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17 years later…

“I can’t believe how many people are out there!” Charleston said in a whisper to his two closest friends in Red Pod, Savannah and New York. “Half of the city must be in the stands.”

“Nervous much?” came a sardonic retort from behind him.

Charleston glanced at its source and rolled his eyes. “Mind your own business, Arkhangelsk.”

“Ooh,” the tall, lithe blonde girl mocked to the delight of her cohort, Dublin and Arizona. “You’re lucky we’re up against Orange Pod and not each other,” Arkhangelsk continued with a smirk. “I’d leave you with more than a broken toe.”

Charleston’s mouth worked, but no witty retort sprung to his lips. It was true he’d strained his bicep and broken his toe in the last round fighting the kids from White Pod. But they’d won the melee. And, more importantly, he’d won his own fights, despite the injuries. Yet he couldn’t manage to articulate any of this in the time it took for Arkhangelsk to look him up and down one more time in disdain and then turn back to her friends, laughing.

“Just ignore her,” Savannah consoled, touching his shoulder to draw his attention back to her and New York. “She’s just jealous that you’re better than she is.”

Savannah always knew what to say and when to say it, Charleston thought. She was the smartest in their pod, both mentally and emotionally, in his opinion.

New York opened his mouth to add something when a booming voice interrupted the hum of teenage chatter.

“Welcome to the final round of the inter-podal melee,” Professor Thurmond announced to the two pods of 15-year-olds standing in their respective groups on the Combat Floor. It was currently nothing more than a flat space in a massive room enclosed by a clear dome far above them. That would all change once the melee started, of course. “Congratulations on being the last pods standing,” Thurmond continued, dark eyes sweeping across the two groups, a smile splitting his broad face. 

Charleston smiled back. Tank, as he was affectionately called by most of the Podkind after they’d learned about the machines of war in their History and Culture Class because he was almost as big as one, was his favorite professor. And it wasn’t just because Combat Class was the only subject Charleston excelled at. The giant man was kind and patient, gentle even in his instruction, as if he was teaching them how to prune plants rather than break bones. And Charleston sensed his professor had a soft spot for him and his friends, too.

“You should all be proud of yourselves,” Thurmond continued, still holding the gaze of each and every podling. “No matter today’s outcome, you have all demonstrated exceptional skill and tactical intelligence. You are among the best of the best.” He paused and half smiled. “After all, I trained you,” he said with a wink.

Charleston rubbed a hand over his closely shorn head of dark brown hair and exchanged a glance with his friends. It had been a grueling few weeks of the most intense and painful combat of their young lives and none of them had come out of it unscathed. He cracked his ribs and broke a cheekbone fighting against White Pod in round 1. In round 2, he’d walked right into an ambush by some kids in Green Pod. He’d managed to hold his on long enough for New York to find him, but not before he’d taken a serious beating that left him with bruised kidneys and a concussion.

And the last round…who knew you needed your big toe so much?

“The winner of this melee will be the champion of the Podkind,” Professor Thurmond’s voice cut in on Charleston’s thoughts, erasing all memory of his previous injuries as surely as the regeneration nanos had in the aftermath of each battle, “and will take home the grand prize!”

Whispers flicked between the teenagers. There had never been any prizes before.

“The rules are the same as always,” Professor Thurmond continued, his smiling face now serious. “No eye-gouging, dismemberment, or kill shots to the throat or temple. Otherwise, you are to treat this as much like real combat as possible, as if your life depends on it…”

“Because it does,” the podlings all said in unison, finishing one of Tank’s favorite mantras. They’d been hearing it since they began their training more than a decade ago.

“And remember,” the large man added, his tone graver yet, “this exercise is specially designed to prepare you for your Test to determine your Purpose in the Collective. Treat it accordingly and do your very best.”

Charleston’s chest tingled with a mixture of anxiety and excitement at the mention of their Test. He couldn’t wait to finally find out his Purpose, but he was terrified he wouldn’t do well enough to make the Dome Guard. They took only the best fighters from each pod.

He inadvertently glanced at Arkhangelsk, his former best friend and the only person in Red Pod who could go toe-to-toe with him. She’d hit her growth spurt already and was taller than he was, with curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her slender frame was in sharp contrast with that of her two friends, Arizona and Dublin, who were two of the largest kids in Red Pod. And two of the stupidest.

