Don’t fear a barking dog.

It’s the silent ones you should be worried about.

“I’m not sure this is such a god idea,” Wendell said again.

Dax buckled himself into Turnpike and pressed the button to close the pilot hatch. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying that we got attacked in plain sight at the arena by government goons. Now we’re out here in the open, without any protection. Something could happen.”

“Look, we’re already here. We’ve taken the deposit, it’s too late to back out, ok? Besides, we have six news stations here with live feeds going for the fight. That means anyone trying to stick it to use will get caught on camera. So relax and let me kick this guys can.”

Wendell banged his fist on Turnpikes leg, “Alright. Rip his head off.”

Alhannah was standing back with Shamas, just behind the gathering crowd and between the competing camps. She watched Trinity with their transport, wide open, scrambling around their portable shop. A crew of ten were actively working on Beatdowns systems and running diagnostic tests. Booker, the pilot, was sitting with his security crew, having a laugh. She scanned the crowd in front of them. The Steel and Stone team sat on the tailgate of their own transport. Even Nat had left his wheelchair in the truck and sat with Nibbles—his legs hanging freely from the vehicle. Unlike the formal competition of the Trench, there was little use for programmers during side fights. These were about the skill and speed of the pilot of their S.L.A.G.. This event was a hand to hand physical event with no tricks, traps, or pitfalls…other than what chance might throw at the pilots.

The Carver Building, a welding and beam manufacturer, had gone under. Both the city and the government had declared the factory unsafe for the community and stamped it for demolition and recycling. Thousands of gnomes stood behind boundary ropes, wrapped around the building, while the media set up large screen stands, speakers and prepped their camera bots for deploy.

Shamas kept his eye on the Trinity caravan, as Booker climbed up into Beatdown. “I don’t like this, Red.” He shook his head, “You shoulda givin me two more days to prep.”

“We’ll be alright, Shamas. We can’t hide from the public anymore.”

He shifted uneasily as a few of the Trinity crew noticed him…and one of the workers gave him the finger. He smiled graciously and waved back. “No one said anything about hiding, but controlling our environment? Give me time to do some recon, prep an escape route, come up with strategies for crowd control.”

She snickered, “Crowd control? Everyone’s in plain sight. There are more than a dozen cameras rolling right now, including five pointed at the spectators to show reactions.”

“You never know.”

“We’ll risk it. Now relax and just keep your eyes on the Trinity crew, alright?”

“Sure.”

Wendell, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, watched more of the gnomes gathering around the building. There has to be more than a thousand people here already. Seems a bit dangerous if this is a demolition event. Men and women, even kids, stood around wide-eyed, pointing and taking pictures of the huge combat machines. Someone’s going to get hurt. For some strange reason, this felt more like a schoolyard fight than a professional event. Something that might happen while a teachers wasn’t looking.

A gnome in a blue baseball cap started shouting. Waving a fist full of folded paper, he rapidly repeated odds being offered for and against Turnpike. Dozens of spectators waved their hands, looking to place a bet.

“Maybe you should go put place a little wager,” Dax chuckled through the speaker. “Oh come on, Wendell, this’ll be fun! We get to be ourselves and I get to do what I do best—grapple. Cheer up, will ya?”

“Yeah, against a pilot from the team bent on destroying us!” Wendell tried to shrug off his uneasiness, but even the smiley scowled and stuck its tongue out at the Trinity camp. Maybe I am being stupid, they’re not using weapons. Dax should be fine.

A small gnome male in a white coat keyed a megaphone, then shouted. “Fighters to the warehouse!”

“That’s my cue,” crackled Dax. With a hydraulic whine, Turnpike turned at the waist and strutted across the parking lot. The ground trembled as the S.L.A.G.s strut across the parking lot to meet near the bay doors of the building.

