Sexy Space Babes - Mechs, Maidens and Macaroons: Chapter Thirty Two

As the saying went, ‘the show must go on’.

Which was a polite way of saying that his little altercation with Lirath was of distinctly secondary importance to the arena staff that showed up when compared with getting Kalia – and Jelara – to their mech on time.

The last Mark had seen, the unconscious Nighkru male was being carried off on a stretcher by a pair of harried looking medical staff. He, in the meantime, was being escorted to the hangars with the rest of ‘team Kalia’.

And as they walked, Mark had a bit of a realization.

And that realization was that, in retrospect, he probably should have been a bit gentler when it came to revealing that Kalia had been disowned by her family. Especially in the lead up to the fight of the woman’s life in which a clear mind was likely quite beneficial.

Now, how he’d have been able to achieve that goal of breaking things gently while quite literally standing over the comatose form of the woman’s former fiancé, he didn’t quite know, but he really should have found a way.

“So, uh, you seem to be handling this whole disowning thing well?” he carefully broached as their small team was ushered towards the mech hangars.

And she was. The woman looked almost serene as she strode through the myriad halls of the arena.

Of course, he knew from experience that that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Kalia had grown up as the heiress to one of the largest corporations in the sector. And included in that upbringing had no doubt been a great many lessons on how to keep any internal turmoil from showing outwardly.

Indeed, to that effect, he pretended not to notice the way Tenir’s elbow subtly jabbed into his ribs for possibly destroying whatever outward façade of calm her friend had managed to cultivate while her life collapsed around her ears.

“You know, I really am,” Kalia said, almost as if she had surprised herself. “I thought… I thought I’d be more upset. If not about my mother disowning me then, at least in regards to Lirath.”

“But you’re not?” Tenir chimed in.

“No,” Kalia said casually. “I’m really not. I suppose, now that it’s all over with, I’m realizing that we never really had a relationship. Just a contract between our families. And that wasn’t likely to change when we finally did get married. It would just be… finalizing the contract. He’d still spend all of his time with the women he actually cared for – and I’d still be left off to the side to quietly pine in vain.”

She laughed, the sound honest and carefree, if tinged with just a hint of bitterness. “Now that it’s over though, I think I see just what a sad state of affairs the whole thing really was.” She turned to Mark, something surprisingly impish on the normally taciturn woman’s face. “Though I suppose the actual death knell of our relationship really occurred last night. I daresay you’ve ruined me for other men, human.”

Mark had no idea what to say to that, even as Saria whistled.

“So yes,” Kalia continued. “You’re entirely correct, Mark. I am ‘taking things well’. If nothing else, I think I feel rather more free than I’ve felt in a very long time.”

“Well, feel free to put that newfound ease of mind to work helping this one win this match,” Jelara grunted from the front of the group as they finally reached the hangars. “Because if we lose this match, you’re quickly going to be back to wishing you could still suckle your mama’s glucose-sac. As will the rest of us.”

Mark resisted the urge to sigh at the former criminal’s crass words, even if he’d just learned a fairly interesting little factoid about Ulnus development cycles.

However, even as both Tenir and Saria bristled at the jelly-woman’s words, Kalia just smiled. “Right you are, partner.”

Though one bright side to her crassness was that he in turn got to see the woman nearly trip over her own feet at Kalia’s response. And for a moment he was sad that his girlfriend’s current outfit meant he couldn’t see the delightful shade of pinky-red that was now no doubt shooting through her core.

Ah well, I’ll have plenty of time to see her get all bashful later, he thought as the doors of the hangar opened up to reveal the cavernous space within. Probably.

And he said probably because, as he stared up at the top-of-the-line mech gantry currently holding Starfarer’s distinctly less top-of-the-line frame, well, he couldn’t deny that he felt a little nervous.

As Jelara had said, if this went south, well, they were all in the shit.

Jelara would be out of a mech. Kalia would be disowned, penniless and likely a laughing stock in the mech fighting community. He was still dodging his actual employer’s calls, and would be likely on the line for a considerable fee for going AWOL prior to the closing of his contract.

And Tenir and Saria? While being out of a job would hardly be the end of the world for either of them, being tangentially on the shit list of one of the most powerful corporations in the system just might…

Yeah, he could only hope that he was the only one suffering from butterflies right now.

“Kiss this one,” Jelara said.

Mark blinked. “What?”

