The Curse of Water

Chapter 11- Mixed Messages

Chapter Eleven – Mixed Messages

The dry, suffocating taste of powdered plastic fills my mouth as my motorcycle's engine roars and the cloud we revved up in the previous round settles on the ground.

It's my 18th opponent in the Electric Joust and after two Obstacle Course runs and a Sword match I'm exhausted. Just like in the tournaments of old, the Joust still consists of three lances. If you break a lance on the body you get one point, if you break it on the helmet then it's two, and you win automatically if you manage to knock your opponent off his motorcycle. While the lances are constructed to break pretty easily, their tip does give off a slight electric shock upon contact, so it's harder to keep your bike from crashing.

So here I am, a little buzzed from a blow to the head. My opponent and I are at a standstill, next break to win, as I had already broken two on her shoulders (I couldn't bring myself to inflict the blows to the chest). The Tournament does not leave final scores at a draw, so I get ready to go again, grasping the heavy lance, flicking the charge on, boiling from the head down in my titanium armoured pleather jacket that still boasted Ramses across the back with my first name above only in small writing. And my father is sitting in the stands with an infuriatingly cold expression. I'm not having a good day.

It's alright Marcus. Just finish this match, then you can go lie down. Even if you lose, you're still in 5th place and that's 10 points right there. I try to comfort myself, though with still 20 points from safety, having lost out in the Obstacle Course (stupid jerk guy with super speed knocked me over) and Gershon watching, losing was not an attractive, or even a possible option. But as I look to the other side of the course and see a girl wiping the sweat off her brow, looking desperate to win, my heart is deeply conflicted about it's motivation.

Then, the moment our helmets are back on the flag is dropped, and the roar of the engines accompanies the sound of the excited crowd. One quick glance at Gershon and my arm is raised, ready to attack the helmet. But to his left the door opens, and the sweet perfection that is Genesis Clayton walks through, causing my body to rest at ease, forgetting my strife until, not a second later, I feel a hard force of resistance in my arm, and a dizzying shock to the head. I barely manage to stay on my motorcycle, zigzagging all over the rising white dust.

I finally come to a stop and look at the blinding red numbers on the scoreboard. My lance landed on her collarbone and my helmet is dented. Even in the darkness of the dusk I see Gershon's eyes burning with anger and disapproval.

The spectators slowly disperse and I push my bike back to the starting line where Genny is waiting for me. For the first time in my life I don't feel too happy to see her.

“Hi,” She says quietly, walking over, trying to decide whether she should hug me or not (which is usually a no brainer). My muscles tense and I don't miss the contact, extremely disappointed in myself for my poor performance and angry at her for distracting me.

“Hi,” I answer, taking my helmet off and throwing my jacket angrily at my bike.

A couple minutes pass and she watches me pack up, then finally breaks the silence.

“Marcus, I know you're mad at me, I came in at the most inopportune moment and you lost focus, I didn't plan for that. I got held up at Apollo's event and barely had time to make it to the end of yours as it was all the way here on the other end of the grounds. Anyway, I'm sorry that – ”

“How did he do?” I interrupt, now extremely frustrated, hearing the cause of her tardiness. Genny's eyes are downcast as she fidgets with her bracelet, which under normal circumstances I would find adorable.