Thanks Atari for creating the Unreal series. Thanks Kyle for being the best damn partner I've ever had. Lyrics are from Metallica, No Leaf Clover.

.:: | ::.

Says it feels right this time
Turn around, found new high lights
Good day to be alive, sir!
Good day to be alive, he said...

"We're losin' our touch, Kyle," I mutter sourly. Gone is the sweat-smelling, blood-stained turf we'd been fighting on to the death. We'd been transported to the cold steel holding room that was the entrance to what the teams commonly refer to as the Bunkers. I'm still wearing the form-fitting, red-and-white armor I'd been equipped with, but I had already removed the visor that supported my all-important HUD, moments after Dev had fallen for the last time. I turn it over in my gloved hands, studying it as if this sheet of tinted starglass is the reason we're being fragged more and more often on the battlefield. My game name's emblazoned in crimson on the front, near the top: Duchess.:.Razi. Kyle's taken his off, too, and is running his fingertips over his own calling card: BiSmArK!!!.

"Naw, we're not," he disagrees, stripping his hands of the heavy leather gloves. "Our opponents are just getting better." He flashes me a quick smile, one that seems incredibly natural on his tanned face, and indicates my visor. "Couldn't you think of a more creative name, Razi?"

"No," I growl stiffly, raking a hand through my hair. It's elbow-length and dark, a chocolately color like my eyes, and the crimson dye that enlivens the bangs framing my face and has a couple streaks in the rest of my hair is beginning to fade, which annoys me. "I like this name. Leave it alone." Tucking my visor under my arm, I stalk out of the holding room into banks of lockers, finding mine and beginning to peel off my leather-and-steel armor.

"Stop that," Kyle scolds, hastening after me and trying to pull the armor back on. "Are you wearing anything beneath it?" The question, I know, is more of jealousy than an empathetic fretting over my modesty.

"Yes, I am, sludge-for-brains, and there's nobody else in here anyway." I get the upper half off and throw it at him, flaunting my half-nakedness. A black bra, and the remainder of my armor is all I'm wearing now, and I notice with interest that my teammate, of the vicious gun and coarse black hair, is beginning to turn slightly pink. "Calm down."

"Someone could come in," he points out, rather loudly. "Another match could end any moment now."

"Uh-huh." DEVKiller1 and o|fatality don't use this Bunker, and for good reason: the blue gladiators and the red ones don't mingle well outside of the arena. Bad feelings sometimes get carried out of the ring. "Good for the other match." Being deliberately contrary now, I pull my leggings off and throw those at Kyle, too. They're soaked with sweat and smeared with blood, both mine and that of our opponents, but that's not why he looks so chagrined.

"Get out of your armor, Bismark my love. We have things to do."

He knows very well what I mean, entendre aside, and as I slink nonchalantly off to the showers, I know which finger he's holding up after me.

.:: | ::.

Some two hours later, we've both gotten ourselves all nice and clean and prettified. I've got my silver jewelry-- rings, choker and ankh, long tasselled earrings-- and tight black apparel, he's wearing baggy black pants and a coaly T-shirt. He's got a steel necklace, too, and the glasses he's got now, in combination with his coarse dark goatee, make him look a bit like a Beatnik. Bismark the Beatnik. Catchy.

Neither of us look particularly menacing, really, but when you make a living blowing people's asses apart and getting yours treated in kind, you really don't mind so much about physical menacibility.

Our manager's waiting for us. He's not a bad guy. A bit on the geeky side, maybe, but we've made him pretty damn rich, so a certain level of geekiness is permitted. Lots of money equals who the hell cares if you're a nerd?

"Hey," he greets us as we sweep into his office, side-by-side. He wears glasses, too, a similar make to Kyle's slim pair, and he's impeccably dressed in a white button-down shirt and freshly pressed black slacks. I've only seen him in grunge once, really. I should've taken a picture.

"Whatcha got for us, Marco?"

"You do know," he tells me conversationally, "that in the Counter Strike arenas I could kick both of your asses before breakfast?"

"You could try," Kyle laughs. "But this is the Unreal Tournament arena, Markie-oh, so it really doesn't matter."

Our manager makes a pfft sound, giving my teammate a remarkably dangerous look. He scratches at his pale-copper hair idly before deciding to forgive his wayward gladiator, and pushes us a manila folder across the desk. "We have here," he announces in a slightly more serious tone, "the layout of a brand-new map. Icebound, I believe they're calling it. A fortress carved entirely of ice, complete with Arctic waters that won't give you much forgiveness if you slip and fall." He pauses as Kyle and I examine the pictures. It's genuinely beautiful, all glittering ice and frost-covered waters, but it looks like one of the most dangerous arenas we've ever fought in. "The team you'll be fighting is known as the Immolators." He passes us another folder, and then inquires, "have you two come up with a suitable team name yet?"

We shake our heads, and even manage to look suitably guilty.

"Do it," he orders, like he's done during every briefing for the past eighteen months. "Then run it by me." He taps the new folder ominously. "Have fun with the Immolators, boys'n'girls. There's three of them, so I'll need to get out a Bot for you. A damn good Bot. These fellas are pretty freakin' near undefeated."

We admire the snapshots obediently. A hefty female GMH, a deceptively unfinished-looking robot, and a second GMH, a huge male who could probably use me'n'Kyle for toothpicks. No problem.

"You know," Marco complains, "if you two freaks would just hire on another team member, I wouldn't need to work my ass off trying to get a good Bot to supplement you."

"Or," Kyle suggests sweetly, "you could stop booking us matches with teams of three-four-five people."

Marco's face slowly begins to flush, and we grab up the folders and run for our lives.