“Each of you will begin alone,” Professor Thurmond continued. “It is up to you how you proceed from there, but the goal is the same. Eliminate each member of the opposing pod and victory is yours.”

Charleston turned to his group of friends, hoping Arkhangelsk hadn’t caught him looking in her direction. New York, taller and wider than even Arkhangelsk’s two dummies, stood to his right. He had dark hair and light brown skin, as if tan from the sun, and his friendly face was calm. Savannah was on his left. She had dark skin and wore her black hair up in a ponytail. Her eyes darted between her friends as she chewed her lower lip. Jacksonville, or Jax, as he was called by his friends – and he was friends with everyone – was next to her. He was shorter than Charleston, thin and wiry, with dark skin a few shades lighter than Savannah’s and curly black hair he kept short. He was smiling.

“Same plan as before,” Charleston said quietly, meeting each of their eyes in turn. Now that the moment was upon them, all his anxiety and excitement receded to the back of his mind, leaving him calm, almost relaxed. Combat was his thing. It might be his only thing, but he was the best at it of his group of friends and they knew it. “Ignore the crowd. They aren’t really here anyway. Find each other as fast as possible. A solitary fighter is far more vulnerable than a group.”

“Yes, Professor Thurmond,” Jax quipped with a smile.

Charleston flashed a quick grin in response, then looked to each of his friends in turn. He could see the excitement in their glittering eyes and slight movements. They were ready. Except for Savannah. “Just stay alive until I find you,” he said, squeezing her arm. She was the smartest of them all, but she didn’t like fighting. Even as children, she couldn’t bring herself to hit anyone. It was against her nature, she often said.

“Paris!” Charleston called to a slender pale boy standing alone. He had thin black hair that hung limply on his shoulders and a face full of sharp angles. “You hear me?”

The boy nodded, but looked as if he could have been agreeing to anything.

Well, Charleston thought, at least he had tried. Paris usually did his own thing. The others, meanwhile, would work it out for themselves. Arkhangelsk would have no interest in discussing plans with him. And the four girls who made up the rest of Red Pod – Vienna, Aurora, Sofia, and Madison – were as tight as he was with his group and preferred to work as their own team.

“If you are eliminated,” Professor Thurmond continued, “proceed immediately to the Staging Room and stay there.” His gaze stopped on Dublin, who had light brown hair and small eyes hidden in his fleshy face by a large forehead and bulbous nose. During the last round Dublin had snuck back to the battle after being subdued by his opponent.

“Prepare yourselves,” Thurmond concluded, starting towards the exit of the Combat Floor. He typed something into his wrist computer as he went, and Charleston glanced once more at Arkhangelsk. This time she was looking back. The two held each other’s gazes for a few seconds, her blue eyes glowering into his dark ones. Then she smirked and turned to say something to Arizona and Dublin, who glanced at Charleston and snickered.

Anger and embarrassment blossomed in his chest. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and found his center point, just as he’d been taught to do in Mindfulness and Maturity class by Professor Duman. His earlier sense of calm and quiet returned.

He opened his eyes.

The din of shouts and screams always caught him off guard first, no matter how prepared he was for it. Thousands of New Washingtonians packed the stands above them where the clear glass of the dome had once been. They were all cheering and clapping for the Podkind. Charleston still didn’t understand why so many adults wanted to watch a bunch of teenagers train for their Purpose, but there was much about adults he didn’t get.

The rush of sound was followed quickly by an intense feeling of disorientation as he took in his new surroundings. One second he had been standing among his podmates on the Combat Floor, the next he was alone in the bottom of some kind of ditch or gully. Rocky light-brown walls more than twice his height rose to either side of him. The air was dry and extremely hot.

A narrow path flanked by steep dirt walls stretched out in front of him. It was a clear route, inviting him to follow it. He didn’t. The obvious way is typically the wrong way, he thought, remembering another of Professor Thurmond’s mantras. Instead, he climbed up the rough wall and out of the ditch. He was rewarded with a view of a rocky desert, crisscrossed with deep gullies and ravines. A hot breeze kicked up sand and stung his face.

