The Girl Who Dared to Think 3: The Girl Who Dared to Descend

by Bella Forrest

  “Of course.”

  The official wrapped up his speech with a nod and wishes of good luck to both teams, and my eyes turned to the opposite team. All four of the men on the team had similar smiles on their faces, as if they shared some secret that we didn’t know about. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

  “Form up,” I said, taking a step forward. The buzzer hadn’t gone off yet, but I wasn’t attacking, and there was nothing in the rules to prevent us from getting into position. I heard everyone moving to flank me while Ambrose shifted behind me, but kept my eyes on the opposite team. A clock appeared on the wall behind them and started to count down from ten, but still they didn’t move.

  10… 9… 8…

  I waited, watching the clock tick down and studying them. They were all standing in a straight line, with Kody in the middle. It wasn’t the safest position, or the smartest, but they continued to stand there as the clock wound down.

  6… 5… 4…

  Overhead, I heard the whir of the drones, and I was momentarily distracted by two of them hovering a few feet apart on either side of the ring, their round bases swiveling around to rotate the camera views. A quick glance at the screen showed them locked in on me, and I realized that my presence on Ambrose’s team alone was enough to broadcast.

  Everyone wanted to see me in action.

  A sudden scrambling sound across from me jolted me from the screen, and I quickly looked back to see the other team already moving, even though the clock was still at two. I tensed for their charge, knowing that they would be on us when the clock turned to zero.

  2… 1… 0…

  It took me those precious seconds to realize they weren’t attacking, which only baffled me more, and I remained rooted to the spot, trying to understand what they were doing.

  One was on his hands and knees in front of Kody, forming a table, the second settling into a low squat in front of him. The third was just stepping into place in front of him, guided by some unknown signal, and giving me a broad and open smile.

  I gaped at their strange line, alarm making my spine tingle. I had never seen anything like this before, and I couldn’t fathom what—

  “They’re making steps,” Leo said from my right, and I realized that he was right.

  I had a split second to make a decision, and I turned and charged at Ambrose, shoving him back several feet when I reached him. A shadow loomed behind me, and I twisted around just in time for Kody’s hands to hit my shoulder, grabbing me hard and pushing me to the ground.

  I managed to get one of my legs up and plant a foot on his thigh, my muscles working from memory and instinct alone, and I dropped my hips lower, surrendering to the momentum of his impact. My rear hit the ground, and I pushed with my leg, heaving him over my head.

  He pulled me along with him, his grip on my uniform and my own momentum in the throw working for me. I landed, straddling his hips, and drew back my fist. I had a moment to register his brows drawing together in confusion before I hit him, a sharp rap across the jaw, and I stood up, barely even winded. I stared at him, and then looked back up at his friends, my brows drawn together.

  Tension flooded my senses as the adrenaline began to hit me, and it took me a moment to realize that I had just ended the fight. It was surreal how quickly it had happened. I felt certain that this was a trick, that they had changed patches, or that I was missing something—but nobody on his team moved.

  “Is that… Is that it?” I asked, looking down at Kody.

  He coughed and sat up, looking rather chagrined. “We thought you wouldn’t expect it if our specialist went after your specialist first,” he admitted. I cocked my head at him, and then held out my hand, offering to help him up.

  He accepted, and I pulled him to his feet. “No offense, but that was a dumb plan,” I told him.

  Kody gave me a smile and a nod, taking a moment to shake my hand before dropping it. “I think I’ve come to realize that,” he said with a laugh.

  He moved off to rejoin his team, and I shook my head. “That was anti-climactic,” Maddox huffed. “I didn’t even get to hit anyone.”

  “No,” Ambrose said, his voice tight. I looked at him, saw him struggling to hold back some anger, and immediately felt bad when I realized he felt robbed of the opportunity to prove himself.

