Ten Sigma

by A W Wang

  “No fair!” he whines.

  Although I don’t respond, imaginary husband is right and I take his words to heart. While the seven sigma and I have the same threads, the difference, as always, is in the application of their skills and experiences, and of course, the confidence in one’s self.

  Paying attention to every detail, I make a slow sweep and clear every nook, cranny, and opening in the neighboring area. After nothing presents itself as an obvious target, which is in no way surprising, I cautiously take a path to the nearest group of buildings and cross under the looming church steeple.

  Rocks slide behind me.

  I twist, rolling over a fat pile of pebbles, as a knife flashes past my face. Snapping myself to a knee, I fire but my target turns and the bullets smack into the church door.

  A tossed stone ruins the aim of my next attempt and the rifle clicks empty.

  Knife glinting in a shifting ray of sunlight, the seven sigma flies over the pebble mound.

  I toss the useless rifle at her and dive to the side, which allows enough time to yank out my knife. Holding the weapon in a defensive position, I rise and slowly shift my feet, trying to arc around her.

  Up close, the seven sigma is, surprisingly, an appealing young woman with only an average height and build. Long black hair outlines her oval face and cascades past her shoulders. Not dangerous at all except that she’s probably killed a few thousand people to reach her level. The empty ammo pouches around her waist explain why I’m not already dead.

  While her brown eyes gather every detail of my being, she matches each of my actions, ready to fall on my back if I break to the fountain.

  To my surprise, she speaks. “I love your red hair and you have expressive eyes. You’re quite the looker.”

  Although my expressive eyes make stupid blinks, I mercifully refrain from doing any of the “I’m Uncomfortable With My Body” gestures.

  “A bit insecure?” she asks demurely.

  Silent and not at all sure about conversing with the enemy, I sidle away from the slippery footing of a frost patch.

  She mimics my movement with lighter steps, taking a casual, even cute posture, although her fingers remain tense around the hilt of her knife and her eyes linger on my bloodied sleeve.

  The wound isn’t bad, but I keep the arm’s motions stilted to make it seem worse.

  She smirks. “We are allowed to talk.”

  “What for?”

  “Haven’t you wondered what it takes to reach my level, Ms. 4.2 Sigma?” she says, purring my rank. The score I have fought so hard to achieve is metaphorical light-years behind hers.

  “I just worry about getting past the next battle.”

  While the tension remains in her knife hand, she chuckles. “That used to be me.”

  Against my better judgment, I ask, “What changed?”

  “Fighting what’s in front of you just isn’t good enough. To survive, you have to consider everything. Even things beyond the scenarios. Your team. Your avatar. Your mindset. Use everything at your disposal to your advantage.”

  Although spoken convincingly and with a sincere expression, everything is an act. She only wants me to lower my guard. However, I stupidly process her words and find they contain a level of truth.

  If only her victory condition wasn’t my death.

  “The final attack was—how should I say this?” She gives a polite shrug. “Haphazard. Your allies were fools for not following your plan. Which is really too bad, because with a more coordinated effort, you might have won.”

  “We haven’t lost,” I retort even as her perfect composure wilts my confidence and the back of my neck reacts with a familiar tingle.

  Her boots scrape to a stop while a disarming smile plays on her face. There is a slight shift of her weight and the knife flashes at my throat.

  I react with a block while angling my body and stepping backward to evade the lightning thrust.

  The combination is barely enough as the sharp edge grazes my cheek.

  My return strike meets air.

  Her lips tighten into a thin line, letting me see the lethal aspect of her nature for the first time. Instead of being afraid, the spiders stop dancing on my neck. At least I know what I’m fighting.

  “That’s the spirit,” says my imaginary companion.

  “Cheerleading doesn’t help.”

  “You’re as good as advertised, girl with the red mane. That knife thrust should have killed you. And the grenade attack and when I fired my last bullets on the staircase too.”

  Is there anything she doesn’t notice?

  Idle banter won’t help, and I keep my mouth shut.

