Penta – 4umm.com – Read Stories | Publish

“Git in thir Fod!” The armored guard shoved Prize past the shelter entrance and onto the grimy city street.

Prize stumbled and fell. His chin bit rubble-strewn pavement. He looked back in time to see the guard slam and bolt the door. Prize tensed. He was on. He rose to his feet very slowly. Didn’t know where he was, only that he’d been set up somewhere between Crotona and St. Mary’s-parks. Prize knew the Zone’s park layouts. Only thing Prize knew.

He’d survived four episodes by lunging into parks. The last rejuv was enough to keep him up and running. Twenty-four hours. Stay alive for that time and they’d track him down, give him a couple weeks break. Heard of one guy, a deca–survived the Zone ten times. First four times by avoiding death. Last six times by bringin’ it on. They’d unplugged his slot and given him an infra to even the score. Prize shook his head-make it through this one, he’d be a penta. After this run he’d demand an infra so’s he could fuckin’ even the score.

Prize tracked the shadowed landscape of burnt-out apartment buildings. Black on grey, red brick, steel beams twisted from the Clean Up bombings. Nothin’. He burst for the cover of an old newspaper kiosk. Full tilt-red pulse. Red pulse, red pulse, red pulse-GAMESAT. Prize kicked it extra hard. Someone had already linked. Raven eyes panned for the pure white turret lamp-there!

Prize jumped-flew forward. Cleared fifteen feet, tucked and rolled-turret lamp-kiosk. Modifying short term goals became second nature to Prize. Remembered telling a guy named Scoot’r ‘bout reserves and all-never use it all. Gonna be a time come when-bamm! Gonna need more. Prize wanted penta. He came up out of his roll. Body check-nothin’ damaged, slither against the blackened wall of an abandoned knitting factory. Player was good. Globe turrets infra-tracked but no fire. Guy knew how to wait him out. Prize swallowed hard. Dry throat. There wouldn’t be safe water for some time to come. He moved quick.

In through a loose board in factory’s storefront. Darkness. Sound of another. Bad move, Prize thought. Considered crashing the window-take his chances back on the street. He wanted out, but out the rear. A dump’s never a good place to be. Too local. Got too damn many link and turret sites. Got to get across the pitch room-stay low. Prize crept on all fours close to the floor. His hand touched somthin’ soft. Flesh. A groan. Oh god, Prize thought.

This guy. Fodder like him, definitely, but on the run or a hooky. Prize didn’t want nothin’ to do with no hooky. Hooky meant SAT track. They’d find you, damn Monitors-take time, but when then did, an early round for sure. Nobody wanted to go back to an early round. Too easy to get picked off eight directions at once. Aiding a hook wouldn’t help none either.

Pitch dark. Prize could feel the hook rising from his stupor. Had to act. Only one thing to do-Prize fell on the hook, adrenaline pumpin’-punched fist to neck. Snap, wheezed like a balloon lettin’ air slide. Damn hook slumped quick. Time. Too much time spent here. Got to move. Sliver of light in distance. Prize slipped across the dark expanse of the ancient sweatshop. Reached the rear window boards and started prying. One board down, one to go-thut. Thut-thut-thut. He dropped.

Prize knew the sound of a cautious Player. Caution was dangerous. Never knew where you stood against discretion. Easy is the Player who pops a full round in ten, fifteen seconds. Just gotta dance to ‘void easy Players. Prize had a little more light now-so did the Player. He glanced back to the window. The only exit. Short burst centered on the window-a scare tactic-and wood splintered. Weakened boards by the looks of it. Prize needed a tool.

Cinder block supporting temporary steel ceiling beam. Two meters off. Prize waited patiently. Needed a hint. Clue to the turret. Player was too watchful. Ain’t nobody that calm. Prize admonished himself-he was in a penta round. Things were different. No crutches, each Player’d logged a few successful hours and a lot of credit to get the opportunity to pop Prize. Pentas get dossiers. Then they’d really be gunning for him. Not a penta yet-Prize picked up a chunk of ragged board and slid it across the floor into the darkest area of the factory. Flash.