The Ulnus woman popped the faceplate of her reflective visor, and the colors swirling beneath nearly blinded him. He’d known she flushed when emotional, but this? She looked like a bioluminescent oil spill in motion - a shimmering, trembling rainbow. If he’d had any doubt about her nerves, they were well and truly gone now.

“For luck,” she said quickly. “That’s a human thing, right?”

“Y-yes,” Mark managed. “It can be.”

“Then do it.”

Her tone was flat, commanding, the way she said everything — but the frantic ripples of color flickering across her core betrayed her. Mark couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as he leaned in and kissed her. Somewhere behind them Saria let out a low, appreciative whistle, but Mark ignored it.

“Good,” Jelara said when they parted. “Now stay here and watch this one win.”

Before he could respond, she reached for the port at her hip, pulled out a hose, and plugged herself in. Mark had thought he was used to her physiology by now - but watching his girlfriend liquefy herself, siphoning her entire body up into the mech’s nutrient reservoir, was… well, horrifying was a polite word for it. Especially when her suit collapsed in on itself like an empty drink pouch, folding wetly to the floor.

He shuddered. Indeed, he was still staring at the deflated suit when a gentle tap came against his shoulder.

Kalia stood there, helm tucked under her arm, cheeks faintly dark crimson with embarrassment. “Ah. I wouldn’t mind a kiss as well. If… it’s not an issue.”

He almost laughed. They’d had sex the previous night - very energetic sex - and somehow she was still bashful about something as simple as a kiss.

It was adorable.

It was also nice to see a side of her… that wasn’t his boss. Sure, he’d seen a lot of that side over the course of the last month, but on some level she’d still been putting on airs.

Here and now though…

“Not an issue at all,” he said, and kissed her too.

Tenir lingered nearby, pretending not to watch. Saria didn’t bother pretending. Nor did she pretend not to want some loving of her own.

Which was why Mark grabbed Tenir – who let out a small squeak. And when he was done reducing the Nighkru to a blushing mess with the application of a little tongue, did he finally turn to the unamused Pesrin.

Not that she complained as she finally got some ‘appreciation for her efforts’.

And then it was time.

Arena staff swept in like a tide, politely but firmly leading him and Tenir out. Saria got to stay behind in the hangar to handle last-minute calibrations, Kalia was already clambering up into her cockpit.

He and Tenir were herded down the corridor by a dozen techs and non-combat personnel toward the spectator levels.

Personally, he didn’t see the rush.

There was still a good half hour before the match started.

------------------------------------

“Is she… dead?” Mark asked as the pre-show entertainment was dragged away, the barely muffled roars of the crowd beyond their plexiglass window finally dying down now that the bloodletting was done.

And there had been a lot of blood. Which made sense. The gladiator fight he’d just watched between nearly a dozen snake women had involved swords, spears, nets and what had looked alarmingly like a spike on a whip.

“Hmmm?” His words seemed to rouse Tenir from the pensive mood she’d been in ever since they’d entered the booth. “Oh? No, Senthe are quite hardy. I mean, they’d die without proper medical treatment, but the stuff here is top of the line. Fatalities tend to be pretty rare.”

Mark couldn’t help wanting to point out that ‘pretty rare’ was not the same as ‘never’. And the specification of ‘the stuff here’ sort of implied that there were places on Krenheim where medical care for gladiators like the ones below was less than optimal.

Or maybe even non-existent, he thought wryly.

“Want anything from the vendors before it starts?” Mark asked, mostly to distract himself before his thoughts got too morbid.

“I would, but I think I’m a bit too nervous to eat right now” she admitted, her voice softer than usual, her eyes fixed on the massive doors near the arena floor from which the mechs would emerge.

Mark nodded, his own stomach churning with the same anxiety – and a little bit because of the rather unexpected bloodletting he’d just witnessed.

…He really hadn’t expected that woman’s hand to fly quite so far. Hell, the shields were down, so it had landed in the crowd. Did… did whoever caught it get to keep it? Like a baseball? For a moment he considered asking Tenir, before deciding that he really didn’t want to know.

“And here I was hoping it was just me,” he admitted. “Everyone seemed so confident on the ride over.”

Tenir chuckled. “That was mostly for Kalia and Jelara’s sakes. We all know how risky this whole thing is. None of us needed to state it.”

Mark nodded slowly, letting the two of them lapse into silence as the sound of the arena commentator started to blare over the stadium speakers.

