. He was told he had to hold onto the weapon until the match began. The Quintessons might have hoped he'd foolishly use it, but Lug is nobody's fool. He understood the dexterity required to adeptly wield any weapon came from the mobility in their wrists and hands, which he did not have. Fang-Core widened his stance and drew the spear back… prepared to thrust forward.

Lug's arms hung awkwardly far ahead of him. He arrived. Fang-Core hissed as he shot the spear forward. The point swirled in a circular path evading Lugs waiting clamps and pierced into his chestplate. The shaft of the spear flexed. Lug's clamps locked onto the bent shaft; vaulting his momentum upward and stopping the point from driving below the surface.

Fang-Core tried to step out of the way. The spear's length gave him time to act, but he still had to retain his weapon. The protoform on his spear made a arcing strafe as the spear flexed up. The nanoclick after Lug's toeplates touched the ground he tugged, shoved and swung the spear still in his grip. Between the two combatants the spear flexed and undulated; both would step, tug, thrust, step again, holding their distance but increasing their force with every movement.

Fang-Core stepped in with a powerful thrust. The spear flexed hard and Lug felt the tension ready to lift him off the ground. He let go. The spear sprang up and freed itself from the enforcers grip. Lug was already closing in, placing a clamp on Fang-Core's face, locking down pressing metal teeth into one another. Fang-Core strained to remain standing. He drew the arm on the side of Lug's back and grabbed his shoulder-frame. Fang-Core felt metal teeth deform and shatter. Mech-fluid oozed from the clenching gaps. He brought his other arm to grapple on Lug's forward frame.

The two bots tangled into a grappling mass of pistons and armour. Protoforms in the stands watched the robots exchange blows until finally the two separated. Fang-Core threw his combatant off him with a two-foot kick. Lug gracefully tumbled, used his heavy arms to anchor and grind him to a halt. The spear had landed only a few steps away. He dashed to grab it, picking it up in time to see the spiked mass of Fang-Core's upper body charging towards him.

Lug gripped the spear with both clamps spaced wide and, wielding it like a quarterstaff, deflected the oncoming spiked mass with the length of the shaft. Fang-Core stumbled to regain his momentum. In his rage, he spat out a clod of mech fluid. Lug gripped his new weapon tight in-clamp… bending it very subtly in his solid grip.

Fang-Core thrust his fist at Lug. Lug feinted to the left before diving to the right. A furious enforcer flailed to catch the elusive protoform. His short legs slid out from under him as his body ground against the Colosseum floor. He wasn't facing Lug, but he could hear his footsteps behind him. Lug hopped over and coiled the spear around the heavy wrist before Fang swung his other arm around. Lug pulled at the spear and wound it around the second wrist. Locking both firmly together behind his back.

Lug threw his arms up. The crowd howled and flailed in exhilaration. Fang-Core struggled helplessly to free his hands. Tracer felt the urge to join in the excitement.

Lug stepped. His body glided while his feet touched the ground beneath him. His arms swung in front of him, scraping the ground as they passed his feet. Lug smiled as he looked down on the disabled enforcer. Lug clenched his clamps and wound up for a punch to his mangled cheek. [SPUUUK] The metal-on-metal sound could be heard far off into the stands. The crowd whooped and hollered. Tracer couldn't contain himself and began chanting along with others around him.

Lug shot out one punch after another as he tried to contain his own excitement. "YEAH! THIS-HERE is for all-them old'ins… for all their sparks got eaten. And THIS is for all-them young'ins… for feeding them all the lies! And THIS is for ME… for my ARMS… my spark has never felt this alive! I done brought you DOWN… looky-here who's HELPLESS, looky-here who's INFERIOR. Looky-here, cuz Imma gunna want you see this coming…"

The crowd roared like they were about to pour into the arena to join in. Nothing could cut through the thick noise, not even Fang-Core's infuriated howl as he tore one hand off to free the other. Mech fluid poured from his snarling jaws as he grabbed the discarded axe off the floor. Lug's arms drew back as he stepped fast to get some distance. Fang-Core heaved his mass forward as the axe slashed through the air. Lug fell back, just narrowly avoiding the blade. His arms and legs scrambled to get back up, but Fang-Core only pivoted where he stood, twirled the axe in his hand and made a final chop to bury the blade into the side of Lug's mortified face.

The noise of the spectators died down. Their cheers echoed off and soured in the hot, motionless air above the arena. Lug's form froze in place for a moment before eventually falling over. Inanimate, but not completely lifeless.