Red flash of pin-point laser ceiling mounted infra-track. No shots-guy was good. Prize was already wrapping hands ‘round the cinder block, wriggling it free-gave-thut. Thut-thut-thut. Cement floor exploded around him. He dragged the cinder block over to the window sill. Thut-thut-looked back. Steel support beam hung, bolted to weak ceiling. Plaster sifted like flour-ceiling sagged, bending in. Thut-thut-thut. Prize seized the block and raised it over his head. Muscles bound tight-sprung-block smashed through boards. Prize dove through the jagged hole. Hit the ground with a roll. Stood, glanced back-pale-white flash as ceiling-mounted turret crashed to floor. Cloud of dust bellowed out the window-Prize was gone arching down the deserted street-hours to go for the penta.

Fling waited patiently outside the game pod. She had a fresh click in the noisy queue-two hours she’d waited. Fling downed her coffee box in a gulp and tossed the rice paper into a nearby ‘cycling can, eyes flicking back to the i-Screen-following the real action.

Player sucked, Fling thought and shook her head. Player was too damn eager to pop the Fod, jumpin’ ‘rets like poppin’ corn-she smiled-next in line. Fling rubbed the fresh chrome plated chip-old man’s handle. Tone zanged low as the queue hushed. The i filled with the humbling blazes of a defeat. Bass on sound track strommed low, desolate. Out of ammo, Fling bet-she was on.

Fling stood stock still, tensed-alert. Her stompers fixed to the ped’s million textured nanolumps. She exhaled, hyped her lungs-pod stank of loser’s sweat and maybe-urine. Flex chip slotted, a deft finger tip pressed the skin-toned bump behind her right ear-stomach sank, interface.

The geodesic pod’s ebony walls faded gently into the rough texture of Bronx Zone. Fling unsheathed her dummy short arm with her right hand and cuffed air with the left-fingers depressing enhanced script characters, bringing her up to speed-she was allowed to pick up where she’d previously left off-penta round. She selected a random mode and waited for her host to match her up with a challenging unplugged Fod. As in every penta round she was given the requisite ten seconds lead time to establish herself at the Zone’s dump site. The scape was bleak to say the very least. Fling tensed in concentration-bombed out city scape. One between a couple of parks. She’d played there once before, chose an old news kiosk-mounted ‘ret and ran for the selected cover.

Her old man’s chrome had muscle-game was routing extra rez to her enhancement chip, feet pounding the ped, her every glance picked up and resolved into perfect digital. She dove, tucked and rolled, bound to her feet behind the kiosk. Fling crouched and reached out with her left hand, touched the side of the kiosk. Good chrome chip-ped morphed kiosk’s side. She touched the side of the news kiosk and really felt its jagged, rusty surface in a half million textured nano bumps.

There, dump site, shelter door flung open. Fling tensed, she’d done penta rounds. But she’d never finished off a penta. Always a combination of bad timing, grave personal injury or poor finances-daddy’s birthday chrome should take care of the last, she thought, brow knitted tight in concentration.

Fod, young dark-skinned male, thrown to pavement. Standing, can’t hear a sound, Fling grimaced-she’d forgotten to switch to audio. Her left hand cuffed out an order for audio enhancement-loud! Too damn much, could hear the Fod’s heavy breath over the steady throb of the speed metal drums and bass. Lower, just right. Fod was plugged-unarmed in a penta? She’d heard of this happening. Probably the chrome was too good-Fling squeezed her short arm’s moulded grip and waited.

The Fod crouched low. Took in the scape. Seemed to know he was set up ten ways to Christmas. Knew he had to pick a mark-sprang right at her. Fling flinched, back peddled, then knee-bent into her practiced target stance. Brought her short arm up and sighted in on the charging Fod. Now!, she thought and popped off a perfect round at the unarmed penta-he sprang tucked and rolled, crouched and bounded for cover-abandoned factory.