“What a fight! What a fight folks! And I truly hope that little show of bloodletting has whet your appetites, because now flesh and blood makes way for steel and plasma. The main event. The thing you’re all here for! The Krenheim Cup Mech Fighting League Championship Match!”

One of the arena doors literally exploded open in a dazzling display of fireworks and pyrotechnics – the figure standing just within obscured by grey billowing smoke.

“In this corner, we have the serpentine sensation, the slithering silence, Pallen! Piloting the ever deadly Venomstrike!”

A yellow-and-black bipedal mech strode out of the smoke, metal gleaming under the stadium lights, shadow boxing as she walked, two massive shoulder mounted weapons firing ruby-red beams into the air with an audible crackle of displaced air.

And once more Mark was reminded that unlike Shil lasers that weren’t on the visible spectrum – the ones employed by gladiators here on Kreheim most certainly were.

Though he also had another question. “Pallen’s a Senthe, why’s her mech bipedal?”

Wouldn’t that make it harder to maintain a neural link with the control interface? Sure, a neural link would allow for it, given he’d experienced the strange sensation of having extra-arms in the form of back-mounted cannons while he’d been playing with Kalia’s mech simulator, but he also knew that sticking as close to one’s natural form was generally considered more advantageous for creating a seamless transition.

“Rules,” Tenir explained, her tone clinical. “The first players of the sport were Nighkru dock-workers. That meant they used bipedal machines. From there, the definition of a gladiator mech became any machine that could walk more than three hundred feet utilizing no more than two points of contact with the floor. Said points of contact could not have a surface area beyond seven square feet.”

“Feet basically,” Mark said. “But I’ve seen the way Starfarer…”

Tenir cut him off. “A mech only needs to be capable of moving in that way. Which Starfarer proved to the arena staff a few hours ago. After that, how it moves is the pilot’s business. With that said, installing two separate methods of locomotion on a machine is generally a huge increase in weight and complexity for minimal return.”

Mark’s mouth closed as he nodded. So either Venomstrike was going to shift forms during the match – something he doubted after the one tirade Saria had launched into when he’d brought up ‘transforming mechs’ - or Pallen had simply chosen to live with the handicap imposed by piloting a machine entirely distinct from her own natural body.

Down below, the announcer’s voice continued as a second set of doors literally melted off the hinges – and that had to be a result of some kind of specially prepared alloy or something - once more allowing a cloud of smoke to billow out.

“And her challenger, Kalia… and Jelara, piloting… Starfarer!”

There was no way the announcer hadn’t been made aware of that change in advance, so those pauses had either been a calculated snub on the part of the arena’s management or simply a way to milk the novelty of Kalia and Jelara being a dual-piloting team. Hell, they didn’t even have to mention Jelara as she was technically equipment according to the loophole they’d used.

Still, snub or not, Mark was actually kind of happy that the Ulnus was getting recognition as Starfarer stepped out of the smoke and into view.

The crowd’s reactions were… mixed. A cheer that sort of ebbed, before renewing, but mixed with gasps and as well. Nonetheless the multi-limbed creation strode forward.

Mark frowned a little as his eyes shifted to a trio of women a few rows below them who were booing so loudly you’d think Starfarer had killed their dog at some point in the past.

“Why-”

“It’s the championship match,” Tenir said dispassionately. “And as far as they’re concerned, they paid for a nail-biting fight for the cup, only to be saddled with seats to an execution.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen though.”

Tenir shrugged. “Isn’t it? It might. Saria did the best she could, but there’s no denying Starfarer’s the weaker mech. In terms of armor alone, well, there’s a decent chance a good hit from one of Venomstrike’s shoulder cannons could take him out of the fight in a single hit, if it hit the right spot.”

Mark felt his stomach twist a bit at that. He’d definitely not known that.

Tenir turned to him to give him a small smile. “That’s unlikely though. Saria’s a bitch, but she does good work. It’d have to be a very lucky shot. Though I imagine that wouldn’t be much consolation to the poor pleb who spent half their monthly salary to get tickets to this.”

And despite himself, Mark couldn’t argue with that logic. So instead he just sat back and tried to ignore the jeers. Besides, it wasn’t like everyone was jeering. Far from it. There were just as many people cheering for Kalia – likely those who were aware of Kalia’s now quite public split with Vorn Industries.

The commentator’s voice thundered across the arena floor. “Pilots to starting positions!”

