The Sky Drifter

by Paris Singer

  As the ASO led us through, a sudden wave of boos and hisses filled the air. Mr. Hist, who walked ahead of us, quickly turned and said something I couldn’t hear through the deafening noise, then gave us two thumbs-up before turning and walking again.

  On either side of the arena were long, narrow players’ boxes that curved inward along the central Sphere platforms. Like in the academy arena, these were also partly covered. The one the ASO led us to, despite being perfectly unusable, was as plain and basic as it could be with nothing but one long bench running down the middle of it.

  Moments later, the music stopped and a loud voice echoed around the arena. “Malacs of all ages! The moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived. Within the walls of this stadium, your beloved Malacs will once again astound and dazzle you as they face yet another team that has yet to experience their crushing dominance.” At this, the enormous crowd cheered wildly and chanted the team’s anthem that had moments ago been playing.

  “As always,” continued the voice, “players of each team will be randomly selected to face each other. The winners will be decided either when one of the two teams is first to reach six points or when one side no longer has any players.”

  Four holographic scoreboards appeared above the stands, spread around the arena. The next moment, the entire place was plunged into darkness where only the scoreboards could be seen.

  “Now,” resumed the voice, “without further ado—here is your team. The Malacs!”

  Wild cheering and applause once again filled the air as the gigantic holographic image of a Malac player appeared above the center of the arena. Like the others, the only difference in him was his hair, which was shaved on both sides with a thick strip of crimson waves down the center of his scalp.

  “His hobbies are dancing and playing percussion instruments, and Malanor Monthly named him ‘The Bad Boy You’d Love To Be.’ Heeeere’s Altec!”

  A clear white spotlight shone down from somewhere above, illuminating a spot on the ground by the Malac team’s players’ box. A moment later, a player came strutting out and walked to the center of the arena to the sounds of cheering and applause, stopping every few steps to blow kisses into the crowd.

  Once he stopped in front of the Sphere platforms, the voice announced yet another Malac player as a different holographic image appeared above. This time the Malac’s hair was shoulder-length and parted to the side, so it flowed down, obscuring half his face.

  “Deeply romantic,” announced the voice, “you’ll often find him composing astounding poetry, but don’t let your guard down—he’ll steal your heart in half a beat! Heeeere’s Bertramis!”

  Again the Malac player came out to the sounds of wild cheer and applause as he casually stopped and winked, posed and blew kisses into the crowd until he reached the middle of the arena and then stood next to his teammate.

  The rest of the team was announced in the same way, each with a different hairstyle, each with different hobbies or attributes, each as adored and celebrated as the next, until finally all six team members stood side by side.

  After what felt like an eternity of cheers and wild adoration, the large spotlight that had been fixed on the Malac team faded and the main lights came back on. As the team casually jogged back to their players’ box, the voice quickly droned, “Today your dazzling team will be facing the Cloud Runner School, who live on some ship.”

  “What did he just call us?” spat One, closing his hands into fists.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” assured Mr. Hist. “They’re just trying to get to us. You all just focus on what I said and forget all that stuff.”

  Three sets of pairs, each with one name from each team, appeared at the bottom of the scoreboard, indicating which players would be facing each other. The first six selected opponents were number 208, (the Fumo), against Altec. One against Stamura (a Malac player who wore his long, straight hair in a ponytail), and number 64 against Bertramis.

  The first round was split into two parts where three players faced each other in the first and the remaining six in the second. The winners of this round would all proceed to the second.

  As One and numbers 208 and 64 stood, the three Malac players were already eagerly making their way up the platform steps on their way to the three spheres.

  “Now, remember what I told you,” began the coach seriously, “whatever you hear—whatever they say—ignore it all and focus on beating them, understood?”

  As numbers 208 and 64 nodded in unison, One remained still for a moment before spitting, “Those pretty boys don’t deserve my attention or my respect. I’ll crush them like every other insect along my path.”

