Revenge isn’t best served cold…

It’s best served on the end of a heavy metal object, preferably on a trajectory towards someone’s teeth.

“RAAAARRRRR!!” Dax growled, throwing his hands forward in a dramatic lunge for Betty 4.0. The boosters were already firing as the pistons in Turnpikes legs launched the massive machine towards its target. The crowd cheered overhead as Dax missed his prey by inches and crashed into the arena wall. The giant slumped to the floor in a heap.

Freak flinched back from the image of Turnpike on the monitor. “Ow!” With a loud sigh, he scratched his balding head, “This isn’t one of our better ideas, Alhannah.”

She watched the S.L.A.G. struggle to get up and reorient itself. She couldn’t deny the same though had crossed her own mind. “I know,” she said soberly.

“You’re just gonna let him lose?” whispered Nibbles. The tiny gnome sat next to Nat, her knees up on the chair, arms wrapped around them. She flinched as Turnpike fell over again. “He’s in no condition to pilot that thing. We had to lift him into the cockpit!”

It was already too late. Dax had entered the arena and there was no turning back. Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time Dax had jumped into battle completely drunk and in a rage. It was the first time the chance of him dying in the process was virtually zero…and that was at least a small comfort.

The moment the elf found had found out about Wendell, he’d come unglued.

“How do we get him out of the furnace?!?” he’d roared.

“We can’t,” Morty had said soberly. “And they’re so huge, Dax, we wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

“So you’re just gonna give up on him?” Dax had stormed out and vented his anger in one of the unoccupied storage rooms. He smashed windows, put fists through doors and walls. His screams and curses echoed the hallways of the building until he finally collapsed in exhaustion.

Nothing seemed to matter to him after that point.

Chuck couldn’t get him to talk and he ignored Alhannah almost completely. After hours of coaxing, the wizard had gotten him into the library, where the elf stayed, locked away. It wasn’t until he’d washed down his own body weight in Blackseed Rum, that he spoke. All he wanted to do was hurt those responsible and his threats were so vile, Lili had excused herself and helped Deloris with kitchen duties.

One of the Trench teams had decided to throw his friend in the garbage…and Dax wanted revenge.

“Just let him go,” Alhannah answered bluntly.

“Can you hear me? Dax?” Nat was at the control panel, typing furiously on the keyboard. “He’s not answering me.”

Alhannah sighed, “He’s not likely to answer anyone, Nat. It’s ok. Just…do the best you can.”

“Alright. Maybe I can tip the scales in his favor.”

There was a loud belch over the speakers.

Nat winced, “I’ll take that as your approval.”

“Perhaps I should have let him drink the last cask,” complained Chuck. The wizard had been so concerned about the elf, he’d insisted in accompanying Dax everywhere—even if it was to be nothing more than a shadow. Chuck wouldn’t say much about Wendell himself—just wiped his eyes and changed the subject when anyone brought the subject up. Now he paced along the back wall of the pit, watching Turnpike intensely while biting his nails. “He does so much better when he’s completely sloshed.”

As if on cue, Turnpike stumbled and tripped headlong over one of the cement block obstacles.

“Ungh!” Dax grunted. He was tired of the chatter in his head. Reaching up, he yanked the headset from his large ears and then yanked the cords from the dashboard. “Better,” he grumbled. Now he could fight without distractions. It was time to make these pilots pay.

The arena had been rebuilt and rearranged for tier two. Instead of a completely open floor, the Trench now looked like an obstacle course. Cement blocks and pillars lay upon the ground or leaned against each other without rhyme or reason. Obstacles varied from five to ten feet in height—which made some big enough to throw, while others were large enough to hide behind. To make it more interesting, the center of the arena was a platform—rising into the air, four steps high, with a small fortress on top.  Where a pergola once stood, a cement building with raised walls and a solid roof looked down over the arena. A perfect place for a sniper to perch and wait it out while knocking off the competition.

His head felt fuzzy. Heavy, both from drink and too much thinking. Wendell was all alone and Dax had promised that would never happen again. “I’ve let him down again, because I was playing this stupid game!” The anger fueled his muscles and kept him focused. Well, focused enough to cause problems for the other pilots, anyway. He sneered as his bloodshot eyes stared at the screen. He had two targets…and both of them were going down: Betty 4.0 and Hook.

