Arena
By Bluestar
Dirx: In the arena, kid, all bets are off.
Disclaimer: HG isn't mine, never will be. These characters aren't mine, I just borrowed them and promise to put them back when I've finished playing with them.
Author's Notes: First things first, my humblest apologies to the show's creators for stealing some of the ideas they wanted to use. But considering that there will probably never be another HG series (not fair!), I wanted to do something that gave the series the continuity it could have had. I hope I've succeeded.
Second thing: I had to force myself to re-watch every episode (J/K, I loved the excuse to do so). As I did, I picked up on certain things that seemed like background stuff. However, with Arena in mind, I decided to put a slightly different twist on them.
Third thing: Enjoy!
Prologue: The Enemy Within
TN 1917
James Clark opened his eyes to a blue, alien sky.
Under his back, hard, dry sand provided a rough cushion. It was hot sand, baked under an alien sun for God-knows-how-many years, and now that sun was trying to bake him. He shook his head, then dug his elbows into the sand and tried to get up. This brought to his attention the fact that his chest hurt, and that his head felt like a line of Gears were tap-dancing through his brain.
I hate this planet . . .
He collapsed back to the hot, gritty sand. Vaguely, in the distance, he could hear shouts. He tried to rise again, to fail just as miserably. Lying there, he took stock of his apparent injuries. By raising his head slightly, he could see that his flak jacket had absorbed the bullets fired at him by - his mind focused on an odd memory - his own side?
Still, it felt like the ammunition had had enough punch to bruise. The headache was easily accounted for - dehydration. He closed his eyes in a fragile defense against the intensity of the sunlight.
He wasn't sure how much later it was when someone said, "Hey, he's one of ours - and still alive!"
The young soldier opened his eyes again to see a concerned face bent over him. He identified the person as wearing a Southern uniform. "Take it easy, son. The war's over."
The younger one licked cracked lips with a papery tongue before whispering, "Did we win?"
"We won. The CEF surrendered."
"Surrendered . . ."
The older man nodded, then sighed as the young soldier's eyes closed again. "Here, take him one to the medics," he said to one of the Southerners gathered around him.
But that was years ago . . .
Several cycles later . . .
A group of young teenagers sat around a trideo set in a shabby bar in Khayr ad-Din. Each of the teens wore a dirty pink strip of cloth tied around their upper left arms. Each teen obviously hadn't washed in a good while, and each was wearing clothes salvaged from Trash City's namesake junk heaps. They were all scrawny, as if they didn't eat regularly. Aside from that there was no particular common characteristic to be seen - blond sat alongside brunette, tall with short.
Onscreen, the Vanguard of Justice battled the Southern Shadow Dragons in a replay of yesterday's broadcast.
"Vanguard equals victory!" cheered a short brunette with dark brown eyes. "Go punk those punks!"
The rest of the match was spent cheering the Vanguard on. In the relative darkness of the bar, the gang - known as the Junk Punkers - didn't notice that an old-looking man was seated nearby, quietly observing them over his drink.
"Hey, Kirakowa," one particularly tough-looking youth said. "Ya finished with those repairs to my hoverboard yet?"
"I'm done, Eddins," the petite brunette replied. "It's ready whenever you are."
"Hmm," the white-bearded stranger said to himself. "So her name is Kirakowa . . ."
Cautious as the gang was, they didn't see the Vanguard pilot follow them outside.
Now . . .
In his Post Oasis apartment, ex-Lieutenant Jan Augusta smiled as the trideo broadcast of the 43rd Annual Terra Novan Trideo Awards show came to an end. The news followed straight after, bringing disturbing but not wholly unexpected news.
"With the Earth menace gone from our skies for many cycles, hostilities between North and South are beginning to flare up once more. Scenes captured on trideo in a bar in Trash City are only a sample of the old grudges beginning to flare up once more."
The scene changed from the newsreader to some footage obviously shot from security cameras, and Augusta switched off the trideo set. "Those journalists are fools. This will only worsen the people's panic."
At the same time, Lt. Creet of the Shadow Dragons was also watching the broadcast. Unlike Augusta, he was smiling at the growing hatred between the two polar superpowers. He knew that this would make his job much easier.
There was a tentative rap on his door. "Yes?" he barked.
"Um, sir? It's Tech Loughrey, sir. You ordered me to report to you?"
The Southern lieutenant touched a button on his remote control, and the screen went blank. "Come in, Loughrey."
I hate this planet . . .