Fling watched in disbelief. The Fod appeared unharmed. This guy was good, she thought and paused for the Fod’s next move. No place else to go-he slipped into the dark factory. Damn it, Fling thought, and remembered she was on the i-Screen. She looked around. There were no other Fod or Players. She was solo against this Fod in a penta round. Expected to make it look good. Didn’t want to go down in flames–she cuffed immediate entry to the factory.

It was dark as pitch inside. She had to switch to infra sighting. Audio jacked way up–heard Fod curse and–another. Her short arm extended, she crept across the dark factory floor, hurdling infra sighted obstacles. There was a slit of light at the end of the factory. Fod had to go for that, the only exit. She chose a ceiling mounted ‘ret-good range to the window exit and waited.

Fling watched the Fod stumble on another, a passed-out hooky. Fod beat the piss out of the hook and stealthily crept towards the factory’s rear. He knew he wasn’t alone, he was almost cautious to a fault, Fling thought, then considered being unarmed in a Zone and shuddered. He’d found the boarded-over window and started yanking on a loose piece of wood. Fling cuffed her volume down, took careful aim, exhaled and squeezed off a short burst.

The Fod jumped clear. Knew the controlled burst was hello–no need to waste ammo–jagged light spilled through shot up boards. Fling popped another round after him. This Fod was good, very tricky. Her infra had his body heat outlined pale crimson. Fod was crouching behind a beam.

Broken board slid across rubbled floor-tracked-trigger-tensed, Fling exhaled. A decoy. Damn Fod makin’ her old maid. Fling had to do something. If the Fod got away she’d have a hell of a time trying to track him-not to mention the damn prime-time line-up outside the pod. Had to make it good. Make it worth the Zone wanting her back if she missed. She scoped infra, aimed at the Fod’s body heat emanating from behind the pole and popped conservatively, knew she only shattered factory floor. Shrapnel counted good as kevlar.

There was nothing. No action by the Fod. Wait! The Fod raised a rectangle cinder block and ran towards the window-heaved overhead-block smashed through the window-“No!” Fling cried and spilled her whole clip into the window-Fod dove through the hole and left the factory. Fling’s visual wavered and started to shake. Her field of view shifted and dropped. She was falling-Fod brought down the ceiling ‘rets. In the last moment before crash, Fling caught sight of the Fod staring back at the crumbling factory, then he vanished.

Humiliated, Fling watched the ending as she was engulfed in the orange-white flames of defeat-speed drums and bass guitar thrommed morose-apocalypse-she jacked out and stepped from the pod to go to the back of the line a loser.

Fling squat watching the i-Screen. She’d almost lost control listening to the two bims in front of her gab on and on about this or that Zone actor. She grit her teeth shuddering under the latest barrage. It was her birthday, she was seventeen. She was way too mature to even consider jawin’ with these-

“Honour’s got to be the best. I mean he bitched the last twelve Players within ten minutes each!” Girl with ten inch bloody witch nails twirling round and round her long blonde tousle of curls. Fling knew long hair was out. Got to have it cut close like her short blaze of cherry-red or sighting ain’t for shit.

Witch’s friend spat, “Don’ know no Honour, Too-Tall Bunyan clean up ‘n spat near eleven Players before they plugged him to even the odds. Someday I’m gonna tackle Too-Tall then Zone’ll have to ask me on.”

“Zone won’t take no one from here-”

“But, but what ‘bout Axel-rod? They took him on. He made it.”

“The Rod was good, but I’m talkin’ global.”

Witch’s friend started to say something but the puzzled look on her face got in the way.

Fling rolled her eyes and tried to concentrate on the i.

Red Nails continued, her voice pitched with excitement, “No. Now listen good. I heard from the Krimson King himself. Uh-huh, I shit you not. Girl, the Zone’s goin’ global and in just a day. Maybe hours, sometime tomorrow, Thursday,” she paused, her friend plopped down, her naked back swiping Fling’s shoulder. Red Nails started, “The way I hear it, they’re takin’ only the best. But from like, everywhere. Don’t you know how many vid den’s got the Zone?”