  He looked away, and his expression grew even darker when he looked up at the screens. Heart in my throat, I looked up, and winced when I saw the video replaying my quick and easy defeat of Kody. The words that were scrolling underneath only worsened it.

  Liana “Honorbound” Castell faces off with team leader Ambrose Klein with a stunning ten-second knockout. Could she be making a play for Champion?

  I returned my gaze to Ambrose, who was shaking his head, his mouth a hard, angry slash across his lips.

  “Ambrose, I’m sorry,” I started, hating that I’d thrown our agreement into jeopardy. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “We should go,” he said, cutting me off smoothly. “We don’t want to be late for the next match.”

  I watched him go, my explanation dying on my lips.

  “It was an accident,” Maddox said a heartbeat later, her hand reaching up to pat my shoulder. “He’ll get over it.”

  I shook my head and gave a heavy sigh, extremely doubtful that he would. This peace between us had been hard enough to establish, and we’d barely maintained it for twenty-four hours.

  And in just under ten seconds, I might have smashed it all to pieces—which didn’t bode well for the next two qualifiers.

  Fan-freaking-tastic.

  “Let’s go,” I muttered, deciding that if I wanted to fix it, I was going to have to make it up to him in one of the other matches.

  17

  Maddox, Leo, and I had to jog to catch up with Ambrose’s stiff march, and when we did, I once again settled in the rear, giving Ambrose a little space to cool off.

  Even though it was morning, lines were already beginning to form around the rings, and I cringed as a few groups lounging on the sides gave me congratulatory smiles and thumbs-up signs. A few of them offered a respectful nod, accompanied by a murmured, “Honorbound,” and I suddenly wished I could melt through the floor. Or find the person who thought calling me Honorbound was clever. It wasn’t. I hated it.

  The scrutiny and attention was uncomfortable, both personally and for Ambrose’s sake, and I was half tempted to break off from the group and pick another route to the next ring. I didn’t, though, unwilling to risk Ambrose’s safety in exchange for his ego, and instead just kept my head down, trying to ignore it.

  We arrived at the ring in short order, and Ambrose checked in with the official while we stood off to one side, waiting. I could hear the clack-clack-zzt sounds of the batons, but they were mostly lost among the noise as I simmered, wondering how I could make the previous challenge up to Ambrose.

  He rejoined us long before I came to an answer. “We’re next,” he announced gruffly.

  He led us over to the official, and we stood peering through the blue fence, watching the match inside. Nobody spoke.

  A part of me felt like I should try to say something, to explain that I really hadn’t meant for any of that to happen, that I’d just reacted, but it wasn’t the time or the place, so I remained mute, staring blankly at the match inside.

  “So how do those silver eggs work?” Maddox asked suddenly after some time had passed, and I blinked, looking at her.

  The silver eggs she was referring to were unique to the baton qualifier. Unlike hand-to-hand, there was only one objective in this contest: hit your opponent more times than they hit you. The egg you held was a tool to measure the impact of the electrical current delivered to your body.

  The reasoning behind it was simple: with batons, it wasn’t just about hitting your opponent, but also delivering as much charge as possible. It was actually much easier to miss than one might think—only a ring about one inch wide at the top of the baton delivered the charge
. If it didn’t fully connect when you hit, it didn’t deliver the full charge.

  Baton qualification focused on precision with your hits, which was where the eggs came in.

  I opened my mouth to answer her question, but to my surprise, Ambrose beat me to it. “Your body conducts electricity when you are hit, and the egg absorbs it through you, to measure how much of the voltage actually hit you. The electricity is used to turn the small gears inside, which ‘hatches’ the egg, giving you a visual aid to show you how close you are to being eliminated. Once the chick cheeps, you have absorbed the maximum amount of electricity you can safely absorb, and are eliminated.”

  “I knew that last part,” Maddox grumbled, folding her arms across her chest. “But thank you for explaining about the egg.”

  He nodded, just once, his eyes never leaving the fighting in the ring.