A.K.A. Dead meat and…deader meat. Yeah. He liked that.

Bringing his knees up, Dax bend forward, causing Turnpike to crouch low as it scrambled between the blocks and pillars. The smoke from Betty’s rockets created a haze in the area, so Dax kept to the thicker streams of smoke to mask some of his movements.

The S.L.A.G. arched high into the air and had landed on top the fortified structure. Perching at the center of the roof, there was little either Hook or Turnpike could do at this point. Both were hand to hand fighters and they missed their chance to take out the only flyboy in the competition. Betty 4.0 was already assembling its long range rifle.

Dax growled again. He was drunk, but not stupid. They’d be picked off like flies. Drool rolled down his chin as a wry smile crept across Dax’s face. He had an idea.

“Where the crap is he going?” Alhannah gasped, standing up so fast, her chair flung out behind her. She squinted at the screen, watching the overhead cameras follow Turnpike dashing and weaving between the obstacles. “He’s headed right for Hook!” She pushed the button on her ear piece, “Pull back, Dax—you’re going to collide with Hook. I repeat, your headed right for…”

Dax smashed the small speaker on his dashboard and replied with a loud belch. “Mmmm,” he grinned to himself, “tastes better second time ‘round.”

“Nat, do you have control of the Trench yet?”

He looked up helplessly at Alhannah. “No.”

She frowned, “How long before you do?”

Typing, “We’re not the only ones that learn from the tournament, Red. I think these programmers figured out some of Cryo’s tricks.”

“That is correct Nathan,” added Cryo, the blue face bobbing in the bottom corner of a screen. “I am having to infiltrate not only the main frame of the game computer, but solve a series of complex algorithms put in place by the opposite teams. It seems they are quite prepared this time and have easily sidestepped our previously used tactics.”

She scowled at the AI, “Which means?”

“Which means that to win this competition, Ms. Luckyfeller, it would be wiser to count on the pilot than the little blue man on the screen.”

Chuck snorted, “Bout time you put Mr. Creepy back in his box.”

Nat gasped, spinning his wheelchair about, “Hey! Who are you calling creepy?”

Wide-eyed, the wizard tapped his finger on Cryo’s image, “That.” He silently mouthed C.R.E.E.P.Y.

“FOCUS!” Alhannah snapped, flipping the wheelchair about. “Back to work, Nat. And you!” She turned so fast, Chuck startled and almost fell out of his own chair. “You’re a guest, so ZIP IT.”

“Grouchy.”

Nibbles pointed at the screen and nudged Alhannah. “Too late.”

The giant grim reaper was striding across the floor, each impact of its boots ringing through the arena. With a motion that seemed effortless, the S.L.A.G. jumped up to the next step on the center structure. The claw and chain detached from the oversized scythe. Glowing red eyes under the black hood scanned to the right, then to the left, then jumped up to the next step and stopped. It looked up.

Betty 4.0 clicked the huge scope onto the top of the rifle barrel. Pulling a bullet from a forearm compartment, it slid effortlessly into the chamber.

Small vents in Hooks arms and legs opened, spitting smoke. Thick and black as oil, it bubbled over the giants body and outward across the steps. Like black ink in a glass jar of water, the smoke swirled about, engulfing the immediate vicinity in darkness. Small flecks danced in the void of color, sparking in the overhead light. Within moments, Hook vanished within the cloud.

“What is that?” Nibbles gasped and the whole crew leaned closer to the closest monitor.

“Looks like mud,” frowned Tumbler.

“Naw, it looks like oil to me,” said Telly, “but oil don’t float.”

Freak adjusted his goggles, looking closer at the monitor. “It just hangs there, in the air. But look at the shiny parts—there, see where it flashes as the camera’s hit it just right?”

Alhannah grabbed the mic from her head and threw it on the table. “It’s a reflector cloud,” she sighed, “confuses tracking systems by using ground metal fibers and flakes.”

Nat slapped his hand on the keyboard, “I can’t get in! One of the other teams got control of the…” But before he could get the last word out, four large caliber weapons, pushed out from the walls. Long rotating arms unfolded, protected by a moulded shield—resembling a turret. Barrels protruded from slits in the shields, which drifted from side to side, small red laser beams underneath the barrels sweeping the arena. With a deafening rattle, the guns fired and bullets swept through the smoke.

