Gods of the Game, Chapter 18

Meaning derived from purpose.

Existence boiled down to one goal: victory.

Humanity stripped to its rawest core.

This basic, crude ideology challenged, however, at every turn. Each time Lance caught sight of Jessie liberated from their end zone to charge forth as their mörderin. Each time Virgil gave him a measured up-nod of respect after a game. The breathless exhilaration that those precious, beautiful moments before a game inculcated in him, the sight of each stadium, each arena, the roaring waves of mankind as primal as any possible experience open to a living being in the 24th century.

His own biology, with its wants and needs, cravings and complexities.

Lance sought to become a creature of theory and mission, but his flesh and instincts warred with that artificial purity. He found himself craving company during his long, solitary training sessions. Found himself craving to be touched during his long nights alone in his isolated cabin. He considered asking to be transferred to a dorm with Catori and the hellseherins, but that felt like weakness, so he held his tongue.

The only thing that made sense, around which he bent his purpose, was the matches. Their victories.

Because something fundamental had changed in Brutal Deluxe’s composition, and now they were unstoppable.

Their rematch against the Auckland Skyforge was an uproarious success. Back in their coastal arena, watching the players perform a warrior haka, their whole team had shivered as one, reminded by their brutal loss.

But they crushed it. They met the Skyforge’s discipline and tight formations with reckless virtuosity. Silence led the opferns in a wedge formation right at the schloss even as Catori and Lance took down the enemy hellseherins. Their jägers brought down Aadya and Langley in turn, but by then it was too late; the könig’s shields were down, and Fireball literally ran up Old Bufford’s back, using his shoulders as a springboard, to hurl herself like a living spear, slide between the enemy schloss’ hammer swings, and slam the könig to the ground.

Victory.

One after another.

It seemed like every member of Brutal Deluxe was rising in stats and unleashing new Abilities.

The Quantum Knights. The Nuuk Heatwave. The Pulsebreakers. The Ushaia Fireline. One team after another fell to Brutal Deluxe’s unorthodox tactics, Brutal Deluxe’s extreme tolerance for risk, and Virgil’s leadership.

And through it all Lance wrestled with his sense of self.

Each victory was followed by a celebration. Nights in different corners of the globe as the team partied, reveled, and grew closer. Bars and nightclubs, penthouse suites and decadent mansions. Poolside or on expansive balconies, surrounded by throbbing electronic music or rarefied classical music played by string quartets. Wined and dined by the world’s elite, everyone wanting a moment with their favorite player.

Media interviews. Endless speculation. Countless invitations to talk shows, round tables, to have profiles written up in the most circulated platforms.

Lance declined them all. He feared their questions. Feared them as an ice sculpture fears the chisel.

Sindre and Virgil looked out for him. Shielded him from the worst of it, blocked and protected his Neural Link from overt and subtle attempts at outside communication. Ran interference. Kept him focused.

But it was a high-wire act.

And there was no hiding how much fun the rest of the team was having. Clovinn took to dying her skin different metallic shades for each game, while Hammer availed himself of any man, woman, or android that was willing to tumble into bed with him. Langley made the news when his infamous progenitor issued a rare announcement declaring his pleasure in his clone-child, while Aadhya had a tearful reconciliation with her industrial elite family, who finally was forced to admit she’d made a not terrible decision to become a krieg chess player.

Life.

It whirled on, ineluctable, unstoppable. A whole world spinning around its axis, with all of its wealth and privilege on display for them to revel in.

Lance shied back.

Stayed in his cave. Feared stepping out into the punishing lights. Found himself only strong on the field, delicate everywhere else. His identity as a mere tool, a ‘player’, and not even allowing himself to believe himself a person would have been shredded, delighted in, mocked, exalted, and endlessly scrutinized by the world.

As it was, the fever-pitch of anticipation had every media outlet by the throat: how would Brutal Deluxe fare against Nullpoint now that they would face the infamous, the legendary, the monstrous Charn Chai as a jäger?