  “Don’t you want to know how I know who you are?”

  I do, but all of my attention needs to be focused if I’m going to survive.

  Her lips change into a pouty expression. “Done talking?”

  Forcing myself to remain calm, I edge closer to the fountain.

  She lunges to block my path while making a quick pivot and slashing at my waist.

  Even though I’m prepared for the attack, the speed and force make it almost impossible to stop and I can barely coordinate a step back with a shift of my body to dodge. The hand on my wounded arm arrives just in time to prevent a reverse slash, and then I have to retreat further when she kicks at my knee.

  After a quick half-shuffle, she fires the knife at my heart.

  I parry and riposte.

  Her balance is amazing. Faster than possible, she dodges and hits again. In the next five seconds, we hack at each other’s hands and arms in close quarters combat.

  When we separate, like all knife fights, there is no winning, just varying degrees of losing. The big problem is I’m the clear loser. Although we’re both bleeding, I’m in a far worse shape with a serious stab wound in the ribs along with a dozen other cuts.

  There’s no time to rest. She renews the assault with a dazzling array of thrusts, the blade moving faster than my eyes can follow.

  Relying on my experiences and instincts, I defeat most of the attacks and manage to launch my knife at her arm in a defensive swipe.

  As she pulls back, blood flows from a gash in her sleeve.

  But again, I’m in worse shape, a cut on my forehead drips blood around my eyes and my left arm dangles from a deep wound in my shoulder and a slash along my collarbone.

  Blood trickles onto her knife hand, but the damage isn’t enough to degrade her abilities. And she’s between me and the fountain. A knowing smile crosses her face and she winks; I’m going down in defeat.

  Dizzying from the loss of blood, I think of Walt and Suri and everyone else who will die if I lose. With that in mind, I grit my teeth and move forward, leading with the knife, ready to let her impale me if I can only land a death blow for a double kill.

  “That’s right. Think of your friends and make this personal,” she says, staying one step ahead of my plans.

  I don’t care and launch an attack, but she side-steps and slashes at my hand, scoring a deep cut on my wrist. Wincing from the pain, I squeeze my fingers to hold onto the knife.

  “Do you think there is anything I haven’t seen? Anything you can hide from me? Like faking a wound on your arm,” she taunts.

  I’m really starting to hate this person, but resist the urge to scream by grinding my teeth.

  To add insult to my crappy position, she does a quick shuffle like a prima ballerina while weaving the knife in front of her. Every bit of her fighting skill is intact.

  My stomach sinks, but I won’t accept the inevitable.

  “If you want to kill me, just kill me,” I hiss.

  After the last syllable leaves my mouth, I want to smack myself because I can’t believe my final words are going to be the most cliché retort in history.

  “If you weren’t dying in the next ten seconds, if you could just get past your insecurities, you might have enough talent to get out of here.” Her eyes make the tiniest of flickers over my shoulder.

>   It’s her first mistake. She’s worried one of my wounded friends might help. Someone is still functional.

  “Bingo!” says my husband.

  She thrusts at my hobbled knife hand and cuts a tendon.

  The blade falls to the tiles with a clatter.

  I’m defenseless. As she speeds in for the kill, I tumble to my side, grimacing from my injured ribs and winding up on my back. A red thread forces my heavy combat boots in the air, ready to kick out and defeat any attack. The ground fighting style, so deeply embedded into my psyche that I don’t remember its name, is from a remote place with treacherous footing.

  As she comes at me, slashing and stabbing, I rotate and use my boots to meet her strikes. The knife isn’t sharp enough to hurt the thick rubber soles or tough leather of the footwear. I concentrate solely on defense, content to allow her to waste energy while I pray one of my missing companions comes to my aid.

  She gets agitated as her attacks fail, taking wilder swings and leaning her body forward to land a damaging blow. In her zeal, she loses her footing on an ice patch and stumbles.