  “As long as you stay focused,” replied Mr. Hist. The coach knew better than to try to lecture One, who played better when he was angry. “Now, come on. Go out there and show them what ‘Cloud Runner School’ is made of!” he shouted ironically.

  All three stepped out from the players’ box and quickly headed to their corresponding spheres to the deafening sounds of boos and hisses. Once all six players faced each other, ready to compete, the main lights went out and three wide spotlights shone down on each of the three spheres.

  The air was thick with anticipation as all eyes focused on the massive screens above. Just when the unbearable tension was at its peak, a single loud, melodious chime sounded and the games began.

  The screens immediately focused on the top sphere where number 208 was already contorting and twisting his body to dodge Altec’s powerful attacks. Loud clangs echoed throughout the arena as his metal ball crashed forcefully against the hard surface of the sphere. I squinted as I looked down, hoping to see what was happening in the other two spheres, but it was hard to make much out. I thought I saw One somersault over his opponent as he swung his light chain and ball wide, but I didn’t see what happened next. Over on the right sphere I saw 64 crash against the hard, metal frame after having tried to ram Bertramis, whose ball connected hard against the side of his face.

  Turning my attention back to the screen above, which was still focused on 208 and Altec’s game, I found them standing opposite each other, Altec gasping for breath as 208 slowly waved his limbs and swayed his head from side to side.

  In an explosive move, Altec dashed at 208, swinging his light chain and ball directly at his frame. As if made of smoke, 208’s body easily moved aside from the speeding ball as it once again crashed against the metal sphere. Far from discouraged, Altec tried to sweep 208’s legs from under him, but the latter’s merely bent sideways like thin vines caught in an updraft. Bringing his body back around, Altec stood explosively, furiously raising his fist above his head, making it connect with 208’s helmet. This caused him to float backward toward the frame of the sphere.

  Without warning, the screens changed to One’s game against the pony-tailed Stamira, who was tightly clutching his left shoulder as his arm hung loosely at his side. His bottom lip bled dark purple blood, which ran down his chin. I found it difficult to understand why the Malac team chose not to wear helmets, but I supposed they preferred being seen. Still, in a sport as brutally dangerous as Sphere, it seemed crazy not to.

  With an angry look of determination, Stamira shouted at the top of his lungs and charged at One, still holding his injured shoulder. Calmly and confidently, One ran up and along the middle of the sphere, and with deadly force and precision, jumped up behind Stamira and swung his light chain widely, making the metal ball at its tip collide forcibly with the back of his opponent’s neck. Stamira crashed limply onto the floor and laid there motionless.

  As the arena filled with shocked gasps and screams, the screens changed to another sphere where Bertramis was proudly standing over 64’s sprawled body as he posed and blew kisses into the crowd, who upon seeing this exploded into wild applause and cheers once again.

  A moment later, the screen changed again, focusing on the only game left—that of 208 and Altec, who swung his light chain diagonally up toward his opponent’s
helmet.

  208 contorted his body diagonally backward, twisting rapidly forward again, as he brought his metal ball swinging up toward Altec’s body, catching him on his upper thigh. Altec stumbled backward, holding his leg as 208 raised his arms to his sides and began rapidly spinning on the spot, causing his metal ball to spin horizontally around him.

  Altec walked slowly back as 208 slowly spun toward him. As soon as the latter was near the middle point of the sphere, Altec curled his lips into a grin, and holding his metal ball sped toward his rival.

  A moment before 208’s ball could collide with Altec’s face, he rapidly ducked and sprang back up, punching upward with the ball he tightly held and then crashed it violently against the bottom of his rival’s helmet, sending him spinning backward.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Altec grabbed hold of 208’s leg and pulled it hard toward himself. When the latter’s helmet was within range, Altec drove his ball, which he still held, hard into his opponent’s visor, shattering part of it. 208 crashed to the floor, and his suit, like a deflated balloon, sagged loosely while Altec still kept a hold of his leg. For a moment, the Malac stood perfectly still, looking down at his opponent. As if a switch had flipped in his mind, his face suddenly hardened with hatred and disgust, and faster than I could blink, he dropped to one knee and pounded on 208’s helmet until it cracked.