In the distance, Charleston saw an opening where various gullies emptied out into a large flat expanse. He moved towards it in a low crouch. Before long, however, he was forced back into the gully system, the hilltop sloping back down to meet the desert floor. The terrain was designed to keep them away from high ground, Charleston realized. Professor Thurmond wanted them isolated and blind for this battle.

A scuffle against stone up ahead followed by a whispered curse interrupted his thoughts.

He was approaching an intersection of three gullies. Small stones and other debris littered the ground. The opening offered little to no natural protection. Charleston took this all in in a glance.

Just then, a group of three people emerged from the left branch. They fanned out into the open intersection as soon as they spotted Charleston. So much for being isolated, he thought ruefully to himself.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Jambon, the largest of the three. He had dark hair and a head like a block that sat flush with his muscular, square torso, no neck to be seen. The other boy, Dammen, was a light-haired kid of average height and build. The girl, Naima, had dirty blonde hair and a face dusted with freckles. She was so petite she looked to be several years younger, though this was impossible. “Looks like we found an easy targ…”

Charleston kicked a fist-sized stone at Jambon’s head before he could finish his taunt. It was a diversionary tactic more than anything, meant to give Charleston a few precious seconds to attack Dammen before all three could converge on him. It worked. He reached the smaller boy and threw a series of quick jabs at his face. Dammen deflected the first two, but the third was too fast. He staggered back. Charleston didn’t follow up. Instead, he kicked out behind him in the direction he sensed Naima was coming from. His instincts had been correct. She crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach and sucking at air.

Then, with the speed that made him one of the best fighters in his pod despite his slight stature, Charleston dropped and spun his leg at Dammen’s feet. The boy had regained his balance and was about to attack, when Charleston’s foot caught him in the ankles. Dammen landed heavily on his back.

Charleston’s momentum brought him around in a fighting position ready to face Jambon.

He hadn’t been fast enough. The large boy’s foot crashed into Charleston’s shoulder and sent him flying backwards.

“That was a nasty trick,” Jambon said, approaching slowly and wiping blood from his eyes. The rock had caught him just across his brow and the wound, though superficial, was bleeding steadily. “You’re going to pay for that,” he threatened, waiting for his podmates to regain their footing.

Charleston bared his teeth in a predatory smile as he stood up. He glanced behind him and took a few steps towards the slope from which he had descended earlier.

“There’s nowhere to run,” the large boy snarled. “You’re outnumbered. Might as well surrender now…we’ll only beat you a little bit.” Dammen laughed weakly, while Naima was still gasping for breath.

If Charleston were an average fighter, three-to-one odds would be insurmountable, particularly against foes who knew how to fight together. But he was far from an average fighter, and he could see fear in the eyes of Jambon’s mates. His earlier strikes had hit more than physical flesh.

Charleston rushed forward. The sooner he took Jambon down, the sooner the other two would break. He launched a series of lightning-fast kicks, first at the boy’s knee, then his stomach, then his face. Jambon stumbled back and Charleston quickly dropped into another leg sweep, this one targeting Naima, who he felt approaching from his right. She went down hard on her back, her own kick whiffing harmlessly through the air where Charleston’s head had been.

A blow from Dammen as Charleston settled into a crouch did little to slow him. He dropped his hands to the ground for support and kicked out with both feet, catching the light-haired boy in the face. Blood sliced a dark red trail across the desert floor as the boy spun to the ground. Charleston leapt up just in time to deflect two slow, but powerful punches from Jambon, who had shaken off Charleston’s kicks and rejoined the battle.

“Dammen is eliminated,” the automated voice of the Combat Dome sounded. The crowd cheered, as it did with each elimination.

Charleston didn’t glance at the unmoving boy. He was too busy dodging Jambon’s very large fists.

He’s bigger than New York! Charleston thought as he brought both forearms down to block a knee aimed at his face.

Naima was up again, but she seemed even more reluctant to join the fight than before.

Charleston fell into a defensive stance and let Jambon come to him. The boy had some moves, but he wasn’t very fast. As the fight progressed, Charleston noticed a pattern to his attacks. He clearly relied more on his strength than skill and was unaccustomed to fights going long. Charleston danced around him, slapping fists and feet away when he couldn’t dodge them.

“Naima!” Jambon cried out to his podmate. “Quit spectating and get in here!”