By Bluestar
Dirx: In the arena, kid, all bets are off.
Disclaimer: HG isn't mine, never will be. These characters aren't mine, I just borrowed them and promise to put them back when I've finished playing with them.
Author's Notes: First things first, my humblest apologies to the show's creators for stealing some of the ideas they wanted to use. But considering that there will probably never be another HG series (not fair!), I wanted to do something that gave the series the continuity it could have had. I hope I've succeeded.
Second thing: I had to force myself to re-watch every episode (J/K, I loved the excuse to do so). As I did, I picked up on certain things that seemed like background stuff. However, with Arena in mind, I decided to put a slightly different twist on them.
Third thing: Enjoy!
Prologue: The Enemy Within
TN 1917
James Clark opened his eyes to a blue, alien sky.
Under his back, hard, dry sand provided a rough cushion. It was hot sand, baked under an alien sun for God-knows-how-many years, and now that sun was trying to bake him. He shook his head, then dug his elbows into the sand and tried to get up. This brought to his attention the fact that his chest hurt, and that his head felt like a line of Gears were tap-dancing through his brain.
I hate this planet . . .
He collapsed back to the hot, gritty sand. Vaguely, in the distance, he could hear shouts. He tried to rise again, to fail just as miserably. Lying there, he took stock of his apparent injuries. By raising his head slightly, he could see that his flak jacket had absorbed the bullets fired at him by - his mind focused on an odd memory - his own side?
Still, it felt like the ammunition had had enough punch to bruise. The headache was easily accounted for - dehydration. He closed his eyes in a fragile defense against the intensity of the sunlight.
He wasn't sure how much later it was when someone said, "Hey, he's one of ours - and still alive!"
The young soldier opened his eyes again to see a concerned face bent over him. He identified the person as wearing a Southern uniform. "Take it easy, son. The war's over."
The younger one licked cracked lips with a papery tongue before whispering, "Did we win?"
"We won. The CEF surrendered."
"Surrendered . . ."
The older man nodded, then sighed as the young soldier's eyes closed again. "Here, take him one to the medics," he said to one of the Southerners gathered around him.
But that was years ago . . .
Several cycles later . . .
A group of young teenagers sat around a trideo set in a shabby bar in Khayr ad-Din. Each of the teens wore a dirty pink strip of cloth tied around their upper left arms. Each teen obviously hadn't washed in a good while, and each was wearing clothes salvaged from Trash City's namesake junk heaps. They were all scrawny, as if they didn't eat regularly. Aside from that there was no particular common characteristic to be seen - blond sat alongside brunette, tall with short.
Onscreen, the Vanguard of Justice battled the Southern Shadow Dragons in a replay of yesterday's broadcast.
"Vanguard equals victory!" cheered a short brunette with dark brown eyes. "Go punk those punks!"
The rest of the match was spent cheering the Vanguard on. In the relative darkness of the bar, the gang - known as the Junk Punkers - didn't notice that an old-looking man was seated nearby, quietly observing them over his drink.
"Hey, Kirakowa," one particularly tough-looking youth said. "Ya finished with those repairs to my hoverboard yet?"
"I'm done, Eddins," the petite brunette replied. "It's ready whenever you are."
"Hmm," the white-bearded stranger said to himself. "So her name is Kirakowa . . ."
Cautious as the gang was, they didn't see the Vanguard pilot follow them outside.
Now . . .
In his Post Oasis apartment, ex-Lieutenant Jan Augusta smiled as the trideo broadcast of the 43rd Annual Terra Novan Trideo Awards show came to an end. The news followed straight after, bringing disturbing but not wholly unexpected news.
"With the Earth menace gone from our skies for many cycles, hostilities between North and South are beginning to flare up once more. Scenes captured on trideo in a bar in Trash City are only a sample of the old grudges beginning to flare up once more."
The scene changed from the newsreader to some footage obviously shot from security cameras, and Augusta switched off the trideo set. "Those journalists are fools. This will only worsen the people's panic."
At the same time, Lt. Creet of the Shadow Dragons was also watching the broadcast. Unlike Augusta, he was smiling at the growing hatred between the two polar superpowers. He knew that this would make his job much easier.
There was a tentative rap on his door. "Yes?" he barked.
"Um, sir? It's Tech Loughrey, sir. You ordered me to report to you?"
The Southern lieutenant touched a button on his remote control, and the screen went blank. "Come in, Loughrey."
I hate this planet . . .