  I stared at him for a second. I had been worried about how his anger at me was going to affect our teamwork in the next qualifier. Instead, he impressed me—even though he was angry about the last match, he had put it aside for the good of the team. It was the first genuine act of leadership I had seen from him.

  My eyes returned to the fight in the ring in time to see it end with one man displaying the silver chick cupped in his hand to his opponent, signaling his defeat.

  Ambrose turned and moved over to the official, and we all followed. One by one, the official handed us our batons and eggs. This was designed to prevent any tampering. The voltage for the batons was adjustable, and for the qualifier, they were adjusted so that we could actually make an exhibition of skills. Typically, when we used them in the field, we set them to render a target unconscious. Officials programmed them for a match with a set number, but there were a lot of them floating around, so it was always good to double check.

  So I performed a quick test on them anyway, sliding each baton into the sleek black voltage analyzer available just for this reason, and expending a charge. The voltage was immediately displayed in cool blue numbers, and I nodded when it matched the number listed on the stat screen on the wall behind the official.

  The team that had just been defeated was now filing out through a gap in the screen, and when I looked through it, I noticed an identical opening on the other side. Apparently they had set up two check-in points on the baton qualifiers, to make it easier to hand out equipment.

  We waited for the team to pass and then moved inside, following the official. In the middle, the official went over the rules and safety speech, reiterating multiple times that solid baton contact should not last longer than three seconds, as it would result in the scores being docked, and that dropping the egg meant instant elimination. I tuned him out at a certain point, my eyes assessing the other team.

  There were two men and two women, none of them people I recognized. They were all fit, like most Knights, and held their batons with an easy grace that gave me the impression that they knew how to use them.

  I tightened my grip on my egg, tensing as the official left the ring. The countdown popped up on the blue fence, starting from ten, and I looked back to make sure everyone was ready before returning my eyes to the group in front of me.

  “Stay close together,” I reminded everyone softly, referencing our practice yesterday. We hadn’t had time to formulate any sort of a strategy, so we were relying heavily on keeping our enemies close around us, so that we could help each other if needed. It wasn’t much of a plan, but going over all of the hand-to-hand qualifier rules had taken a good portion of the time we had.

  Nobody said anything, but then again, nobody had to; I knew they had heard me.

  3… 2… 1… The buzzer sounded, and I tensed, waiting.

  Our opponents didn’t race toward us, but spread out, approaching us in a slow, cautious walk. I held my ground, watching as two of them drew nearer, eyeing me.

  I waited until they were just outside of my swing, and then took a confident step forward and angled toward the one on the left. His eyes widened a fraction in surprise when I didn’t even attempt to hit him with the baton. Instead, I went low and slammed my shoulder into his chest, spreading my legs wide to absorb the force of the impact and knocking him back a few feet.

  I didn’t even watch to see if he fell. Instead, I turned my focus to the girl who had been standing next to him and jumped back far enough to avoid her baton swing. I brought the tip of my own baton up, under her arms, and tagged her in the stomach. It was a glancing blow, barely even a second, but I heard clicks coming from her hand as she stumbled away, signaling that I had at least started the process of “hatching” her egg.

  A shadow passed over my vision, then, and I stepped back and ducked right—just under the arm of the man I had hit first. Apparently he hadn’t fallen, and was anticipating my evasive maneuver, because he snuck his baton up under my guard and jammed it hard against my ribcage as I attempted to pivot away.

  Pain snaked out from the spot, like tongues of fire lashing against the skin, and my breath exploded from my lungs. My muscles involuntarily locked in place as the current held me fast. In my hand, the hard, smooth surface of the egg began to slide and move, but I couldn’t even look at it. I was rooted to the spot.

  A second later the current shut off and I sagged, panting slightly. I quickly looked up, anticipating another attack, but to my surprise, I saw that Ambrose had pushed the guy off me and was now fighting with him. Their batons crackled and threw sparks as they impacted each other, and I winced at the bright flares.