Virgil did his damndest to shield Lance from Charn Chai’s presence, but his father-self shied away from the media not at all. Returned to life from years of cryogenic slumber, he appeared confident, predatory, charismatic, overwhelming. Lance caught glimpses of the man in snippets, saw his face projected in some of the arenas in which he played, always set across from himself.

Two identical men in different uniforms: Brutal Deluxe vs. Nullpoint. If you squinted, you could see that one was older, slightly more muscular.

The final months of the season felt insubstantial, long stretches of gray punctuated by splashes of color only when he competed in a game. Lance became ever more a ghost in his own life. Training, sleep, food. Training, sleep, food. A terse exchange here, a lingering look there. More training. Sleep. Food.

Then a game.

The screams and chants, the flashing lights, the raw humanity, the beauty and awe of the best stadiums in the world.

The crash and crunch of combat.

Blood and broken bones, shattered armor, arcs of riveting electricity, shouts and brutal yells.

Turf torn, blood splashed, shouts over the comms. The sound of his own harsh breathing in his ears, the thrum of his turbine boots, the hop and pop, the ambush, the charge.

Victory.

They felt unstoppable.

Their last normal game of the series was against Nullpoint. Their rematch.

They’d clawed their way to second place. But even if they defeated Nullpoint there was no taking the pinnacle.

With their defeat of the KwaZulu Stormline, their penultimate match, they were locked into second place. Lose or win against Nullpoint, Brutal Deluxe was fixed on the second rung, and would play Nullpoint a third time for the League Finals.

Which, perhaps, was why Charn Chai decided not to play the last game.

The shock and relief that swept across Brutal Deluxe’s players was palpable. The world went into a frenzy.

The father refused to play his son?

Has he grown soft?

Was he hesitant, afraid of hurting his flesh and blood?

Couldn’t the Wolf of Terra bear to cross lances with his own progeny?

Lance knew better. He scoffed when the others asked his opinion.

“No. I’ve never met the man, but I know why he’s not playing.” Lance had been dead certain. “With the outcome of this game irrelevant, he just can’t be bothered.”

Still, they had to play against Nullpoint, and everyone was in a fever of anticipation and hope. It had been eleven games since they’d lost, and Brutal Deluxe had grown with leaps and bounds.

They weren’t the same team from five months ago.

Their team average had risen from A8 to S4. Not the highest in the league by any means, but combined with their luck, determination, and hunger, it meant they’d been the match of everyone else.

Everyone else but Nullpoint.

The day finally dawned.

They flutterlined to the Antarctic. Back down to the vast stadium, sunk in stone, painted white, glacial blue, and matte black.

Lance stepped back out onto that field of artificial ice, saw his breath frost the air once more. His heart wouldn’t slow down. Sindre and Virgil had talked them all half-to-death, but now, with the match about to begin, Lance couldn’t remember anything they’d said.

Fanfare. Ceremony. The enemy könig, Haalberg, pointed at Virgil, which caused the crowd to frenzy.

Their political conflict was known to all.

Virgil waved back.

And then the game began.

And for a few moments, Lance thought they might win.

But Nullpoint crushed that thought. Though Brutal Deluxe seized the initiative and took down one of the enemy hellseherins, their elation was short lived.

They sent one of their schlosses forward, and the mountain of a man demolished the Brutal Deluxe opferns. As everyone sought to rebuff the schloss, the enemy opferns entered the Brutal Deluxe end zone and released their mörderin.

Nobody had told Lance, perhaps out of fear, but when he saw the mörderin take to the air, he’d known.

He’d known.

He knew her body. Her movements. The way she flew.

Nullpoint had recruited the Bleakest Star. Charn Chai’s old mörderin.

Beatrice.

The game ended soon after.

Shook, near-paralyzed, Lance had tried to get back into the fray, to engage her, but Beatrice had ignored him. Appalled, he’d chased her, but she was too agile; she cut down Samira, skewered Hammer, then cut Virgil down with one blow.

Match over.

Nullpoint had won again.

And without Charn Chai.

