Oil-Slick Orson's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Six days out from the Trash Compactor Championship preliminaries, Oil-Slick Orson punched the keypad on his private gym and dropped into the pit below. The lift slammed to the floor. He had traded a knee, both feet, and the shades fused into his eye sockets to get this far. Now he wanted the belt. He set his rig to maximum and let the machines hurt him. He hoisted an explosive-loaded barbell until his cyber knee whined and locked. His feet folded into rollers. He raced the pit's inner wall, spun, and braked hard. Then he raised his weapon, a cobalt-and-silver chainsaw shotgun. He racked the slide. The chainsaw teeth spun clean. The readout glowed green. Loaded. Ready. He had pushed his body to the edge. It was not enough, and he knew it. So he shut the rig down and went to find the calm in his storm. The Jawbreaker Dojo smelled of sugar and cold stone. Candy tiles armored the roof. Inside, Koyo Kuro stood waiting. He was Orson's sensei, half ice cream cone, half ninja, the one man who slowed Orson's pulse. His waffle-cone blades hung at his sides. Melted chocolate ran down his shoulders and never dripped. "You came in loud," Koyo said. "You always do." "I don't have time to be quiet," Orson said. "Six days." Koyo drew a blade and set it flat against Orson's chest, over the armor. "In every breath is your strength. You forget to breathe. That will get you crushed in the pit." He made Orson run the training stand until his augments smoked. Wing Chub strikes, block, counter, again. Orson's rollers slipped on the candy floor twice. Koyo moved like water and never slipped once. He knocked Orson down four times. The fifth time, Orson caught the blade and held it still. "Better," Koyo said. "Now the falls." They walked to the soda waterfall. Fizz poured down glowing rock into a bright pool. Orson knelt on the wet steps. The spray hissed against his hot metal. He breathed. His pulse dropped. For the first time in days, the noise in his skull went quiet. He saw the whole fight in his mind, calm and slow. He bowed low. Koyo returned it. "You are ready for the preliminaries," Koyo said. "Fight like you breathed today." On the way home, Orson stopped at the pizza parlor under its painted moon. The gremlin chef slid a hot slice across the counter, pineapple, pepper, mango, fire crust. Orson ate standing up. A cracked screen above the booths flashed the championship bracket. He found his name in the first slot. Then he read the name beside it. His opponent for the preliminaries was the current Oil Pit Champion, the one he had studied on tape for months. Orson set down the crust. He had trained for the whole tournament. Now the hardest fight came first.