  A quick check around me told me I was free, for the moment, but Maddox was in trouble, with two of the other team’s members on her, and I quickly moved over to her, slipping around where Ambrose and the other man were deflecting each other’s blows in an attempt to flank at least one of her attackers.

  I kept an eye on her as I crept, watching as she deflected their blows with efficient speed, waiting for an opportunity. It came a second later, when the one I was standing behind landed a hit on Maddox’s shoulder—and everyone froze.

  I charged, my legs pumping and my breath coming in pants, and drove my baton into Maddox’s attacker, stepping around him and using my other arm to knock his arm away from Maddox.

  Maddox stumbled back, shaking her head, and lifted her baton to block the incoming blow from the second attacker. I turned my back on them for a second to break the contact with my opponent, remembering that I was only supposed to hold it there for three seconds, and took a step back to allow him to regain his feet.

  He took a moment to get situated and check his egg, which was now showing a simple crack. I stopped to check mine as well, and frowned when I realized that the crack on my egg was double the size of his. The top of my egg was split wide open, revealing the head of the chick inside.

  I took a step back and looked up at Maddox, focusing on the egg in her hand. Hers was like mine—spread wide open—while her opponent’s only had a thin crack, similar to the one his teammate had.

  The voltage on their batons was set too high, I realized. It had to be, for our eggs to have registered so much damage already. I looked back at my opponent. There must have been a mistake. One of the officials had just calibrated their batons incorrectly. They would signal the referee so we could restart the match and…

  The man opposite me looked down at the egg in my hand, a satisfied smile splitting his lips wide open, and he whirled the baton once in his hand, his expression eager. I realized immediately that he knew something was off—and that he had no intention of doing the honorable thing. He was going to try to end it.

  But surely he would predict that we would contest the results and request an inquiry after the match was finished. That would cast a shadow over his team’s victory, especially if the inquiry revealed that they had been dishonest. It could even result in their elimination.

  So why were they taking such a risk? What was going on here?

  The man across from me continued to smile, swinging his baton around and eyeing me speculatively, and
I tensed, waiting for some sort of attack. But for several seconds, he didn’t move, just stood there waiting. I took a hesitant step toward him, trying to figure out what sort of game he was playing, and to my surprise, he took a step back to match me. Frowning, I moved forward another pace, and again he dropped back, this time glancing up.

  I paused, puzzled by his actions, and followed his gaze—and immediately saw a drone floating just feet away, watching us. Beyond it, a second drone hovered over Maddox, projecting the action between her and her competitor overhead. She kept pressing her attack, but the girl she was up against moved like water, easily deflecting Maddox’s blows.

  I turned back to him to find the man watching me, and narrowed my eyes. Something was going on here, and I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. My opponent was waiting for something—and it had something to do with the drones that were watching us.

  I glanced at the egg in my hand, and suddenly it came to me: they were waiting for the drones to focus somewhere else so they could hit us with their super-charged batons and hatch the eggs faster. The officials couldn’t see the eggs, cupped in our hands as they were, and relied on the drones to make sure that all participants were behaving honorably. But there were only so many drones to go around. So they waited for the drones to move to something more interesting—while trying to pull us away from our teammates, scattering any chance we had of helping each other.

  Instinctively, I took a step back. My opponent immediately frowned and took a step forward. I stopped moving for a second and watched him, my heartbeat pounding hard against my ribs.

  And then, without any warning or second thought, I shouted, “Form up on me,” and began jogging backward, away from my opponent. He lunged, but I was ready for it, and I brought my baton up and stepped to the side, letting him rush past me, and then turned and brought my baton neatly down on his other wrist.

  There was a sharp crack, followed by his cry of pain, and the egg he was cradling dropped to the ground with a click as he fell to the other side, clutching his now-broken wrist to his chest. A ding went off, signaling that he had been eliminated.