Charleston went on the offensive before Naima rediscovered her courage. He sidestepped yet another punch, then unleashed a flurry of blows to the boy’s kidney. Jambon spun and punched again, this time stepping just a little too much into his swing. It was what Charleston had been baiting him to do. He deflected the massive fist with a forearm as it whooshed by his face, then flipped his hand to grab Jambon’s wrist. Before the boy could regain his balance, Charleston pulled, extending his arm so that his next blow struck the back of his now locked elbow.

Jambon screamed as his arm broke.

Charleston then hyperextended the bully’s knee with a vicious downward kick. Jambon slumped, but Charleston hadn’t let go of his wrist. He lifted the now useless arm and twisted until he heard bones break. Jambon screamed again. Charleston slammed his knee into his face twice before letting him fall to the ground unconscious.

“Jambon is eliminated,” the voice announced.

Charleston spun to face Naima, but the girl was gone.

Silence filled the dome for just a moment, before the crowd of New Washingtonians erupted in cheers and applause.

Charleston thrilled over his victory, but he pushed that feeling away and tuned the crowd out. He couldn’t let pride over one battle lead him to failure in the next. Another Thurmond lesson. Nor did he give a second thought to the degree of violence he’d inflicted on Jambon. He and his fellow podlings were trained fighters and killers, taught never to pull their punches or show mercy to an enemy in a combat situation. A fight wasn’t over until your opponent was down for good. These were among the first lessons the Podkind had learned all those years ago. Charleston could still vividly recall that day on the Combat Floor with Tank. Finding out at 6 that you were going to learn how to kill people had that kind of lasting effect.

“Combat training is only as good as you make it,” Professor Thurmond had told the group of twelve shy and nervous children standing uncertainly on the Combat Floor. They had only just graduated from obstacle courses designed to improve strength and dexterity to actual fighting. “It is crucial your training be as realistic as possible. No enemy will show you mercy, so you have to train without it yourselves. You must learn to tolerate pain and fight through injuries, or you will die.”

Charleston remembered how scary and strange this had sounded at the time. They had been so small.

He banished the memory and made his way cautiously along the gully floor as it twisted and turned its way towards the center. Periodically, the crowd noise would surge and the automated voice would announce another podling eliminated. Orange Pod was now down two members, while Red Pod had lost Paris, Madison, and Dublin.

Not our strongest fighters, Charleston thought, pressing against the rock wall and peering around a corner. He thought he’d heard something.

Yes, there was definitely someone hiding up ahead in a deep crevice. Charleston looked around the rest of the ravine for signs of anyone else waiting in ambush but saw no one. He decided to spring the trap. If someone were counting on surprising him, he would have the advantage, knowing they were there.

He stepped out into the gully and turned the corner, stance relaxed, eyes straining to keep the crevice in his periphery. As he drew even with his would-be ambusher, he heard his name.

Savannah emerged from her hiding place looking a little too relieved to see him.

Charleston relaxed at the sight of his slim, dark friend. “Savannah!” he said with a smile. “I told you I’d find you!” He quickly related his battle with Jambon and the others to her. “Have you seen anyone else?” he asked, when he had finished.

“No, not yet.”

“These gullies all lead to a larger opening,” Charleston said. “Let’s see if we can find some of the others on the way.”

“Agreed,” she said. “There’s a path up ahead I haven’t been down yet.”

“Let’s go,” Charleston replied, and the two stalked down the ravine, eyes alert.

The rocky path continued its crooked way, first winding back in the direction from which Charleston had come before again turning towards the center.

“Up?” Charleston asked, signaling to the top of the gully wall after they’d walked for a few minutes.

Savannah answered by way of climbing, and Charleston quickly followed. They crouched atop the desert floor and surveyed the landscape. Muffled sounds came from a large gully to the left. Charleston raised his eyebrows at Savannah, who nodded, and they moved silently towards the battle.

They made their way atop the gully walls, leaping across two narrow gaps to draw within twenty yards of the fight. The sounds of combat were clearer now – grunts, shouts, and thuds of blows landing – but this was as close as they could get without descending back into the ravine.

They clambered down and hurried the remaining distance, halting at the last turn to observe the fight in the opening ahead. It was a large melee, six podlings engaged in fast and furious battle. Charleston immediately picked out Vienna and Sofia. They were nearly surrounded by four members of Orange Pod. Charleston recognized Tongo and Flora. They were both strong fighters he’d noticed in earlier rounds. He was unsure of the other two girls’ names.

