Scene 20

Malcom was growing frustrated. He had dueled skilled opponents before, and he had lost before, but never to someone who so thoroughly dominated him as this. Phobos Moon was one of his favorite maps, too, as far as deathmatch went, and he knew its winding, honeycombed corridors better than anyone. But oddly, his opponent seemed to know exactly what he knew, and furthermore what he was thinking, always arriving to claim the armor or jump boots just a little before Malcom, always knowing where to cut him off with a combo, always waiting for him when he tried to get the sniper rifle.

Sometimes Malcom hit his opponent with several shock beams, but he could not frag him – was it the arena armor pickups, or some further advantage conferred by the carbonium armor the man wore? He spawned again and again, growing tired and running slower, feeling as though he were trapped in mud, churning through the cold space station that seemed to drag him down with its artificial gravity.

Somehow he found a sniper rifle (had his opponent dropped it there just to taunt him?) and made his way to the top of the station, waiting. Suddenly the man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to grab the body armor. Malcom swept the scope's crosshairs to the metallic torso, firing off three shots in quick succession. He could not see that they had hit, as if his bullets had somehow disappeared, but the figure fell over. When Malcom ran to the armor to pick it up, he noticed that for some reason the body was still there, lying facedown. Had the arena failed to respawn it? Or was it still quite alive?

Malcom raised his shock rifle to the metallic helmet (or was it a helmet?) to dispatch the man, but some invisible force stayed his hand. He felt compelled, somehow, to bend over and look at the man's face, feeling, even as he did it, a creeping icy fear that invaded his bones. He groped clumsily at the limp body until he managed to turn it over, and when he gazed into its motionless features, its yellow mechanical eyes suddenly blazed to life. Malcom then saw that the face, though covered completely with form-fitting carbonium plates, was undoubtedly his own.

He gasped and staggered backwards as the figure rose up, towering over him, somehow seeming to grow to gigantic proportions, swelling and filling up all his sight like a balloon. It spoke in a dry, emotionless voice that was his own voice although somehow not, three words that made no sense but nevertheless froze his heart with unspeakable dread: ¨You. Are. Mine!¨

Malcom awoke gasping, his heart trip-hammering in his chest like the crazy staccato fire of a newb with two Enforcers. The dream had been so vivid, it took him at least a minute to become fully conscious of his surroundings and verify that he was in his own bed in New York, next to the sleeping form of his wife. As he lay there in the dark, he found himself wondering about the dream, even though he considered such things to be nothing more significant than the nonsensical mutterings of the subconscious. Why all the metal armor? Was it really him, or some imposter?

Tormented by these thoughts, he finally got up, rolling carefully out of bed so as not to disturb Shyleen, and directed himself towards the kitchen. He'd been thinking of a glass of water, but as he neared the fridge he wondered if something stronger might not be in order. It would certainly be more helpful in getting back to sleep, which he very much needed, what with the TDM championship match in two days.

After he'd poured himself a rather tall scotch on the rocks Malcom sat down at the kitchen bar, pondering in the soft glow of the counter lights the recent events of his life. Despite Dr. Kilgard's assurances that the source of his problem would be encountered, his medical checkup and subsequent psych eval had not turned up anything satisfactory. Of course, he was pronounced by the M.D. to be a paragon of perfect physical health, but the psych had told him that traumatic stress related to the Tournament was a documented issue and had many reported symptoms, including possible temporary memory loss.

The problem with this explanation was that Malcom didn't buy it. He'd never had problems before, so why now? Then there was the fact that his memory loss didn't appear to be temporary. Though he hadn't had any problems in awhile, the missing parts seemed to be totally blank, try as he might to jog his memory by talking to his teammates about some of those matches. He was worried. If it wasn't a brain tumor or something, then what the hell was it?

Preoccupied and slightly alcohol-numbed, Malcom failed to notice the form that slid silently along the wall into the kitchen behind him, tiptoeing softly up to his chair, until…

¨Papa!¨

He jumped about three feet into the air (or at least it seemed like it) before turning angrily to stare down at his daughter. ¨Nara! What are you doing up at this hour? Haven't I told you that when the lights go out, you stay in your room?¨

¨I couldn't sleep.¨ She looked back up at him sorrowfully with sleep-circles under her big eyes and her normally frizzy hair taken to electrifying extremes, probably from tossing around on her pillow. Malcom softened. What was he doing up at this hour as well, anyways?

¨I couldn't sleep either,¨ he confessed, ruffling her hair gently with his big hand. ¨Maybe the sandman skipped our house tonight.¨ He studied her. ¨You ok?¨

¨I had a scary dream!¨ she blurted out. ¨Then I was scared, so I couldn't sleep. Then I heard someone.¨

A nightmare, eh? You and me both, he said to himself. Kids thought their parents were so invincible. He thought that about himself too sometimes, on the days when he owned the arena and nobody could match him, but right now he felt just about like his daughter looked. Maybe being the comforting dad here would make him feel better as much as her… if he could only see himself through her eyes. ¨A scary dream?¨ he inquired, pulling her onto his knee. ¨You want to tell me about it?¨

¨I dunno. You were in it.¨

¨Oh?¨ he responded, amused. ¨Was I the bad guy?¨

She shook her head emphatically. ¨Mom was bad. She was mad at me and you. Then a monster ate you. But last time, you were bad.¨ He wondered if she was picking up on the recent tension between himself and Shyleen. It wasn't that big of a deal, but who knew… little children were impressionable. ¨Was I mad at you and mom in that other dream?¨ he asked.

¨Yeah, you yelled at her, like that time with Doctor…¨ she stopped herself, then stammered ¨I… I mean, with mom.¨

Malcom's happy paternal feeling was swept away in a swirling wave of apprehension and doubts. ¨Doctor who, Nara? What doctor? What are you talking about?¨

¨I'm not supposed to talk about it.¨

Malcom's stomach did a somersault, and he had to resist the urge to shake her until she told him the truth, instead taking a deep breath and turning her shoulders so that she faced him. ¨Nara, look at me. Look at me, Nara. This is important. You are supposed to talk about it.¨

¨But I'm scared,¨ she protested, close to tears. ¨It's not my fault.¨

¨I know it's not your fault. I know. I won't be mad. But I can't remember, Nara. What was the name of the doctor?¨

¨Kilger I think. Or something. You were mad at him, then he made you not mad anymore, and he told mama and me not to talk about it so you wouldn't be mad again.¨

Malcom exhaled shakily, thinking what the hell is going on here? Self-consciously, he realized that Nara was inspecting his face for signs of anger. He forcefully composed himself (she was right after all, he was mad, just not at her) and said, with as much firmness as he could muster without flying off the handle, ¨I'm not mad, Nara, because you told me the truth. I need you to always tell me the truth. Lying and keeping secrets is what makes me mad. Do you understand?¨

She nodded slowly, still fearful. ¨Are you mad at mama?¨

Malcom honestly considered this. How much did Shyleen know? Was she keeping things from him out of fear, or for some other reason? ¨I don't know,¨ he replied to his daughter. ¨Maybe she was just afraid, too.¨ He pulled her close for a big hug, suspecting it was more for his own benefit than hers. Tomorrow he would clear his mind and train. The next day they would beat the stuffing out of that impertinent old fart's TDM team. And then he would go to that shifty bastard Kilgard and get to the bottom of this, if he had to wring the truth out of the man.