"Oh no!" Tracer heard TL gasped.

Fang-Core booted the motionless body into laying chest-up. He yanked the axe out and turned it in his grip, touching the long spike to the centre plate of Lug's chest. Fang-Core hoisted the axe up high over his head and roared as he brought it down. The spike pierced clean through Lug's spark chamber and into the ground beneath it. Only a few spectators noticed the flash of light as the spark inside him went out.

Tracer saw it. A visual definition of 'unspark' that would never be dislodged from his memory.

Tracer flashed to his first day. Seeing a street littered with protoforms. A drone observed the aftermath and was oblivious to the unseen massacre that took place. Their sparks gouged out of their chests. He had no knowledge of the weight of tragedy he had narrowly missed… save for Escia's paralyzing grief.

But now, there was no uncertainty. No dissenting opinion. No doubt. Lug is gone.

Forever.

Tracer felt his hands clenched into fists. His fists ached for vengeance.

[DWAAAAAAAAN]

The Quintessons loomed pleased from their balcony. Their body was still but each face circled around to look down at the outcome. Each face took turns letting out a soft laugh.

Pride grinned, "M'wah-ah-ah"

Greed's closed his eyes in joy, "K'lee-eh-eh-eh!"

Malice indulged in the sight, "AH-AHAHA!"

Inquiry chanced a brief smirk, "Hmm-mmm-ahh"

"Yesss…" Faith gave a satisfied sigh. "Well done, Fang-Core. It is clear that a mere worker is no match against one of our enforcers. Our honoured Fang-Core will, in-fact be returning to his assigned patrol duties immediately following today's matches."

There was a different mood in the crowd. The first match was certain to have a protoform triumph. The crowd was guaranteed a hero they could admire. Now there seemed to be a divide in the reaction. Tracer looked around to see faces of disorientation and shock, mixed with others of exhilaration and captivation. It was clear some wanted to see protoforms win; but most merely enjoyed it for the violence.

… Even the slaughter of their own kind.

TL and Tracer looked at each other. TL said "Sorry about your friend..." She studied his eyes, waiting for him to say anything.

"We weren't friends, he was just the one who trained me." Tracer uttered. Looking at the lifeless form in the centre of the arena. "I only knew him one day."

TL's eyes opened. "I'm sorry…" She wondered how long it might be until she saw someone she knew was thrown into a fight. The thought of seeing any of her long-lost friends killed terrified her.

Tracer turned and sprinted off. He didn't want her to pretend she knew how he felt.

TL followed him, but kept he distance. She could see he wanted to be alone, but he also needed someone there.

Tracer felt a tremble in his spark. The Colosseum was a permanent structure. As time goes on, this will become so common the brutality of it will be drowned out, and spectators will come back out of habit. The slim chance of seeing the victories they want will force them to accept the losses they don't.

Tracer thought back to his first day: collecting sparks to become part of the Quintessons' dark, twisted plans. Those sparks were taken to the palace, along with perhaps countless others waiting for the Quintessons to place them into another unfortunate worker. Or into one of these combat units, to be promptly unsparked shortly after.

Tracer stopped pacing. He hadn't given a single thought as to where he was going. He expected to be nowhere. He looked around. He turned left to see the path leading straight to the entrance to the Quintesson's palace. The way he came lead directly back to the Colosseum—he saw TL approaching.

"Are you going to be okay?" TL asked, genuinely concerned.

"I've held sparks in my hand." he said. "I collected them, and brought them back. For what? So they can just be killed for sport?"

"You didn't know what they were for. You said you were a drone."

"Not anymore. Now that I know what happens to them I wish I could go back and set them all free. They'd never be placed into a body and never have to serve the Quintessons."

"Where do they take the sparks after you bring them back?"

"That's where they go." Tracer said, pointing to the palace. "Before they get put into a body they go straight to the Quintessons. Every single one."

"There are guards at the gate. They won't let you in unless you've been cleared."

Tracer's face looked frustrated. Then his optics opened wide with alarm, "I am cleared! That's where the last delivery is."

TL gasped, "The last delivery we have goes to the palace?"

"Not the palace itself, but to one of the warehouses just inside the gate."

"You're crazy. There will be guards everywhere!"

Tracer realized the Quintessons would only allow themselves to over-staff their security for the opening day of the Colosseum. In time, the number of enforcers to coordinate everything for the Grand Tournament would soon be optimized. The security of the palace might be reduced only this once. This may be his only chance to get inside and rescue the sparks.