The crowd screamed their bloody satisfaction to the blue Antarctic skies.

Nobody celebrated that night.

They returned to the Faroe Islands in a foul mood. Nobody was particularly savaged. Nobody had to spend a few days in the medical facilities. It was as if Nullpoint hadn’t been bothered with trying to really hurt them.

Just a swift mörderin release, a könig takedown, then done.

It had felt almost impersonal.

Lance didn’t talk to anyone. He knew he’d frozen up. It only made his confidence during those first few minutes all the more galling.

And Beatrice.

He’d never met her. She’d slept with Charoen, had fucked Charoen’s life over, but he was—no.

He wasn’t Charoen.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his knuckles into them.

He wasn’t Charoen. There was no reason he should want Beatrice to acknowledge him. Fight him. Single him out.

Know that he was special. Worthy of consideration.

But why would she? She finally had Charn Chai back, and his mother was dead. Perhaps they’d become a couple at last. For as long as Charn Chai was allowed out of prison. Why would she bother to acknowledge Charoen’s Echo?

Especially if he was just floating there, gaping, ineffectual, pathetic?

Lance retreated to his cabin, lay curled up on in the corner, faced the wall.

Self-loathing washed through him in waves.

Lance.

If he was just a weapon, shouldn’t he be above such idiotic emotions? He couldn’t even divorce himself of the horror of being someone else. Couldn’t make a fresh start. Once, he’d thrown himself after Jessie, proving himself still governed by those impulses. Then a second time he’d reacted like a dead man, staring at Beatrice as memories of their nights together roiled his mind, as his heart rose in his throat, as he’d wanted to call out to her, to force her to turn and face him…

Pathetic.

He spent two days lying down in the dark. His only communication was to Virgil, a request that he be left alone.

Virgil had agreed.

Hunger gnawed at him. As accelerated and augmented as his body was, caloric deprivation hit him ten times harder than a normal human. His only allowance was the occasional sip of stale mineral water from the tap.

For two days he endeavored to not think at all. To put every thought on pause. To cease to be.

It didn’t work.

Only death would offer him release, but to kill himself before facing his father…? That felt beyond pathetic.

So he simply… persisted.

Until someone at last overrode his entry door and entered his cabin. Virgil? No. The footsteps were too clean. He was facing the wall. Didn’t want to turn.

Didn’t want to connect.

Hesitation, and then the stranger sat on the edge of his bed. From her breathing Lance knew it was Jessie.

Jessie.

What was she doing here? Surprised, he half-turned to face her.

“Hey, Lance.” Her voice was stilted, her manner awkward. “No, nobody sent me. I asked Virgil if I could come.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I’ve decided to accept you as my brother or something. I—I know you’re not. But. I know something of what you must be feeling.”

He shifted around altogether. “How could you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “He’s my father, too.”

Oh.

Oh.

He’d not once considered how Jessie might be feeling about the match-up. Had only thought of it through his own lens. And Charn Chai actually was her father. One she’d never met as an adult. A mythic figure that had betrayed them all when he’d chosen politics over family, resulting in Charoen and Jessie and her mom being dropped in Sweden with no funds when he’d gone to jail.

“Right.” He sat up now, abashed. Drew his knees to his chest. He had to reek. “Sorry.”

“It’s…” She paused, catching the reflexive response. “I mean, it’s fine. But my point remains. Except… in your case, it’s just gotta be weird. Like standing in a mirror funhouse. That part I can’t imagine.”

“Yeah.” He considered. “Mirror funhouse sounds right.”

“And Beatrice? That was a shock.” She laughed under breath. “What a weird cat she was. Charoen and her—but I guess you know.”

“I remember, yeah.”

She peered at him. “I guess I just came to check in on you.”

“For Charoen’s sake?”

“Well, sure. But also… I mean, I’m not…” She ran out of steam, blew out her cheeks, looked away. “What a fucked up world. I feel like I’m trying to make my way through a dark room I’ve never been in before. Keep banging my shins on stuff. Knocking over lamps. I don’t know.”