  Just as Mr. Hist ran out of the players’ area, however, Altec stood back up and backed away from his rival, holding his arms out in victory as he stared out into the cheering crowd with a pleased, maniacal look on his face.

  Soon after, the main lights came back on as the winners and losers returned—or were taken back—to their own players’ boxes for praise or medical care.

  ***

  The overhead voice excitedly said, “What an incredible start! Our own exalted Altec and Bertramis coming up victorious against their weaker opponents. Did we expect anything less of them? Now, your beloved Ofemus, Petris, and Tenula will face their opponents!”

  At their mention, the entire arena once again filled with cheers of adoration from their loyal fans as six names, divided into three pairs, revealed the next match-ups. I was to face Ofemus, whose only immediate aesthetic variant was his shoulder-length dreadlocks. The voice had announced Ofemus enjoyed strength and agility training and cooking.

  After having thoroughly sprayed 64 and 208, who were still barely conscious from their injuries, Mr. Hist turned to 33, the Volcuris, 41, the Morex, and me with a look of focused determination.

  Feeling energized and filled with exhilaration, we placed our helmets on our heads and confidently marched out of the players’ area. A heavy shower of merciless boos descended on us as we headed up the platform. 33 and 41 hurried left and right to their respective spheres, and I continued up to the second set of stairs to mine where my opponent, Ofemus, already stood waiting.

  As before, three spotlights shone down, brightly illuminating the spheres as the main lights went out. All sounds seemed to vanish along with them until the only thing I heard was the sound of my own heart beating. I won my game, swiftly beating my opponent, and looked up at the screens to see 41 beaten and 33 coiled around Tenula’s neck.

  Instead of hearing the expected wild applause, the crowd filled the air with unsettled chatter that grew louder and louder as we all returned to our own players’ area. Those of us who were conscious and could walk, anyway. Mr. Hist welcomed us with animated cheer, trying to keep his brow furrowed, as 41was carried in by two ASOs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “RIGHT DOWN HERE,” the coach instructed the ASOs, pointing at the bench. “64, get the spray, and apply it to 41—now! Well done, guys, well done,” the coach said, beaming, turning to face me and the looming figure of 33. “I knew you could do it. Now we’re drawing 3-3. Both you and One will be going through to the next round, but I don’t want you to think that just because you are it gives you license to be cocky. It doesn’t. Sit, sit.” Mr. Hist ushered 33 and me over to the large space next to One before he continued. “If anything, this round will be tougher. The Malacs have shown themselves to be quite a vicious and clever bunch, which is something we can’t take lightly.”

  As the coach continued sharing his advice, the loud overhead voice resounded around the arena once again. “Ready for round two?” it asked animatedly, causing the vast crowd to cheer excitedly. “Without further delay—here are the three pairs that will be facing each other in the second round!”

  Mr. Hist stepped outside the players’ area and looked up at the scoreboard. “Okay,” he began, turning back around to face us. “The match-ups are up.” The coach proceeded in advising each of us as to how to best beat our opponents.

  All of a sudden, there was a rise in the intensity of the crowd’s cheering as the voice of the announcer said, “Altec, Petris and Bertramis are already making their way to their spheres! Now we’re all just waiting for their opponents from Cloud School to make an appearance,” it concluded with an air of wry sarcasm.

  You could feel the irritation radiating from Mr. Hist, who merely frowned, and said, “Come on, you’d better go.” 33, One and I stood and walked toward the entrance of the players’ area, slipping on our helmets as we did. “Remember what I said,” quickly added the coach just before we left, “focus only on your opponents and on what you need to do to beat them.”

  Moments later, we reached our spheres, mine being the bottom right one where a demonstratively impatient Petris stood, rapidly tapping his foot as he scowled with a demented look on his face. Despite all the Malacs being exact reproductions of each other, I though his shaved head made it look smaller than the others.