Nat frowned, “Guess we know it’s not Hooks team.”

One of the bullets grazed Turnpike as he zig-zagged between pillars. Dax gave a low lingering growl as the impact spun him around and he hit the ground. Flexing his controlled gloves, he reached to his left. The S.L.A.G. rolled over onto all fours and without hesitating lunged across the floor like a giant cat.

Betty 4.0 knelt perfectly still atop its vantage point. Using the scope, the long range rifle searched the cloud as the random cannon fire continued.

Sparks spewed upward with a thunderous bang. A sudden fountain that shot high into the air. The crowd cheered.

“There ya are!” Dax roared, grasping the over sized brass knuckles mounted to Turnpikes hips. Fingers flexed and gripped the rough metal tightly. Using one of the larger cement pillars as a springboard, the S.L.A.G. lunged towards the arc of sparks.

Betty fired. Like a cannon, the echo boomed through the stadium. The bullet struck Hooks lower forearm with such force, the shell penetrated the limb. Metal fragments exploded, intermingled with oil and sparks. Hooks hand dropped to the floor and slid out of view…and the crowd went wild. The first serious wound had been delivered.

Hook stumbled—the force of the blow spinning the giant in place. But before it could gain its balance, Turnpike delivered a downward blow. The attacking S.L.A.G. swung the rough-cut knuckles struck the back of Hooks head. The strike sent Hook sprawling forward, into the light.

Dax pressed his advantage.

Built for engaging arial opponents, Hook rotated at the waist, still trying to regain its balance. The giant torso spun to face its attacker—the giant black cape swooshing behind its shoulders. In its wake, the giant scythe followed in a backward arc.

Dax was already in motion. Grabbing the end of the cape, Turnpike jumped and rode the momentum, swinging out of harms way. The scythe struck were Turnpike had been standing only moments before, sinking into stone. The fans moaned the close call. Dax curled forward, causing Turnpike to roll…and the S.L.A.G. landed on the upper step.

The fans cheered. TURNPIKE! TURNPIKE! TURNPIKE!

Another round of bullets rattled from the Trench machine guns—the long arms reorienting on their targets. This time it was Turnpike who was hit. Each round dented the reinforced steel, used to withstand a bomb blast during demolition work. The hits didn’t penetrate the S.L.A.G., but the force caused it to stumble backwards, the impacts like blows of a blacksmiths hammer.

“FAIRY FARTS!” Dax cursed as he fought to keep his balance.

Turnpike tumbled backwards, towards Hook. The machine bounced off the steps, past his opponent, flipping feet over head—and vanishing into the smoke once more.

Dax moaned as the S.L.A.G. slid to a stop. He shook his head, blinking hard until the two sets of controls on the dashboard merged into one.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he huffed.

Again he reached the control gloves to the side and rolling Turnpike over, onto its hands and knees. Flexing his fingers, Dax made a clawing motion and snatched a small cement block sitting next to him on the ground.

Hook stepped forward and arched the Scythe overhead in a downward swing. The motion of the cape, displacing the smoke and revealing the fight to the spectators.

Turnpike shifted from one knee to the other in a spinning motion. The blade glanced off a pillar, missing Turnpike by inches and the crowd let out a loud OHHHH! Dax followed up with a swinging motion with his arm and hurled the block at Hook. It scored a hit, bouncing off the hood and knocking the S.L.A.G. backwards.

Leaping from block to block, Turnpike dodged the gunfire booming from the turrets…and ran towards them!

Several of the team gasped. “What is he doing!?” Nat gasped.

But all eyes were on the limber machine as it dodged, rolled and leapt out of dangers path. Until, with a last leap, Turnpikes metal hands gripped one of the mechanical arms protruding from the wall. The turret bobbed and swerved, but it couldn’t shake the S.L.A.G. loose. The sheer weight of Turnpikes body caused the motor arm to creak, then crack. With a final kick off the wall—Turnpike snapped the gun clean off.

With a loud boom, Dax hit the floor, prize in hand.

The loudspeakers boomed overhead, “DID YOU SEE THAT LADIES AND GENTLEGNOMES!?? TURNPIKE HAS TURNED AGAINST THE TRENCH!”

