Metal Skeleton

CHAPTER ONE - SCRAPPER

There's a cough, a splutter and an echoing screech of "where the fuck did my arm go?" that resounds through the metal bowels of the Metropolis' waste system. Brushing greased coils of hair from my eyes, I watch my comrade dive into a pile of flotsam to grab his mechanical arm which came loose again.
"Maybe this is the perfect opportunity to get a new one," I say, keeping my rifle balanced on my shoulder, away from the seeping gunk I'm hip deep in.
"That was my lucky arm," he cries, tossing junk over his shoulder. I huff, exhausted with his antics. Sirens wail over our heads up in the smog and tainted platinum of the Metropolis. It's starting and we aren't even on ground level.

"Jasha, just forget the arm!" I holler, turning and striding through the muck to the exit which is barely a hole in the concrete wall.
"How do you expect me to fight with one arm, Elvira?"
"Be creative!" Clambering back to the ladders and tunnel network, I hear him curse and the embarrassing clatter and crash of metal behind me. Climbing the racks and mess of ladders, Jasha quickly catches up. He's replaced his 'lucky' arm with a bulkier, less elegant mechanical limb which leaks coolant and groans with every elbow bend.

"Hurry up," he squawks.
"Me? You want me to hurry up?" My boot narrowly misses his titanium skull when I attempt to crush it in.
"Remind me why I ever agreed to be your friend?" I say.
"We're friends?" I can hear the smirk in his words. I throw an irritated frown down the ladder at him.
"Let's just get this fucking tournament over with,"
"Remind me why we're even doing this tournament,"

"Ten thousand gold, Jasha. That's why." I bend down and crawl along the corridor space toward the surface, "Not silver or gods forbid, credit points. If we win the tournament we'll have ten thousand gold. That shit we can use anywhere we want. We can finally get out of here."
"If we win?"
"When we win," I amend.
"Okay, Smarty-Pants, say we win—"
"We will—"
"What do we do with that money?" I have the urge to kick him in the cranium again.
"Haven't you been listening this whole time? We can do whatever the fuck we want. Buy a tank and drive as far as we can. Buy all the booze we want, all the guns and fancy knives—"
"All the pretty girls we want."

My eyes roll into the back of my skull.
"If it helps you help me win this thing, then sure, Jasha. Imagine all of those imaginary girls at your beck and call."
"They are very real, thankyouverymuch." We make our way up the last—and longest—ladder that leads right into the stands of the arena. If we run we could make the last listings to contend. Sliding away the lid of the tunnel, the baying of the crowd increases tenfold until I can barely hear Jasha cursing at me to move my fat ass out of the way.

A few spectators give us strange looks as we crawl out of the ground, smelling of shit. Spectators are entranced in the games and commentators spitting quips before the blood begins. They don't notice us.

Jammed in from all sides, Jasha and I weave down the crowds. We need to make it to the arena before the first alarm sound. We need those gold, screw not signing in.
"Hurry up, Jasha!" I shout over my shoulder but I can't spot him in the crowd. I'm not watching where I'm going and something hard and mechanical rams into me, throwing me back on my ass.

"Hey! Who the fuck—?" A shadow looms over me, the crowd is backing away, creating a human air bubble.
"Silence, scrapper," the mechanical bot drones out above the hum of the arena.
"Oh shit." One of The Duchess' bots. What's a thing like that doing all the way out in The Dirt?
"Come quietly," it says, arms stretched out ready to grab me.
"I don't think so, tin can." Even on my feet my lack of height is nothing for the seven foot mechanical soldier. Titanium limbs extend to wrap around my body, pinning my arms to my side.
"Let me go, you piece of junk!"
"Do not resist, scrapper." It continues to drone, effortlessly cutting through the crowd.

"I want nothing to do with The Duchess! Let me go!" I squirm to no avail. The crowd is distracted by the games—which have now started—and ignore me and my thrashing limbs.
"Jasha!" I shout, "Jasha!"
"El!" Spinning my head around, I see my cyborg friend also tied up with a bot. However, his bot is eight feet tall and much more complex and stronger than mine. Probably due to Jasha's mechanical limbs, which my spindly arms are no match for.
"What the hell is happening?" I shout over the heads of the spectators who don't give two shits about scrapper rats like us.

