Scene 22
It was raining in Warsaw. Cold, fat drops plummeted from the somber sky. The water ran in sheets to the sides of the lightly raised avenues, collecting in sluggish streams that danced to the ceaseless rhythm of new drops falling on their surface. Periodically, the rivulets disappeared from the roadside into the gaping maw of a storm drain, swept under the living structures of the city to join with the collected effluence of used city water in buried aqueducts that led to a massive subterranean aquifer and treatment plant. Here it was purified, passing through meshed ion shields to be re-distributed by electrical pumps into the urban hydraulic network.
Cinching shut the antique mechanical tap in his tiled shower stall, Gorn cut off the stream of breathtakingly cold water that, unknown to him, had mostly fallen from the sky during the night and morning. He stepped out of the stall, toweling off vigorously to friction-warm his skin and to get his sleep-numbed blood flowing. Hot showers were more pleasant, but they didn't wake a person up quite the same way. After sleeping like a dead man for sixteen hours and rising almost in the evening, he felt pretty caught up, but he wanted to be absolutely sharp and alert at the start of the match in two hours. This year, the Tournament TDM Championship would belong to the Dark Phalanx!
Gorn left the towel hanging on the tap and strode across the old-fashioned military shower room towards the entrance, where his clothes hung. As he neared his destination, he was nearly flattened by Anna and Ivana, both gloriously naked, who charged in through the door, chattering incoherently about how they were going to be late. He spun to reprimand them, but suddenly found himself irresistibly distracted by the sight. It was oddly mesmerizing. Through all their time training and fighting together, and all the team showers, how come he'd never noticed that beauty mark on Ivana's….?
He cut off that thought and pulled his clothes on quickly, feeling himself blush right through the metal plates in his cheeks. He'd never had these kinds of problems with losing focus around his female teammates before. All the time they were spending together lately outside of the arena must have had some kind of adverse affect. He resolved to keep his mind clear and focused on their objectives…for the short-term future, anyhow.
Gorn headed out of the shower room and into the mess hall of the semi-defunct 21st century training barracks they were staying at. Poland still kept a small corps of national guard troops, despite the fact that such measures were generally considered a useless anachronism, ¨just in case.¨ Some traditions died hard. But Gorn was glad for their existence, if only because the men in charge here were old-fashioned types like himself who had an instinctive mistrust of the new, vague government entities, and stuck (unofficially) to old loyalties as well as outdated principles like honor and fidelity. Gorn figured he had half an hour before the women finished getting ready, and he wanted to give his former commander Grigoriy an earful before they left. If something unexpected happened to the Dark Phalanx, which now seemed like a distinct possibility, someone had to carry the truth onward.
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In New York, an almost unnaturally warm and bright late September day was darkening over with towering stacked cumulonimbus monsters that promised violent precipitation in the afternoon. Business in the city maintained its headlong charge, heedless of the celestial powers preparing to do their worst, secure in its instinctive knowledge that the forces of nature had been rendered impotent against meticulously-crafted edifices of alloyed metals and plastiglass. One of these superscrapers contained the arena Tempest, an extensive maze of rooms and corridors designed specifically for the Tournament by its owner, Xan Kriegor, the enigmatic perennial champion. It was said that he practiced there with a mysterious elite team that never competed, and that fought only for his personal entertainment and training. In another superscraper somewhat near Tempest was Malcom's apartment, where its rent-paying occupant was nearly ready to emerge and face the public.
¨Malcom!¨
¨Yes, Shyleen?¨
¨You going to brush your teeth, or do you want all the cameras today focused on some gunked-up yellow choppers?¨
¨Ferchrissake woman, it's not that big a…¨ He stopped as she suddenly materialized at his side in the kitchen, toothbrush in hand and already coated with toothpaste. ¨Here, just take this toothbrush and stick it in your mouth,¨ she instructed. ¨Do it for me?¨ Malcom heaved a sigh and complied, figuring it was much easier than an argument, since she seemed so determined. If he had to fight a battle, he preferred to do it in the arena, against heavily-armed professional killers. It was easier.
After scrubbing his pearly whites at the kitchen sink for what seemed like long enough to please Shyleen, he walked over to the table and crouched down beside his daughter, who was still eating her lunch of Turbo Grain Busters, and put a big hand across her shoulders. ¨Gotta go earn my living, Nara. Take it easy on your mom, you hear?¨
¨Are you going to win, papa? You said you were going to, right?¨
As a response he simply nodded, drifting back into the thoughts that had been plaguing him lately. Of course he was going to win. Winning was easy; it was a straightforward goal that he understood and knew how to achieve. But what the hell was he going to say to doctor Kilgard afterwards? Wasn't the guy supposedly trying to help him?
Malcom shook his head to erase these thoughts and stood up. Now was not the time to get distracted by trivialities! He had more important things to focus on. Without saying anything more to Nara or Shyleen, he walked over to the door and began to put his shoes on, already visualizing what he would do in the match, already hearing in his mind the thunder of the shock combos, the crack of a sniper rifle. This year, the Tournament TDM Championship would belong to the Thunder Crash!