Starfarer shifted forward in a manner not totally distinct from a gorilla, fore most arms all but dragging along the floor. Nearly three football fields away, Pallen’s Venomstrike glided forward with a lot more grace. And between the two of them stood a small town’s worth of buildings, cars and other trappings one might find in an urban landscape. The raised section that had once hosted the bloodsports from earlier had seamlessly sunk into the ground, leaving an empty courtyard at the center of the arena.

All the while the constant noise of the crowd remained a palpable force that vibrated through the box’s windows.

“Ten!” the commentator cried.

Each mech had a starting location, but it was an area rather than a single spot, as such, Starfarer skated forward to settle behind a scorched looking barricade, limbs shifting about behind it like some kind of cloak.

“Nine!”

Venomstrike took position behind a pillar, sensors atop its main carapace whirring about to best map the layout of the urban jungle around it.

“Eight!”

Starfarer would be doing the same, albeit with significantly less fidelity.

 “Seven!”

As such, Mark could already see the hatch on its back open and ready to deploy the first of several drones that would fly up to provide visuals from above the moment the match started.

“Six.”

At least, until it was inevitably shot down.

“Five.”

Starfarer had several drones because the lifetime of each would likely be counted in seconds the moment they flew high enough to come into view of their opponent’s machine.

“Four.”

Venomstrike’s exposed sensor array retracted, its work done, the surroundings no doubt mapped in exacting detail.

 “Three!”

Starfarer’s were still whirring.

“Two!”

A panel on Venomstrike’s arm clicked open, revealing a trio of small launch tubes.

“One!”

Both mechs exploded into action as missiles launched from Venomstrike to streak over the arena arcing perfectly towards Starfarer’s location.

Fortunately, Starfarer was already moving, dashing down a side street, even as a drone flew up into the air.

He could almost see the moment either Jelara or Kalia saw the ping on their sensors, as the machine’s AMS popped up like a demented jack in the box. And not a moment too late as the incoming missiles shot over a building and directly towards the mech.

Laser fire from the anti-missile system blew two out of the air, but Starfarer was pelted by debris and shrapnel as it narrowly juked the third, sending it into a nearby store front. Fortunately, all said debris achieved was to score the mech’s paintwork.

Of course, that was the moment Mark realized the missiles had been less aimed to harm Starfarer and more to flush it out of its original position – as Venomstrike had used the intervening moments to clamber atop a raised highway and line up a shot with one of its shoulder weapons.

Out of position, Mark watched as the laser traced a line across Starfarer’s shoulder-mount, metal bubbling beneath the beam – evaporating away in moments. In just one shot, the laser mounted there was reduced to little more than melted slag.

“An incredible opening shot from Pallen, that sees Team Kalia down a weapon system barely ten seconds into the match.”

Starfarer returned fire, the laser on its other shoulder seeking out Venomstrike, but the yellow mech had already dropped off the highway and back out of sight.

Mark could almost feel the frustration of both Kalia and Jelara as they sprinted in the direction the enemy mech had dropped, the now useless right laser mount popping off the mech with a shower of sparks as the pair discarded the dead weight.

And as Mark watched it drop, he couldn’t help but think about how much effort had gone into something that had been destroyed in seconds.

He’d installed that laser.

…Well, he’d held a flashlight while Saria installed it. That counted though! He’d been involved.

For hours…

Though that was only to be expected. Because while for the last month he’d basically been the team’s maid, he’d also been pulling double duty as Saria’s reluctant assistant. Admittedly, so had everyone else, but as the ‘spare’, he’d been the one most often pulled over to fulfill the incredibly vital job of handing her the tools she needed – at least once she’d described what said tools looked like in maddening detail.

Which she was shit at – because saying the one with the blue handle was useless when they all had blue handles.

Still, in the course of those duties, he’d learned a fair bit about Starfarer and exactly what he was capable of.

Which was why he wasn’t too surprised when – as the drone reached its apex – one of Starfarer’s many limbs turned and ‘blindly’ fired off a trio of large spherical objects. Said spheres left the barrel with a distinctive ‘whumph’ before arcing slowly through the air, almost in direct contrast to the missiles from earlier.

Still, they were dead on target as, after stopping for just a moment to blast the now visible drone out of the air, Venomstrike’s own point defense system opened up on the spheres.

At which point they promptly exploded vibrant neon sludge that splashed across the yellow mech’s hull.

And some of its sensors.