"I have no idea," he looks just as perplexed as I feel. Onward the bots take us from the arena, the sounds of the crowd dying down to a buzz. Outside, beneath the burning red sun, amongst the steel structures there is a carriage waiting for us. Drawn by mechanical steeds of obsidian that huff steam from metal nostrils. The carriage is plusher than anything I've seen in my life. It doesn't match the grit and grime of The Dirt. The bots clamp cuffs on Jasha and I.

Tossed like ragdolls inside the carriage, the smell of artificial roses and hot metal presses into my face. It's dark in here. I sense someone else in the carriage with us, collected in the shadows and red velvet interior.
"I hope you don't mind." The figure gives us no choice as it shoves thick bags over our heads tying them around our necks.
"The Duchess is very touchy about privacy," the figure croons.
"The Duchess can kiss my—" A fist punches my stomach and I hack up saliva inside the bag. My head is smashed against the wooden floor and I'm rocked to sleep by the swaying carriage.

I wake to something nudging my stomach again.
"On your feet, scrapper." It's the figure's voice. Hands bereft of cuffs, I wrench the sack off my head. Artificial light blinds me for a moment, steam blurs my vision and beads onto my skin. Blinking through the haze I see nothing but mechanical guts and clockwork. The sound is overwhelming and the sight of a thousand cogs, shifts and pistons working is making me realise we're no longer in The Dirt. Or in any scrub part of Metropolis. Gazing beside me I see Jasha on his knees, staring ahead in the clouds of fog.

"Scrapper Elvira." A deep, feminine voice looms above our heads. Somewhere the system momentarily shuts off. With the machine paused, steam begins to thin out. Not ten feet in front of me is a throne of copper, iron and serrated steel. Poised upon the chair is who I assume the voice came from. An elegant, curvy woman dressed in a flamboyant ruffled shirt with a matching skirt and corset to bind her chest tight. Black fishnets encased long elegant legs that took up the metal landing. Her tanned skin dotted with glossy platinum plates. Ropes of white dreadlocks coiled on top of her head and snaked down to her feet where heavy, black boots buckled up to her knees. Two whirring, mechanical eyes flashed in a fleshy skull to regard me with interested distaste.

"Why the hell are we here?" I snapped once I finished putting a face to a name. Not many people had seen The Duchess before, and those who did almost never had the opportunity to talk about her. I stopped that train of thought before it collapsed off the rails. The Duchess didn't respond. Instead, she cocked her head at me. Those glassy fake eyes swung to her right hand man, the figure in the carriage with us. The one who punched me in the stomach.
"Are you certain these urchins are the ones?" said The Duchess.
"They smell like it enough to me," he smirked, mechanic hands in white gloves clasped together.

He was dressed in a fancy white tailcoat suit, long dark auburn hair tied at the nape. His eyes were his own, sharp and blue. His teeth, when he smiled, were all sharpened to points. Like those water creatures before the Great Fire.

"How would you like to make some money, Elvira?" said The Duchess. I scoffed.
"I was about to get money until your slot machines came along." The Duchess didn't blink, in fact I don't think she was capable of blinking. It made for a very condescending exchange.
"I'm talking about real money, Elvira," she said. "Money enough for you and your cyborg friend to do as you please." I side-glance Jasha. His hefty, temporary arm coming loose at the shoulder. His pallor is grey and I sense he's afraid. But not me. I'm not falling for any of this.
"Before you open your mouth again," The Duchess added, "think about your friend. He could use a few new parts." I did shut my gaping mouth then. Jasha was looking a bit worse for wear. His brow wrinkled in his typical "what are we gonna do?" expression. Looking back up at The Duchess I saw she was still glaring at Jasha and I didn't like it. Like a lion inspecting a lamb before slaughter.

"What kind of money?"