Charleston signaled to Savannah to move right around the opening while he started left. If they were lucky, they would take out two of Orange Pod before being seen. As he crept closer, he made eye contact with Vienna and Sofia, who immediately went on the attack, keeping their enemy’s focus on them. A moment later, Charleston sprung forward and kicked the back of Tongo’s legs, knocking him painfully to his knees. Before the boy could turn to defend himself, Charleston grabbed him in a chokehold. Now if only Savannah had taken out her opponent…

“Savannah is eliminated.”

Charleston cursed as Tongo went limp in his arms and turned to see what happened. Sofia, a quiet girl with cropped blonde hair and pale blue eyes, was in frantic battle with Flora next to Savannah’s unconscious body. Charleston let Tongo fall to the ground as the automated voice announced his elimination and leapt towards Flora. Vienna, the female version of New York when it came to size, was almost as good a fighter as he was. She could take care of herself against two enemies.

Before he could reach Sofia, however, Flora dodged one of the Redling’s punches, stepped in, and delivered a teeth-cracking uppercut that clacked the girl’s mouth shut and nearly lifted her off the ground.

“Vienna is eliminated.”

Charleston nearly glanced backwards, thinking the voice had confused the two girls.

“Sofia is eliminated.”

He cursed again and launched himself at Flora, all fists, elbows, and knees. He had precious few seconds to take her down before the other two Oranglings made this his second three-on-one battle of the melee.

Flora was no fool, though. She quickly backed away, forearms up to protect her head, buying time until her Podmates could join her.

Charleston snaked a couple sharp jabs past her defenses and managed to hit a nerve cluster in one of her shoulders that sent the arm dangling limp and useless to her side, but it wasn’t enough. The other two were on him now and he had to dive and roll just to avoid their kill shots. As it was, he found himself, smarting from several blows to his back, squatting and facing three angry enemies as they fanned out around him.

There was no talking, as with Jambon, no threats. The three attacked as one.

Charleston was a blur. Instead of backing away, he charged into the kick aimed at him by Flora as blows by the other two smashed the air where he’d just been. He sidestepped Flora’s kick and caught the girl’s leg just behind the knee. In one swift motion, he flipped her hard onto her back, then dropped a knee at her face. Flora, though stunned and breathless, managed to bring an elbow up to block.

Charleston had left himself open to the other two for nothing. He sprang into another desperate roll past the fallen girl to put some distance between himself and his attackers. He was too late. Two blows to his back and head sent his roll into a face-first sprawl.

Charleston flipped awkwardly to his back to face the oncoming Orange Pod girls. They were on him a split second later, raining fists and feet down from above as he harmlessly kicked out to keep them at bay. It was hopeless. Any fighter with half the experience the Podlings had would make short work of a prone opponent.

“Flora is eliminated.”

The sudden and unexpected announcement caused the two girls to pause and look back for a second in disbelief.

It was enough. Charleston scrambled up just in time to see Arkhangelsk land a lightning-fast punch to one of the Orangling’s jaw. The girl crumpled to the ground. Before her unconscious body hit, Arkhangelsk turned and launched a straight kick at the other’s chest so fast it was barely visible. The latter managed a clumsy block, more luck than skill. Instead of resetting her feet, Arkhangelsk simply pivoted and kicked her still raised foot straight at the girl’s face. Her head snapped back and she collapsed.

The voice announced, “Oloa is eliminated. Yamana is eliminated.”

Arkhangelsk had defeated two opponents before the first was even announced vanquished. The noise from the crowd crescendoed, reaching a volume he’d never experienced before. 

“Thanks,” Charleston said once he could be heard. He caught Arkhangelsk’s eye for a moment, then looked away, ostensibly to survey the carnage of the now calm battlefield. Three more Red Pod members were eliminated, leaving only six, while Orange Pod was down to six as well. He wondered how the others were doing.

“Prairie is eliminated,” sounded as if in response.

That left five for Orange Pod. They had the advantage.

“So,” Charleston began, looking back at the blonde-haired girl. She was as thin and wiry as he was, but she moved and fought with what he could only describe as grace, something he lacked. Her face was flushed and dirt-stained, her mouth a straight line. “Want to work together?”

