Opus

24. Roster

What goes around comes around and all that shit. For once I'm not the lucky number four, but the inconspicuous three. Or so I thought.

I see the nunchaku stick coming but can't avoid the hit. Fucking bitch!

I wake to the blinding daylight. Or I would have I been out and about in the real world. Down in the playground, night has fallen. Like always. After a couple of grunts and blinks and dizzy spells, I manage to sit. She threw me into a ditch. No wonder it's so dark. Blood has dried on my forehead. I must look a fright. Thank fuck for the darkness.

Eons later, a cautious pat down, one hand probing for bruises and cuts, the other cradling my throbbing head, reveals the extent of the damage, or lack thereof. The hole she dumped me in offers a cushion of moss. She robbed me of my chips−I had enough chips to stay in the game, damn her−but left me otherwise unharmed.

I swear I will not finish the competition on my ass in some rathole.

Despite my vow, it takes me a good half-hour to gather my wits about me. I might have dozed off a time or two. I also drooled profusely, damn her.

For the next hour, I stroll the playground aimlessly. My father was a hunter, the best tracker in the land. I didn't have the nose to follow in his footstep. I have another talent, though. Bring me close enough, let's say within a ten-block radius, and I'll pinpoint the stinker's position in a nanosecond. I've yet to cross her within that ten-block span. Hence, my erratic wanderings.

Then I start thinking. Focusing on the spheres. The areas most densely vibrating. The locations of the other players. In this race to the finish, my opponents will pick up any target they come across. And, unless they're the cowardly type, they'll stay out of each other's way until the last minute. No point in robbing someone who hasn't filled his or her pockets yet, right? Unless you're desperate like that she-devil. Talk about sisterhood.

One block, empty of spheres, thus void of players.

I run ten streets down north. Empty. Another seven blocks. Empty. Another four. A tingle. A forgotten sphere, sunk into a gutter.

Ten more streets, north-northeast. Three spheres side by side, one of each. Mine.

Another four blocks, northeast. A target or two every block. Someone came here, but in his turmoil, only saw the most visible spheres? I take them all, street by street, except for one.

It's vibrating like crazy, as if ready to blow off any second. Either he forgot it, or my pal wee has not moved on yet to another weapon as I had concluded after the last uneventful set. Had I time (and my father's bomb suit), I would take the target with me.

For now, I just stare at it, soaking up its pulse. There is energy in destruction. I wish I could die today. I edge away slowly, walking backward, keeping the sphere in my sight until I reach the corner. I shower bricks from the distance until I have entombed the mysterious target.

Rule 19: Sphere positioning is determined randomly ten hours prior each set. Spheres are positioned according to plans by positioners. Positioners agree to remain in secured locations during sets. Offenders will be kicked out of the competition/employment and ban for life, and, if applicable, offenders' names will be removed from Competition's Wall of Fame.

I sprint fourteen streets due east. Something biological pulsates as I go twelve blocks down.

Five blocks (and eight targets) later, jackpot. The throbbing organism is mine.

My girly player, side by side with what feels like a bulky whizzing bundle of nerves. I creep closer.

One block. Three chips. Another corner. One target. Another two sphere-less blocks. Then one with five black targets. I ignore the spheres hidden along the next three blocks. Noise carries in the lifeless underground. Around the corner, my mark is caught in a lip lock with hissing bundle. A barrel with a mop of greasy blond hair. The runner-up. What a cute couple!

How fucking typical!

Players should not make alliances. First, that's not fair play for us loners. Second, no coalition can survive the test of time or at the end of the game, whichever comes first. And third, now I have both a hussy and a barrel to take out. OK, so I lack a fourth reason, but clearly number three is worth two.

Thank God I'm a hunter's kid. I might not be so great at hand-to-hand combat−only a dead huntsman would arm wrestle a bear anyway−but my aim is true at a hundred feet. Normally I would fix on the beefy part of my targets, but there is honor amongst thieves, and I don't want to stab Keg-guy in the back. Knife one hits him square in the buttocks. Number two in the thigh. He goes down screaming while his paramour just stands frozen next to him.

I round the corner. Sets ago, attempted rape and all that, I've switched from army-type boots with chunky heels to surreptitiously quiet rubber-soled. The neckers don't hear me coming. Keggy's cursing so much, I doubt they would have caught my entrance even without the new shoes.

When I kick a brick with my boots to announce my arrival, one little lovebird flies away, one fat lovebird stays put, bleeding on the cobblestones. Ah, the stories those stones could tell!

I kick him between the shoulder-blade. Twist as he might, he can't squirm away, not with my two knives protruding from his flesh. Holding him down with my foot, I retrieve my blades, wipe the blood on his sleeves, and set on my way. It always amazes me that, even under extreme stress, a body's personal rhythm doesn't falter. He is vibrating away as steady as a working bee.

"You'll bleed some. Use your sweater to apply a tourniquet around your thigh and sit up. That'll apply pressure on your ass. Thank God you're fat, right? OK then. The set ends shortly. You'll be fine."

I head in the bitch's direction without a second thought for her lover. He is in no condition to stab me in the back.

She's easy to locate. Clearly, Hogshead was the brain of the operation. She runs and runs but in the end, I'm faster, and frankly, I want it more. She's the lucky one that passed by, the loser that shouldn't have made it so far but did, out of sheer luck no doubt. Not anymore. That she got me is insulting.

My blade hits her in the butt. Not a quick learner, is she? One knife is enough. She's crying and already begging for her life by the three seconds it takes me to reach her.

"I just want my messenger bag back," I tell the weeping woman. It's a gift from the king, after all.

'Let it be that a lesson to you.' I can almost hear my mother snickering from the heavens. I was a hoyden; she was a saint. Her teachings−interrupted much too early−were lost on me, although not from her lack of trying. I must have heard her say 'Be that a lesson to you' a million times. See, mother, I am learning.

"Stealing is a crime," on I preach. I hate unsolicited advice, but here I am, castigating a complete stranger. The thing one must do to win a stupid game.

"Greed and lust are deadly sins." And getting caught at either is worse. "Loverboy will survive. You'll be all right too. I don't think your union will outlast the game, though." Not even this set, I forecast. "But, honey, you can do so much better. All players are cheaters at heart."

And on those last words of wisdom, I leave her to wait out the end of the set alone with her thoughts. My bag is once again over my shoulder, my chips, his chips, her chips all securely inside. A blade in each hand I play on. I might be getting the hang of this game after all.