  Kicking out, I catch the ankle holding her full weight. Bone crunches. As she falls, stabbing at me, I roll to the side, catching her reverse swipe on my back, which cuts a painful groove through my skin but somehow misses my spine.

  I rise to my feet, grunting in pain.

  When she tries to stand, because her ankle won’t hold her weight, she collapses to a knee.

  “Bitch!” she screams when I take my first step. “I have children.”

  That’s not fair. “As a seven sigma, you’ve been around long enough to have forgotten everything.”

  “I used my fingernails to cut their names into my arm every time my body was restored.”

  The woman’s tenacity terrifies me, and not yet believing, I limp around her, willing myself not to meet her eyes.

  “Melody and Melissa, those are my children,” she yells.

  That’s worse than not fair. It’s a hardcore mind game and although the words tug at my insides, I keep my focus on saving my friends, and not trusting her, I back away.

  “Those are their names, and I will return to them.”

  She pushes onto her hands and knees, struggling to rise. Even after she stands, her first footstep is so hobbled, she has no chance of catching me.

  But with each of my steps, the names of her children ring louder in my ears, until I can’t stand it any longer and turn to the fountain.

  When she’s out of my sight, instead of relief, there is only remorse. I wipe a drop of blood trickling past my eye. This woman almost gutted me, and I’m filled with sorrow. From beating the mythical dragon? Because of her children?

  “Don’t you touch that fountain. Come back and fight!”

  There is a wet thud and a stab of agony. My leg crumples with her thrown knife sticking from the hollow of my knee. I groan, more from anger at not realizing the woman would never run out of tricks than actual pain.

  Uneven steps approach from behind.

  Clawing at the icy tiles with the palm of my hacked-up hand, I drag myself forward, trying to slither the final distance to salvation. When I turn my head, I see her staggering after me, ready to kill with her teeth bared in anger.

  She’s going to bite me to death.

  “It’s actually a pretty terrifying look,” says Lieutenant Optimism. “Lieutenant? You can’t demote me again.”

  “I hate you.”

  In agonizing fashion, I drag myself another couple of arm-lengths. The grinning dolphins are only five meters away, but her wounded strides are faster than my tortured scrapes.

  “I’m not going back to that island. You hear me?”

  As I roll onto my back, I flinch from the snarl on her face.

  “That’s right. Let’s fight to your death,” she shrieks.

  Half of me forgets my training and wallows in terror. The other half tries to delay the inevitable by using my good arm to toss my helmet at her.

  She laughs and tilts her head to dodge the wobbly projectile. Then baring her teeth in a wide victory smile, she straightens and steps close.

  With one of my legs out of commission, I can’t block her attacks with the same ground defense. I will the fingers of my working arm to pull the knife from my knee. Although I can wiggle the handle enough to cause agony, the cut tendons in my wrist can’t supply enough power to free the blade.

  My life is finished.

  The moment stretches and when my optimistic self remains silent, I realize the thought is true. I can’t defeat my implacable opponent.

  As she looms high over my shaking body, a stray beam of sunlight outlines her dark form.

  I raise my arm in a futile attempt to stop the final assault.

  Her chest explodes, and a shot echoes as she falls next to my boot.

  Syd stands near the church steps, uniform drenched in blood, using one hand to hold in his stomach and the other to cradle a smoking gun.

  Gurgling, the seven sigma grabs my leg. As her life fades, her eyes dart wildly, still seeking some way to win.

  When she doesn’t find one and her grip weakens, I’m stunned.

  She dies with a hateful stare trying to cleave my body into gory chunks.

  Although the scenario is over and I’m thrilled to be alive, the tingly sensations from the spiders of doom return to my neck.

  Something is very wrong.

  Twenty-Five

  The scents of citrus and honey assault my nose as I materialize into the ready room.

  I should be happy, or at the very least, relieved at the narrow escape. But my freshly healed body does nothing to alleviate my mental fatigue or the stinking suspicion eating at my core.

  I’m missing something.