"I don't think so. The Quintessons put all the protoforms into one place. Look," he said holding his arms out, "No enforcers patrolling the streets! I bet they pulled them from all their regular duties just to keep the Colosseum under control."

"And you think they even pulled some off guard duty at the palace?"

"I'm getting inside that gate, and if there are no guards around to stop me, I'm sneaking in to find the sparks and get them all out."

"You're serious!" she said, staring amazed at Tracer.

"I won't let them murder another spark!"

"You don't have to do this because of what I said earlier." TL said, registering guilt. "You don't have to throw your life away to impress me! Please, let's go somewhere where you can think. We'll find another way to rescue them."

"And what if we don't?" Tracer threw his words. "Then I'll live another week and either die of old age or get thrown into a match at the Colosseum. And you'll have been right about me all along! Less than a day, and you could read my fate, as though I'm the only one who can't see where I belong. I decide my fate! Not you, not the Quintessons, not anybody!"

TL trembled. "Please, I don't want this to be about what I said. I didn't know what was going to happen today…"

"Nobody knew, but it happened anyway. Now this may be the only chance I have to do something right. Once I'm inside I have a pretty good idea where to look. I've been in there before."

"So have I."

Tracer stared at TL. "That's right... I should have known sector-one would have been the first area they built on—the area around the spaceship they arrived on." His optics widened. "That means the kinetic core…"

"… Is the ship's engine!" TL gasped. "And I was inside it… I was so focused on getting the work done I didn't even stop to wonder. There's no way they'd leave it so undefended."

"You're right, one protoform inside their ship could do a lot of damage. If I can't find the sparks—who knows—I might just sabotage the first thing I find. Maybe carve my name into their throne."

"There might be another way in. Have you ever heard of switchgraves?"

"What's a switchgrave?"

"When I and the others escaped, the blackout didn't shut off the actual security. It only shut off the surveillance systems." TL grabbed Tracer's hand. She turned his palm up and made the faintest of scratches. The symbol looked like a triangular face with no mouth.

"… The oldest one lead us to a space with this symbol engraved in the corner. She pointed to the symbol and said the protoforms who oversaw the construction left secret rooms to hide and passages to escape. You could tap on these walls and they don't feel hollow. But somewhere nearby will be a burnt-out light or an outdated intercom, there you'll find a switch that lets the wall open."

"Ah, I had no idea..." Tracer remembered how Alpha Trion vanished earlier that day. There must have been one of these switchgraves in the corridor. "But it kinda makes sense, now."

"But there's no time to search for one now. They're all hidden really well and it looks like we don't have much time."

"We?"

"Yeah, I'm coming with you. Is there a problem?"

"You're supposed to be this genius, career-oriented overachiever. Hanging around me might get you into trouble."

TL scoffed, "Oh, an 'overachiever' am I? Well you're supposed to be the upbeat, go-getter who will do anything to make a girl smile!"

Tracer cocked his head in bafflement, "That's not even remotely accurate."

"What can I say? I've learned first impressions can be wrong, and sometimes people change." TL smiled. Tracer could tell this was her real smile.

"In that case, I hope your right." He realized he was in the midst of the choice he had thought about earlier: the choice to fight. He realized he could turn around, walk back to the stowing sector, and make tomorrow the same as yesterday—go on like today never happened. He would follow his practised routine: showing up on time, taking orders, shrugging off insults and avoiding any chance to change a damn thing.

Tracer heard Lug's parting words: 'stay out of trouble...'

'I can't do that. I can't forget what I know. I can't pretend like I don't care about myself, about every spark across this planet. By what right do these Quintessons dare to command free-sparks to our deaths?' Their reckless authority was once challenged by a protoform named Armaetrus, but that authority it has to be fully denied!

'Sorry, Lug. But I hear trouble inviting me, and my spark wont rest until I answer its call.'

Tracer looked at TL. He saw her like he had never seen her before. It was like he'd been sparked a second time. Everything had even more meaning; even more significance than he had ever thought. He looked into her optics and felt a bond he'd never known. A level of trust and compassion so strong it frightened him, because it meant his emotions have finally taken over. This was his third awakening: as Tracer the Rogue Protoform. No, not rogue. Free.

They jogged down the deserted streets and turned the corner to find their transport. As TL reached to open the drivers side door Tracer grabbed the handle first. "I'll drive."