It was almost comical how Pallen’s mech stutter stepped as the pilot inside was caught off guard.

Because while trying to blind an opponent with paint was hardly unknown to the mech fighting league, it was most assuredly something that tended to be phased out the moment one advanced beyond the ‘rookie’ stage.

Because it was so easily countered. A single set of wipers treated with the correct solvents could clear any occluded optics that got smeared by paint.

Only Venomstrike didn’t have them. Because why would he? This was a championship match. And what kind of moron would waste precious space and tonnage to bring paint to a match at this level? It was so unlikely that her mech had saved weight for more reasonable threats by phasing out the wiper system.

“Holy shit, it worked,” Tenir muttered. “She’s not totally blinded, but that’s a few visual systems out of commission on that side.”

The crowd’s roar turned to laughter, as Pallen’s mech faltered – and Mark saw that Saria’s plan to counter the ‘meta’ was working. Which was good, because she’d freely admitted that there was every chance it wouldn’t work, but she’d also said that it was the team’s best chance.

Why?

Because the best spearwoman in the world doesn’t fear the second best. She fears the worst, Mark thought as he recalled the Pesrin’s rant on the subject. Supposedly…

Personally, Mark thought it a little absurd. He knew he wasn’t the best chef in the world, but he also knew that in a cook off he’d rather go up against a total newbie rather than the second best in the world.

Still, fights were apparently different. At least according to Saria.

Why?

Because apparently a total newbie would act in totally unpredictable ways. Ways the best spearwoman could not anticipate or prepare for reliably.

This was apparently called ‘acting against the meta’.

The meta, supposedly being the ideal way of doing things. But Mark knew even as a chef that an ideal was contextual.

A big ass shield was very useful against a woman with a bow and arrow, but could be an active hindrance if they just had a big axe. Supposedly, Mark thought again as he watched Pallen regain her footing and continue on – the other senses in her suit more than capable of providing her ‘visuals’ even with her cameras on her left side occluded.

The shield and axe thing had been Tenir’s contribution to that conversation. Though Mark was pretty sure she’d been putting too much stock in her fantasy games. He was pretty sure a big ass shield could only ever be something useful if a guy was coming at you with an axe.

The point was, while Venomstrike was undoubtedly equipped with all sorts of systems to handle reflective chaff, ECM or stealth coating – it didn’t really have anything to just… wipe down its external cameras after they’d been covered in fluorescent pink paint.

Again, it wasn’t entirely blinded as a result, but even at this level, a good old visual feed from a simple video camera system was still a valuable tool for any pilot. Instead she’d now be perceiving that side of her mech through a number of other sensors trying to extrapolate the data into something she could visualize.

In short, her vision was now blurry.

Starfarer took full advantage of that momentary blindness, skittering frantically along Venomstrike’s left flank like an eight-limbed nightmare racing across the concrete to dart into an alley. And not a moment too soon as the laughter that had erupted moments earlier at the sight of fluorescent paint splattering across Venomstrike’s pristine hull evaporated in the face of the mech exploding through a three-story storefront in a shower of pulverized glass, ceramic tiles and twisted rebar as she moved through the building after Starfarer.

The pink and yellow mech’s plasma blade ignited mid-lunge, a glittering arc of blue-white fury that sliced close enough to Sunfarer’s torso that Mark saw the paint ripple and peel.

Fortunately, once more Kalia or Jelara lurched into Venomstrike’s ‘blurry spot’ before skittering up a wall, additional limbs digging into the concrete for leverage as it scampered onto the roof of a building like a spider.

Though it was barely a moment before Venomstrike had rocket-boosted onto the roof after it, laser fire from the machine reducing chunks of rooftop to powdered chunks where the laser hit it.

“And Pallen is NOT happy, folks!” the commentator roared, voice crackling with a static-laden edge of disbelief over the stadium’s speaker network. “Venomstrike is swinging wildly because paint – of all things - is gumming up half her optics!”

And despite having its back to the other machine, the extra limbs on Starfarer turned to fire backwards. Lasers, paintballs and even a few rockets lashed out at the other mech – which was quick to dodge – it’s AMS intercepting the rockets.

Mark’s fingers dug into the box’s table as Starfarer moved like some deranged spider-monkey hybrid strapped to a pair of grav-skates to escape any more damage – all while firing back.

Now, he knew from Saria that most pilots would lose their minds trying to coordinate eight limbs while dodging fire, firing back, and managing their heat as well as a dozen other systems.