He waited.

“Look.” She glared at him. “You’re not an alien. You’re not a monster. You sure as hell aren’t Charoen, but you’re not… you’re not not him, either, if that makes sense. I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it for months now, and the closest I can come to is what Clovinn said a week or two ago: you’re not my brother anymore, but you’re still some kind of family. Like a cousin second removed. Someone I don’t know very well. But still… still family.”

Lance’s eyes widened.

“An adopted second cousin?” She sounded defensive and flustered all at the same time. “I don’t know how to put it. But someone. A person.” Her throat seemed to constrict, but she forced the word out anyway. “Family.”

Tears prickled. “Family. Sure. An adopted second-cousin.”

She was still glaring at him, face flushed, lips pursed, jaw clenched. As if she might swing at him or run or just cover her face at any moment.

She was trembling, he saw, and that more than anything else brought down the last of his walls. “Adopted second-cousin. I can live with that.”

“You sure?” Her voice was sharp. “You’ve been so stand-offish this whole season everyone thinks you hate them.”

“Hate them?” Genuine confusion. “No! Why would I—?”

“You don’t talk to anyone, except when training, and that’s just orders or business, you don’t eat with us, don’t sleep in a dorm, you don’t celebrate or grieve with us—you just—you’re always alone.” It was as if the floodgates had opened. “But then in a real game? You’re amazing. You don’t give a damn about your own safety, you take hits for everyone, anyone, you’ve literally almost died for me, for Clovinn—and people notice. They just can’t reconcile how amazing you are on the field with this robot you become when you’re off it.”

“Echo.”

The fire dimmed inside her. “Echo,” she agreed.

“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands. “I can’t argue with anything you’ve said.”

“Then—when I came to confront you? You comforted me.” She shook her head in amazement. “Even lost in the funhouse as you are, you still found it in your to comfort me. I… I didn’t know what to make of that. Not until today. When I decided to come talk to you. See… I mean, try to find out who you are.”

“I’m…” He bit back the words. Nobody. A weapon. A krieg chess tool. Dry swallowed, worked his jaw, tried again. “I don’t know, either.”

“Yeah.” She searched his face as if for a clue, a hidden cypher, something. “I guess you wouldn’t. Seeing as you’re all of nine months old. It must be like you just moved into Charoen’s old house, all his furnishings and outfits and messages left in his Neural Net. But you’re not him.” This not said unkindly. “You’re you. Lance.” She sat up straight and gave a quick shake of her head. “And I guess I just wanted to come and say hello. To you. Lance. I know you’re not doing well. But I just wanted you to know that… you’re not alone.”

“Not alone,” he said quietly.

“Clovinn cares about you. Well. She still calls you Charoen, so I don’t know how clear she is on everything. And I know Virgil’s got crazy respect for you. Which is weird. And… look.” She rubbed at her face, raked her hair back, and stood. “Dinner is in half an hour. We all meet up in the rec center. You should come.”

His eyebrows rose slowly in incredulity. “To… dinner?”

She gave a fierce nod. “Yes. Half an hour to wash off that stink and get dressed. I’ll bang on your door when I’m headed that way. Cool?”

His heart was pounding. Dinner. People. Voices. Glances. Questions. Weapons didn’t do dinner.

But then again, seeing Beatrice had put the lie to that line of thought.

“Sure,” he said, surprising himself. “Half an hour.”

Jessie’s eyes widened. “Good.” She sounded surprised. “See you soon, then.”

And she left.

Lance just sat there for a spell, staring at nothing, stunned. As much by his agreement as the offer.

Then rose, showered, got dressed, put his stale sheets in the hamper by the door, and then… just sat on his stripped mattress, waiting.

He didn’t know what else to do.

As promised, Jessie knocked on the door half an hour after departing. Lance answered it, as nervous as stepping onto a krieg field for the first time.

“Hey.” She forced a smile. “That’s better. C’mon. You must be starving.”