Clenching the motor arm tightly, Dax yanked the ammo chain free from the wall and slung it over Turnpikes shoulder. With a sadistic grin on his face, the elf raised the shielding to protect his S.L.A.G..

Alhannah couldn’t help but laugh. “I should have known he’d revert to doing what he does best.”

Nat glanced up at her, perplexed. “What’s that?”

She continued to laugh, watching Turnpike running haphazardly, unloading a fury of bullets. “Creating chaos.”

“HAHAHAHA!” the elf screamed, spittle foaming on his lips. Turnpike ran at a full sprint towards the smoke. Most of the bullets vanished into the blackness without a trace. But not all. Tiny flashes appeared under the fading cover—revealing the reapers location. “No ya don’t, ugly!” Dax growled, noticing the shift in the smokes direction. He held down the trigger. Yellow and red flame flared from the muzzle as bullets ripped through the air.

“AAHAHAHAHAHA!” Dax laughed psychotically, sweat trickling down his forehead and neck. His head was throbbing now, but he couldn’t stop smiling to himself. Before the ammunition ran out, he turned the gun upward, forcing Betty to lie flat on the roof.

Click—Click—Click

“Fairy farts,” he cursed and chucked the machine gun to the ground. Betty 4.0 was still mobile…and there was still no sign of Hook, though Dax knew the reaper had to be badly wounded. Weaving in and out of the blocks, Dax looked for signs of the reaper. The smoke was thinning, but it was still virtually impossible to see anything other than slight shifts in shadows.

Dax’s head slammed against the pilot seat. “ARGH!”

The dashboard lit up with warning lights, monitors showing damage to the left shoulder plate. The shell had been breached. Turnpikes head rotated and shined the camera across the damage. Three long gashes across the heavy steel. Claw marks.

“Come on, ya pansy,” he yelled in fury, “SHOW YERSELF!”

“Nathan,” chimed Cyro, “I’ve gained control of the arena, but I’m not sure how long I can maintain it.”

Nat pulled up a list of possible tools he could use. He didn’t see what he was looking for. “Cryo, are there fans?…vents of some kind?”

“The stadium is equipped with vents to protect the spectators from caustic fumes, yes. It is not considered a weapon of the Trench, but we do have access to it.”

“Flip ‘em on. Now!”

Dax moved back cautiously between two pillars. The metal flakes floating in the smoke just showed snow on his scanners. It was everywhere—and only when he was within touching distance could he pick up obstacles on his radar. He shifted between two larger cement blocks.

Without warning, the overhead spotlights came into focus.

The blocks came into focus, then the screaming fans overhead and…

Dax threw Turnpike backwards, landing hard on its back with a loud clang.

The long blade of the scythe missed Turnpikes head and chest and embedded into one of the cement blocks. Red eyes peered down from under the black hood. Dax knew it was just a marketing ploy, but it still looked creepy.

Dax threw his head back and raised his knee as he jumped up. Connected to Turnpikes sensors, the S.L.A.G. followed the elf’s motions and kicked Hook in the head. Metal clanged on impact. The black machine reeled backwards, the forceful blow disorienting its pilot as Turnpike rolled back onto its feet.

The Trinity S.L.A.G. Was badly wounded. Oil dripped from bullet wounds like blood, small sparks still falling from the amputated forearm. The machine swayed weakly from side to side—but Hook wasn’t out of the game…yet.

Dax hissed, “You’re mine, sucker.”

Grasping Hooks cape, Turnpike flipped the heavy cloth over the S.L.A.G.’s head and yanked hard. Twisting the cloth in hand, it tightened, Hooks arms flailing about.

Alhannah snatched up her mic and yelled, “Dax—watch out for Betty!”

But Dax never heard the warning.

The first round left the muzzle, its thunderous crack heard clearly above the screaming fans. The bullet pierced Turnpikes left arm, exited the opposite side and sank between Hooks shoulders.

Warning signs flashed and Turnpikes left arm went offline. “Woah!” Dax choked his glove going stiff. The S.L.A.G.s arm locked into place. The hold was still firm…and Hooks head was still bound up, but the fingers and wrist wouldn’t budge. Leaned backwards, Dax started bouncing. Up and down he jumped in place, putting tension on his safety harness.