  As the crowd continued to roar and the main lights faded, giving way to the spotlights, Petris and I glared at each other while he gleefully hopped from side to side. The loud chime sounded, and round two began.

  Watching Petris bounding around the sphere for what seemed an eternity, my mind couldn’t help but drift as I wondered how One’s and 33’s games were going, feeling a sudden sense of pride in my teammates.

  My game against Petris didn’t last as long as I thought it would have, because he kept insisting on attacking me with a series of head butts to my helmet, which I was more than glad to accept. Finally, we met in mid-air, and I forcefully lifted my knee to connect with his jaw, sending Petris crashing back down in defeat. It had felt like a slightly unfair win as I asked myself whether he would have allowed such an obvious move on my part to connect if he hadn’t taken so many blows to his head already.

  As soon as I could, I looked across to see One’s game already finished with neither opponent still in the sphere. The screen above revealed the shocking scene of the painful beating 33 received at the hands of Altec, who seemed to be punishing him, blow after blow.

  Finally, when he appeared satisfied that enough of 33’s blood had been shed, he stopped. I have to admit how upset I felt at the sight of my teammate’s motionless, pulped body lying in a bloody heap at Altec’s feet. I suddenly noticed I had clenched my hands as hard as I could, wishing to run over to Altec to beat him senseless. To get revenge for what he’d done to 33—to turn him into a bloody pile on the floor.

  The mad applause did nothing to appease the blind fury I felt inside. As the main lights turned back on, however, I knew the only way I’d get to do that would be if I faced him in the next game. I won’t lie to you—I wanted to hurt him.

  I waited at the foot of the first platform as I watched two ASOs carry 33 on a mobile stretcher and then walked to the players’ area beside them.

  “Quick,” exclaimed the coach, looking as ashen and worried as I’d ever seen him, “put him down here—slowly!” Once 33 had been placed carefully on the floor in front of the long bench, Mr. Hist rapidly sprayed him everywhere. He was beside himself. “I tried to stop it,” he repeated under his breath, “I tried…”

  I sat on the bench and stared numbly at 33 when all of a sudden I heard, “Hey,” from somewhere beside
me. I turned just in time to catch something in my hands.

  “You did good, Simian.”

  I was slightly taken aback by the strange tone of sincerity in One’s voice as I looked down at my hands to see my bottle of water. I was glad for the opportunity to finally be able to have a drink—I was desperately parched. After having drunk almost the entire contents of the bottle, I felt infinitely better and was relieved when I looked down and saw 33 begin to groan and stir.

  Mr. Hist sighed in relief as the color began to return to his face. He looked over at One and me, and said, “We’re winning, 5-4. You have both been…” As Mr. Hist spoke, my head gradually began to hurt more and more and an intense feeling of queasiness built in my stomach. “…have to pick only one of you, so I have to base my decision on total points gained throughout the season.”

  Just as the coach spoke my name, I started violently throwing up all over the floor and side of the players’ area, my head feeling as though it would explode.

  Mr. Hist immediately jumped to my side, and exclaimed, “Seven! What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  “Uurgh,” was all I could manage to reply as I stopped vomiting.

  “Here, put your head between your knees,” he said, gently pushing on my head. “How is that? Better? Can you talk?”

  To stop the coach from having an attack of nerves, I forced myself to say, “Feel sick…Don’t know what—” but before I could say anything else, I threw up again just as violently as the first time, narrowly missing Mr. Hist.

  “What an exciting end to the second round!” exclaimed the voice of the announcer. “‘Bad Boy’ Altec is in top form as always!” The crowd cheered and applauded once again as the announcer continued. “The visiting team appears to be doing okay for itself.” At this, the crowd’s cheer turned to enraged boos and hisses, “No matter how many of them there still are, they’ll never beat our undefeated star, Altec!” Now the sea of fans cheered deliriously again—he had them eating from the palms of his hands.