His whole body felt like a cave, an aching groan made flesh, and the very thought of food caused his stomach to growl audibly. “Maybe a little.”

They walked up to the rec center in silence. Lance kept trying to think of something to say. Small talk, right? But everything sounded inane, so he just fought the urge to turn back and walked alongside her.

His second-cousin by means of adoption.

They reached the huge doors. They were flung open wide and spilled bright light into across the gravel and path. Music. Voices. Lance almost froze up, but at the last moment Jessie took his arm and urged him inside.

Conversations stopped.

Most of the team was here, plus staff.

Clovinn standing on a chair, fists on her hip, clearly in the midst of some kind of declamation to an enraptured Hammer. Lars had his arm slung over Harper’s shoulders. Samira was seated, chair rocked back onto its rear legs, some of the new opferns at her table—Marex, red-headed Mickey, Old Bufford. Catori and Langley were by the small window where Mandeep was handing them plates heaped high with rice and chicken.

“Hey, Lance!” cried out Clovinn with a grin. “Given up on the hermit life?”

“The man’s hungry,” said Jessie, and gestured with a nod for him to follow. “Mandeep! Make it a triple.”

Mandeep fixed a dolorous stare upon Lance, his disapproval obvious, but gave a grudging nod.

Everybody watched as Lance followed Jessie to the window, where they collected their plates in silence.

It was excruciating. He was sweating. The best thing would be for him to just head right back to his cabin, to get away from this light—

Samira rose. Powerful, graceful like a hunting cat, and the solid core of their entire team, she made her way over with her tray and set it beside his own.

Sat.

Everybody stared at her now, including Lance.

She glanced sidelong at him, brushed her auburn fishtail braid behind one broad shoulder, and gave him a nod. “Lance.”

“Samira.”

“Food’s getting cold.” And she resumed eating.

Lance dry-swallowed. Slowly, everyone took their cue from the schloss and relaxed.

And by slow degrees, he did, too.

The food was delicious.

The moment he took his first bite his whole body awoke into a bonfire of starvation. He set to eating with gusto, earning a chuckle from Samira.

Who knows how much later he roused himself, finishing off the last bite, and sat back. Half the team had moved over to an open area where they were playing some kind of invisible game together via Neural Link. That’s where the laughter was coming from.

Samira had already finished, and was sitting back, arms crossed, watching him. “Two weeks till the Final.”

All he could do was nod. Once.

She was gauging him. “We’ve lost twice to Nullpoint. No shame, I guess, in placing second.”

Jessie leaned in. “Won’t do Virgil’s cause much good.”

Samira shrugged one big shoulder. Watched Lance.

Who took up his napkin, wiped at his lips carefully, then dropped it on his plate. He glanced sidelong at Jessie. Looked around at the others. Focused on Samira once more. “I don’t think I’ll be happy with second place.”

“That so?” Samira sounded only mildly curious. “What are you going to do about it?”

This was where he should make an empty boast. Where he should say something catchy and roguish, earn her admiration, set the tone for the rest of the team.

But her gaze was too sober, her assessment to clear.

Lance inhaled deeply. “I’m not sure how I’m going to do it. Not yet. But I’m going to win.”

Samira must have heard something worth hearing in his voice, because after a spell she gave a measured nod. “Glad to hear it.” Then she rose and took up her tray, took a step away, looked back. “Welcome to the team, Lance.”

His heart pounded the whole time as he watched her put the tray away and depart into the night.

What had even happened? He’d just come in for dinner. What did she mean…? But it did mean something.

Something had happened.

She’d seen a change in him.

Perhaps something he didn’t even understand yet.

But she’d seen it. Recognized it.

Acknowledged it.

And it felt good.

It felt damn good.

Lance stood, took up his tray. Smiled at Jessie. “Thanks for the invite. See you around, cousin.”

Jessie tongued the inside of her cheek, and a new light was shining in her eyes. “See you around, cuz.”

Feeling different, hesitantly excited, cautiously resolved, Lance dropped his tray off, and headed back out into the dark.