With one arm already out of commission and Hooks scythe out of reach, there wasn’t much the reaper could do. It’s one good arm waved and clawed the air, reaching back uselessly as it stumbled about, slowly turning into alignment with the sniper.

“That’s it, ya moron,” Dax grunted, “more…move more!” tugging and bouncing to keep his opponent off balance.

A second shot echoed. Hook fell forward, dropping to its knees. Smoke quickly flooded the area—leaking from Hooks arms and legs.

“Hold on Dax,” Alhannah mumbled to her self. She paced slowly behind the chairs, eyes fixated on the monitors. The louder, “We’re gonna lose sight of them.”

“Hit the vents again,” Nat snapped.

“I’m sorry, Nathan,” Cryo said evenly, “We no longer control the Trench.”

Dax leaned as far back as he could, pressing Turnpikes oversized feet into Hooks back. The metal whined and complained as the force increased. The blackness swallowed them both.

A third shot.

Dax fell backwards as Hooks head exploded. The sudden lack of resistance sent Turnpike sliding back across the floor. He came to a skidding halt, against the embedded scythe.

“Can you see him from any angle?” Nibbles asked. She knelt in the chair, leaning over the desk, inspecting the monitors. The only thing they displayed was the growing black cloud, expanding out from where Hook was last seen. “I don’t see Dax anywhere.”

Freak, Socket, Telly and Tumbler all stared blankly at the monitors. Chuck gulped loudly.

“Dax?” Alhannah pressed her hand to the mic. “Dax, are you alright?”

“Maybe he fell asleep,” Chuck suggested. His eyebrows rose high as they all stared at him in dismay. “What? I’m just sayin….”

Even the crowd had fallen silent. The curling black cloud crept across the floor. It had encompassed Hooks body, tentacles of darkness crawling over metal and stone. It continued to expand, seeping over the floor until the entire base of the arena was saturated with its impenetrable darkness. Higher and higher it rose, engulfing the second step towards the fortress up top.

But that’s where it stopped.

Gnomes throughout the stadium looked at one another, confused. Was the game over? Tiny hands and faces pushed forward and pressed firmly against the chain linked fence along the rim of the arena. Fans muttered and cursed. Were both Hook and Turnpike down for the count? Surely not—the buzzer hadn’t sounded. But where were they?

Betty 4.0 slowly stood up. Letting the rifle drop to its side, the S.L.A.G. walked to the edge of the roof. A small lens popped up from a shoulder slot shining into the rolling smoke for any sign of movement. Something…anything that could be targeted.

A ring of metal on metal pierced the silence. The fans stirred. Another ring cut through the air, reverberating and lingering. The ring changed to metal grinding. Scraping, as if against stone and…then a snap!

One of Hooks arms, still seeping and sputtering the black smoke from small holes, flipped through the air. With a heavy clang, the limb bounced over the half walls of the fortress and landed inside. The chemical quickly filled the chamber, running over the steps and connecting to the darkness below.

Nat clicked back and forth between his monitors, trying to view the arena from each of the Trench cameras. “I can’t see a thing.”

Betty 4.0 fired. Then again. Dropping the rifle, a small weapon popped up from a wrist compartment. Cameras zoomed in as Betty sprayed small bursts into the abyss below. Images flashed high overhead—giant monitors, displaying for the fans what the S.L.A.G. was looking at.

Faint trails of movement. Grey metal, dashing under the lip of the smoke.

“Wait,” Chuck said, his mustache rising high on his face, “he’s in the building!” With a gnarled finger, he tapped the screen in front of Nat, “Look—right there, under Betty.”

Nat enlarged the image. Standing directly under the aerial machine, Turnpike had Hooks scythe, gripping the weapon by the chain…spinning it. faster and faster. The hum of the metal, cutting through the air, grew louder. The momentum pushed the smoke outward, away the top of the platform.

Taking aim, Betty shifted closer to the roofs edge.

Flipping over the lip, the curved blade of the scythe sank deep into the steel torso. The blade went in through the lower abdomen of the S.L.A.G. and out its back.

The timing was flawless. Turnpike yanked downward. Betty was yanked off the roof and collapsed onto the steps.

Without hesitating, Dax bounced forward, gripped his opponents head…and wrenched.

The buzzer sounded.