But Kalia wasn’t piloting alone.

That cockpit housed six minds – admittedly, five of those were Jelara’s and as such not quite as in sync with Kalia’s one despite their neural bridge – but it was six thought processes all the same.

And that small ‘lag’ between the two wasn’t quite the issue it might once have been after a month of brutally long practice in the warehouse together.

That month had forged the disparate pair into a terrifyingly efficient whole while they were behind the controls of a mech. One mind dedicated to piloting - four limbs, momentum, balance, positional control - while the other five handled targeting, diagnostics, heat management, countermeasures, terrain tracking, and every dirty trick Saria had rammed into the machine.

Finally, Venomstrike’s shoulder lasers hit their heat threshold – a good few seconds after Starfarer’s did, despite the fact that Pallen shot first – and they retracted to cool.

Not that the yellow mech remained idle as, in the same fluid movement, its plasma blade unsheathed and she boosted forward, chasing Starfarer off the building and into the street, crumpling a car as it hit the ground.

“Oh, has Kalia made a mistake? Starfarer’s multi-limbed design has an edge in the close confines of those buildings, but in an open street my credits are on Venomstrike’s thrusters,” the commentator cried.

And Mark didn’t disagree, paling as the yellow mech closed in – even as Starfarer continued to fruitlessly pelt it with paintballs – the only weapon it had left that wouldn’t overheat the machine even as it tried to flee.

Venomstrike continued on without a care, the AMS no longer even reacting to the paintballs given they were effectively meaningless now that the mech’s cameras had already been smeared. Better to conserve heat and focus on real threats.

Perhaps that might have been the reason why the machine didn’t react when Starfarers’s mid-right manipulator arm whipped up and backward, hurling something small and dark it had plucked from a grav-clamp on its hull.

Mark blinked for just a moment at the shape of it.

Was that a-

The grenade detonated against Venomstrike’s chest plate with a dull white crack. Armor plating buckled inward as coolant and pneumatic lines beneath ruptured spewing both black oil and blue coolant fluid out onto the street. Black smoke and smoke also belched out as the mech staggered backwards.

Tenir shot upright so fast her chair squealed across the deck. “She turned down the sensitivity of her AMS to make it ignore the paintballs and save heat – and the system must have registered that grenade as another paintball.”

Still, despite the mech being wounded, it was far from out of the fight – sending out a swipe that damn near sliced Starfarer in half as it once more reversed course in an attempt to capitalize on its ambush, only to receive a gash across the chest for its troubles.

“Oof, Venomstrike is injured but far from out – and he showed it by nearly taking Starfarer out of the fight entirely with that swipe. My engineers tell me that our internal sensors say that hit came a few inches from impacting the piloting block. And we all know what that means.”

Instant loss, Mark thought.

Both mechs would lockdown and the mech that had its piloting block ‘damaged’ would be declared the loser.

Though damaged was in quotes because Mark knew from Saria’s bitching on the subject that the piloting block was easily the most heavily armored portion of the mech. And competed with the generator block for the heaviest. That requirement for any machine intending to take part in gladiator matches was a decent part of the reason why the sport had so vanishingly few fatalities.

Clearly Kalia regretted her sudden surge of confidence, as she once more used all eight limbs to leap backwards just in time to avoid another wild swipe from Pallen. And rather than chance it, Starfarer sprinted through the haze, limbs pumping in eerie inhuman coordination, as she made her way back to the safety of a more densely populated area of the arena – though not before twisting to flick back another grenade.

One of four, Mark now realized.

Not that she should have bothered, as Venomstrike’s still intact AMS system whirred to life this time and blasted it practically the moment it left Starfarer’s hand. As it did with the deluge of paintballs that followed.

Clearly she’d decided to simply eat the heat cost of keeping the AMS system going if it meant avoiding any more awkward surprises.

Still, as the two mechs once more danced through the streets of the ‘town’ while exchanging fire, Mark couldn’t help but come to a realization.

Wait, was I used as the worst spearwoman in the world?

He’d not thought much about it at the time, but towards the start of that month, Saria had idly asked him a few questions about what he thought the mech would benefit from.

He’d answered honestly that he had no idea, but after Saria pressed, he’d fired out a few ideas.

Paintballs had been one – though Saria had said she was already installing that.

Grenades had been another thing he’d mentioned. Though he’d said a grenade launcher. He thought she’d dismissed the idea when she claimed that missiles or rockets would be better.