  Seven seats are occupied around the semicircle. By some miracle, all the wounded have survived, their bodies shivering as their minds adjust to a sudden healthy state. The three vacant places belong to Carol’s replacement, Rick, and Simon.

  I have trouble generating any sympathy for the old politician. While he meant well, that and a cup of coffee would be the same as a cup of coffee. Simon in charge would have gotten everyone killed, and I’m not sad to see him gone.

  Ally recovers first, her hands grabbing her knees and pulling herself upright. “I thought I was dead,” she says, relief filling her voice. “What happened?”

  Mired in my own thoughts, I keep silent.

  Vela speaks, “We went after that seven sigma, but I only remember a building coming down on me and choking from dust.”

  “Wow. A seven?” Ally says in disbelief.

  “I should have helped more,” Jock says.

  Their faces turn to me, waiting for the answer.

  Suri sits up, folding her arms. “Brin?”

  I don’t want to relive the battle with the seven sigma.

  Her children are named Melody and Melissa.

  My response is barely audible. “Syd killed her.”

  “Mostly, the credit belongs with Brin,” Syd says, letting his hungry eyes shift around the circle. “However, between the two of us, we got the job done. We make a great team.”

  Before I can deliver a retort to Syd’s insinuations of the two of us making a team, Jock hangs his head in shame, saying, “Sorry, Brin. I promise I’ll do better next time. It’s not up to you to shoulder the whole load.”

  I nod, hoping his promise doesn’t turn into some stupidly gallant action.

  Ally gasps. “Oh, no. Rick and Simon?”

  Staring at the empty chairs, Jock slumps his huge shoulders.

  To my left, Walt sniffles with watery eyes, staring at the back of Rick’s seat.

  While wanting to lean over and hug the teen, I stay fixed to my chair. It’s not the awkwardness of our minimal outfits. My face flushes when I silently admit I’m more afraid of loss than being close to someone who could be killed in the next instant.

  Given the abilities of our last opponent, we were lucky to have lost only Rick
and Simon. However, besides her devotion to her children, something else about the seven sigma haunts me. It could be an item from the weird conversation or her final hateful stare, but I’m still unnerved by the whole experience.

  Suri sends a contemplative smile. I wonder if she’s grateful to be alive, sympathetic to my feelings of detachment, or happy Simon is gone.

  Probably all three.

  Syd rises and walks over to hug Walt, which is a little surprising. Then he looks at me.

  Remembering Syd asking me to touch his privates in the museum foyer, I shiver because I’m not touching, let alone, hugging him.

  Before he takes any action that would lead to a confrontation, the room mercifully brightens and Haiku appears with a gentle pop. While Syd sits back down, everyone’s attention shifts to the avatar.

  “Welcome back,” she says in her cheery voice. “That was a difficult scenario, but you came through nicely.”

  “Not all of us,” I reply.

  If Haiku notices my anger, she hides it well. “That scenario usually culminates with one hundred percent losses. Especially against such a formidable opponent. Returning with so many of your team is a victory.” Her hands rise high above her head to emphasize the point.

  While Syd mildly applauds through the somberness blanketing the semicircle, I slouch into my seat. I’m sick of Haiku’s cheeriness and tired of the fighting. I just want to plop into my stupid bed and sleep through the next five scenarios.

  “Without Rick, we need a new commander,” Jock says.

  “Oh, that is an excellent point,” Haiku replies. “Picking a new leader is my second favorite activity.”

  A faint groan escapes my lips.

  Good luck to whoever gets selected.

  The room stays quiet. Everyone is stunned by the loss of Rick, and of course, without Simon, nobody volunteers.

  Walt holds up his hand. “I think Brin should be in charge.”

  Murmurs of general agreement follow.

  After studying their hopeful faces, I decide against making the decisions that will get them slaughtered. “Suri would be better.”

  Suri shakes her head. “With all due respect, Brin, you think better on your feet than any of us.”

  “I’m good at planning things, not being in charge,” I say, tired and wishing to be anywhere else.