Bim friend shook her head no.

“They got like thousands. Probably more. All over the City.”

Fling cringed from the bim’s sweaty shoulder. They were too dense. Thousands of vid dens-ha! There were thousands of dens right here in the Annexed Boroughs of New York City, let alone the North American Territories. Dense didn’t do them justice.

“Odds are terrible. Not you or you,” Witch girl leveled a long red nail at Fling, “will ever get picked. But you never know. Global. It’s enough just knowing the Zone picked local. Bronx Zone, still can’t believe it-Milly pinch me.”

I’ll do more than that, Fling thought grinding enamel ‘til her jaws ached.

Milly bim said, “Bet they get the best actors, for Fods, I mean.”

Witch girl swore and said, “You don’t have a clue do you. Of course they’ll get the best. Its a global broadcast. Goin’ out to, to like–everywhere. They got to get Fod that’ll look real cool on the i. Can’t have no Too-Tall Bunyan takin’ up i space from really good Fod like Honour. Now Honour, that’s a Fod.”

Fling stood up. Had to break from the round robin at her feet. Good Fod bad Fod. Honour, Too-Tall. She’d seen ‘em all and more, thinkin’ back on the Fod she’d lost some six hours and four games ago. Now he was somthin’ flash. Fling stretched lithely, her hands touching her stompers, had to keep the back limber. A global. Tomorrow. That was interesting. She almost wanted to take the bims’ gossip seriously. A global could mean great exposure, not that she was good enough. But being good enough really wasn’t what it was all about anyway. The i-Screen was about lookin’ good. About keepin’ the den and home audience happy. Fling learned that early on. Zone ain’t for the timid and it ain’t for the techys, it was for Players and they had to look good.

She figured she looked good enough on the i to attract a Monitor. Everyone who was someone knew the Monitors had it all, the power that is. They could pick a prim young treat like her out of a steamy soup of shit like the two bims wasting away at her feet and set her up sweet on a regular circuit-Zone credit bein’ like gold. Yeah, Fling thought, the Monitors’re all that counted. She turned to the i-Screen and watched a burn. She couldn’t shake the image of the Fod. He seemed so real, so goddamn there. Some sort of Zen crap like her older brother Bentley coughed up before signin’ on with the Neo-Davidians down stick-waggin’ Texas. Fling shook her head. Couldn’t place her finger on it, but that guy, that damn Fod was bettern’ Too-Tall or Honour. He wasn’t even a penta, but had it all-charma ‘n real flash shit like that.

The line move forward a click as the loser emerged and a tall lanky guy wearin’ pink ballerina slippers hopped into the pod. The door sealed shut and the i came to life focused on the bleak and crowded DC Zone, where ten or fifteen Fod ran around like chickens with their heads cut off-an early round. Fling sighed, popped a mocha coffee box, and settled in for the boring wait ahead.

Prize leaned into the stone arch. He rested under a bridge about mid way between St. Mary’s Park and Crotona Park. He figured to keep heading north. Like he told Scoot’r, “A guy got to keep a straight line. Can’t go round in circles. Circles mean an easy fix and all a Player had to do was stay put, wait for you to cycle like a fuckin’ donkey-pow!”

Prize could just make out the steeple of some decrepit old church. Somehow the hands of its old clock face were kept running. He’d seen it move-might’ve been a dump site. Had figured himself to’ve been on the run for over ten hours and the clock reinforced his internals. It was one-thirty in the morning-Thursday.

He’d avoided three Players in over ten hours-one thirty in the morning, Prize shook his head. The dark streets were eerily lit with the orange sodium glow of battered aluminum arc lamps. Thursday. It’d been almost two months. Some sixty days to think back on the damn Local who copped him for boostin’ a crappie unit off some rub nut who wandered into the Clink from Ari land. Numb ass or not, damn local precinct came alive-caught him after only two hours on the lamb.