She answered with a snort. “This doesn’t change anything, Les,” she said, heavily emphasizing her derogatory name for him. She brushed by his shoulder and set off towards the center.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Charleston replied, falling in behind her. They had once been best friends, back when they were still little kids. But something had changed when they’d hit double digits, though he wasn’t sure what. Now she hated him and rarely missed an opportunity to remind him of that fact.

Arkhangelsk stalked into the maze of gullies, moving as swift and silent as a jungle cat. Charleston admired her in spite of himself. They were the same age, but while his nearly 16-year-old self resembled more the child he would soon cease to be, her nearly 16-year-old self had already begun to look like the adult she would soon become.

She stopped suddenly, signaling to Charleston to do the same. He could hear it now, too. A faint thudding, followed by what sounded like grunts. With each grunt, the crowd oohed, as if they themselves were in pain. The sounds were coming from just around the corner. Charleston pointed one finger up and the other at the path. Arkhangelsk nodded once and Charleston quickly clambered up the gully wall, while she crept around the corner.

What Charleston saw from his position on top of the gully made his heart drop. Two Oranglings held Jacksonville by each arm against the opposite wall, while a larger one was systematically delivering body blows – the thumping Charleston had heard. His barely conscious friend grunted weakly with each punch.

Charleston didn’t wait for Arkhangelsk’s signal…he didn’t even remember she was there. He leapt smoothly from the top of the gully wall, feet aimed dagger-like at the back of the one hitting Jax.

“Edinburgh!” one of the Orange Podlings shouted in warning and dropped Jacksonville.

Edinburgh turned just as Charleston’s two feet crashed into his shoulders. The boy slammed into the gully wall.

Meanwhile, Charleston’s maneuver didn’t end entirely well for him, either. He couldn’t get his feet under him in time and landed heavily on his back, the wind rushing painfully from his lungs. He rolled to his side as Arkhangelsk joined the fray, a blur of deadly speed. By the time Charleston regained his feet, the boy who’d been left holding the slumping Jax was down.

“Crossroads is eliminated.”

Charleston’s fury at seeing his friend beaten on like a punching bag was undampened by his less than elegant attack and he launched himself at Edinburgh. The boy was bigger than Charleston, but not as big as his brother bully, Jambon. Charleston kicked at the boy’s head, testing the latter’s speed and reflexes.

Edinburgh dodged to the right and tried to go on the attack with a kick of his own, but Charleston was too quick. He blocked the boy’s foot with a downward strike, then pivoted and sent the same foot into the boy’s midsection. The blow sent him ricocheting off the wall behind him and immediately back into another of Charleston’s kicks, this one to the face. Charleston didn’t relent as Edinburgh reeled back again. He angled his next kick at the top of the boy’s planted foot. His heel hit bones with a crack.

Edinburgh cried out in pain but didn’t fall. He pushed himself off the wall and threw a jab at Charleston’s face. Charleston slapped the fist away and delivered two quick punches to Edinburgh’s solar plexus, followed by another to his nose. As Edinburgh brought his forearms up to block, Charleston crouched and swung an upper cut directly into the boy’s crotch, dropping him to his knees. As Edinburgh groaned and clutched at himself, Charleston chopped both hands down on the boy’s collarbones, snapping them with a sickening sound. Edinburgh swayed, half conscious, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, blood running down his face.

“Aren is eliminated,” Charleston heard. Arkhangelsk had taken care of the other Orange podling.

With all the strength he had, Charleston kicked Edinburgh in the face. The blow bounced the boy off the gully wall and sent him to the ground with barely a sound.

“Edinburgh is eliminated.”

“You always do that!” Arkhangelsk shouted over the roar of the crowd and before he’d even had a chance to take a breath. She spun towards him, her face full of rage.

“Do what?”

“Ignore the plan!  Rush in without thinking to play the hero!”

“And what would you have had me do?” Charleston asked, his own temper flaring at Arkhangelsk’s harsh words. “Let them beat Jax to death?”

“You’re a fool!” she snorted, turning away.