…Clearly she hadn’t though. Instead, she’d set up that little trap.

Though sadly it seemed it wouldn’t work twice. And Venomstrike, while smoking slightly, was still very much in the fight as its now cooled lasers continued to chip away at Starfarer’s armor with every glancing hit.

One of Starfarer’s limbs was now no longer operational, and another was sparking. And the less said about the state of the armor on his left leg, the better.

By contrast, Venomstrike’s own armor looked barely pockmarked from where Kalia had managed to hit it. The only exception was the chunk of chestplate where the grande had hit, but the Senthe was guarding that carefully every time Kalia tried to get an angle on it with her lasers.

Mark grimaced as he realized that the game of cat and mouse that had started the match was quickly coming to an end. Starfarer just… couldn’t compete. It was more nimble in tight confines, but that was just about the only advantage it had. And that advantage was being worn away with every near miss from Venomstrike’s lasers.

Another shot clipped the blue and red mech, and Mark watched as the leg struck let loose a shower of sparks – and began to limp.

This… this couldn’t be it? Could it?

He glanced to Tenir and saw that her silver skin had gone… positively grey and lifeless. Her hands were gripping the table just as hard as he was.

“Well, it’s been fun folks, but it looks like this is it for Team Kalia,” the commentator announced – and the roar of the crowd ebbed or flowed depending on who supported who.

Starfarer looked like a cornered rat as it limped across the ground, smashing aside cars in its attempts to escape. Meanwhile, Venomstrike landed atop one of the town’s few remaining standing structures, laser mounts flowing as they locked in on the fleeing mech.

With Starfarer’s own weapons overheated, the yellow mech had all the time in the world to casually grip the sides of the building, crouched down as it created a stable firing platform for its weapons to line up a firing solution.

There’d been no dodging this time.

Mark held his breath as Starfarer turned to face its opponent, desperation and panic in its limbs as it reached for one of the few relatively untouched spots on its hull. He could almost hear the scoffs of the crowd as the mech refused to die with dignity as it scrambled to throw another pointless grenade.

Indeed, as one of Starfarer’s few remaining functional limbs performed a fairly decent fast throw in the direction of the yellow mech, Pallen clearly saw no reason to dodge and foul her finishing shot.

Instead, a beam of blue light from her mech’s AMS system lanced out to strike the grenade out of the air.

Pallen realized the threat an instant too late.

Her defensive lasers struck the incoming projectile but failed to detonate it. And the ‘grenade’ slammed into her mech with all the power imparted by a fifteen foot war machine being pushed to the absolute limit.

And as it struck the compromised armor of Venomstrike’s chest – every person in the audience realized why it hadn’t exploded mere milliseconds ago.

Because it wasn’t a grenade.

It was a solid mass of metal shaped vaguely like a grenade.

On earth, it might have been described as a cannon ball. Or, given its launch mechanism, a shot put.

A spider-web of fractures exploded across the yellow armor as the ball smashed straight through. Sparks erupted. Smoke bellowed. The yellow-pink titan groaned in a surprisingly lifelike manner as it stumbled half a step backward, internal systems trying to compensate for the grievous damage inflicted.

Then gave up.

The mech collapsed with a thunderous, earth-shaking crash that sent a rolling shockwave across the arena floor.

For a single, impossible moment, one hundred and twenty thousand voices held their breath.

Even Starfarer froze, its limbs still splayed out in the final moments of its throw.

The silence stretched…

…then shattered.

“Venomstrike has been rendered non-operational! Starfarer is now our Krenheim Cup Champion!”

The crowd detonated into sound - cheers, roars, screams, chants of Kalia’s name. The stadium shook under the force of so many bodies jumping, stomping, slamming fists into rails and seats. Fireworks burst along the rim of the arena dome. Holographic banners unfurled in midair.

Mark didn’t realize he was on his feet until Tenir grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. It was not chaste, but he didn’t care as he returned it, both of them simply lost in the moment.

Starfarer slowly straightened, sparks still flying from whining servos, before slowly lifting his remaining arms in a victorious stance. One – the one that had thrown the shot put – immediately sparked and fell lifeless, but the rest stood proud. All two of them.

Though Mark only managed to catch that from the corner of his eye given the mouthful of Nighkru he was currently dealing with.

Still…

Holy shit.

They’d actually done it.

They’d won.