Jacksonville was standing now, hunched over and holding his ribs. He gave Charleston an appreciative look, ignoring Arkhangelsk’s tirade. “That was impressive,” he said through wheezes. “Brutal and impressive. Impressive in its brutality,” he continued. Even half breathing, he was trying to make Charleston smile. Just one reason everyone liked Jax. 

Charleston stared after Arkhangelsk a moment before turning to his friend. “I ran into some of these bastards earlier. I don’t know what’s with them, but there were three then, too, and they said they would only beat on me a little bit.”

“I see that didn’t work out for them,” Jax replied with a grimace.

“They were cowards,” Charleston shrugged. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” the boy answered, though he looked rough. There were rocks and dirt tangled in his short dark hair, and blood oozed a slow line from the corner of his right eye. “They cornered me and decided to have a little fun,” he said in a tone that made it clear those were their words.

“Arizona is eliminated,” sounded across the battlefield, reminding the them of the task at hand.

“Aurora is eliminated,” the voice announced.

Two more of their own down. Something big was going on and it didn’t sound good for Red Pod.

“Let’s keep moving,” Charleston said.

“How many are left?” Jacksonville asked as they started down the path after Arkhangelsk, who had slowed to let them catch up.

“Three Orange,” Arkhangelsk answered, her tone cold.

“What about us?”

“Four,” Charleston answered before she could. “I haven’t heard New York’s name yet.”

“That means he’s alone,” Jacksonville said, stating what each just realized.

Without a word, Charleston and Arkhangelsk increased their pace. Jacksonville limped hurriedly after them, still clutching his injured midsection and breathing heavily.

The gully floor wended its way towards the large opening. The walls on either side of them gradually sloped down as they neared the clearing. The lack of noise coming from the empty space ahead and the crowd above worried Charleston. Surely they would hear signs of fighting if there were any.

He and Arkhangelsk rounded the final turn and stopped. The clearing was large, a hundred feet or more in diameter, with more gullies emptying into it than Charleston could count. The ground was level with a thin layer of sand over clay. Rocks of various sizes were scattered about. New York crouched in the middle, clutching his right knee, which bent at an angle knees weren’t meant to. Even from this distance Charleston could see blood running down his face. Two Oranglings were slowly circling him, kicking dirt and rocks at him from a safe distance and laughing.

Charleston felt his vision darken, but he fought the urge to rush in.

“What is with these Oranglings?” Arkhangelsk muttered.

“I only see two,” Jacksonville commented, having finally caught up.

“We have the numbers either way,” Charleston said through clinched teeth. “Let’s go!” He turned to Arkhangelsk. “If that’s okay with you, of course,” he added acidly.

She rolled her eyes and dashed into the clearing.

Charleston was a step behind. “Jax!” Charleston shouted as he ran. “Help New York!” 

The two Orange Pod members, both girls, turned to face the approaching Red Pod pair. If they were surprised or scared to see them, they didn’t show it. Instead, they bent, picked up a handful of stones, and began hurling them at Charleston and Arkhangelsk.

Charleston ducked one, but another caught him painfully in his shoulder, nearly spinning him around. He grunted, brought his forearms up to block another throw, then launched himself the remaining distance. As he did so, another of Professor Thurmond’s many lessons floated across his mind.

‘Actual combat, whether hand-to-hand or otherwise, is rarely clean or predictable. It certainly isn’t beautiful.’

When they’d still been mastering the basics, Charleston nodded in would-be sage agreement, as he and the others always did when Tank delivered one of his more philosophical mantras. Once they’d begun fighting in simulations like these – at first against computer-generated foes and then in inter-podal melees – the truth of those words became immediately evident. They could drill katas and spar all day, but actual combat was fast and furious, over in a few brutal seconds and frequently in ways that little resembled their practiced forms.

Charleston drove his shoulder into the girl’s midsection and tackled her. He followed her to the ground, then grabbed her wrist and spun off of her, wrapping his legs around her neck. With a sharp downward motion, he broke the girl’s arm at the elbow as he choked her with his legs. Brutally efficient it was. Beautiful it was not. The crowd gasped collectively.

“Rosa is eliminated.”

Charleston leapt up to check on the others when his head exploded in pain.

“Charleston is eliminated,” some part of him registered as he slumped down beside Rosa and fell into blackness.

 

The Podkind is a science fiction/fantasy novel written by Johnny Cycles. Click here for Chapters 3 and 4.