Watching the two S.L.A.G.s stand shoulder to shoulder, Wendell noticed Beatdown was slightly taller. The machine looked like it had been through Armageddon. Dents and patched holes in such an array of colors and mismatched textures and thicknesses, it was hard to tell what surfaces might have been the original machine. Turnpike was wider, squat and looked more stout. With the last modifications Freak had made to the feet, the S.L.A.G. also looked more like a monkey than a humanoid robot.

“The rules are simple,” shouted the referee, so the crowd could hear him, “the environment is expendable. Last one standing wins. No weapons except for what you find in the building itself.”

Dax’s voice over the speaker, “Weapons in the building? I thought this was an open handed fight?”

The referee pointed the megaphone upward, “It is—weapons can only be created through destroying the environment. Understand?”

“Backin’ down already, boy?” growled Beatdown over the shoulder speakers. The S.L.A.G. made a shivering motion. “Su-su-su-scared are ya?”

Turnpike lifted both fists in challenge,“In yer dreams, dirtbag.”

“THEN TO YOUR POSITIONS!” shouted the referee, his voice now plugged into the speaker system. The crowd cheered.

“Don’t let him get to you,” warned Alhannah, he voice tense over the wireless com-link. “The perimeter is clear, we’re all here, so don’t hold back and give ‘em a great show, uncle Dax.”

With a crunch-crunch-crunch Turnpike strutted across the lot and stepped up into the loading bay. Dax made sure to keep Beatdown in view. “Oh I intend to, ‘Hannah. Just imagining a confrontation with vallen back home to get the juices flowin’.”

Wendell backed up until he could clearly see one of the big screens overhead.

“Hey, down in front!” shouted one of the Trinity crew. The burly looking gnome glared out from under his cap, “Move your butt, kid!”

“Sorry,” Wendell stammered, shifting to the side, and closer to Steel and Stone’s camp.

“Try not to fraternize with the enemy, Wendell,” Alhannah said in his ear. He looked back to find her and Shamas smiling at him, “Just enjoy the show.”

The energy level of the crowd was climbing rapidly. Wendell watched more and more signs appearing around the building, both for and against Dax. Turnpike Rocks. Stab ‘em with Steel, Crush ‘em with Stone. TGII take all pilots but the Trinity. The messages went on, each being held by an over enthusiastic fan, waiting to get their face on the swooping cameras. He also noticed small vans popping up and selling food, drinks and pirated goods, like the Unofficial Steel & Stone Club t-shirts.

Overhead, the screens changed to giant numbers counting down. The crowd counted with them. 5…4…3…2…

“Here we go,” Dax chuckled into the mic, and the roof of the building exploded.

Dirts and dust rose high into the air as the structure shuddered from the incredible vibrations. The referee shouted over the sound system, “AND FIGHT!”

Media cameras flickered on, each with their own independent view of the environment, showing both S.L.A.G.s circling the main section of the building. They looked like two giant metal dogs squaring off, swaying low to the ground, looking for a weak spot.

“I’m going in…” Dax started to say, but before he could charge at his opponent, Beatdown twisted and jumped through an inner wall. For a moment Dax stood there stunned. “Where does he think he’s…”

“It’s a hide and seek tactic,” chimed Alhannah. “He wants you to find him, Dax—or he’ll hit you when you’re not looking.”

“Great,” the elf complained, jogging over to peer in the hole.

A giant blue fist exploded through the opening.

“ARGH!” yelled Dax as Turnpike flew backwards and hit the concrete floor and skidded across the hangar. Sparks sprayed high over the prone machine until Dax finally came to a halt.

“Or he’ll do that,” Alhannah added tongue and cheek.

Dax grumbled, “Gee, thanks,” and Turnpike rolled to it’s feet.

Sprinting back towards the hole, the S.L.A.G. dove through the wall twenty feet before the opening. Cinderblocks powdered upon impact and Turnpike tucked tightly, rolling to it’s feet in the productions room.

“Head’s up, chump!” yelled Beatdown. Without warning, a section of an old conveyer belt sailed across the long room at Dax’s head.

“CRIPES!” he yelled and dove to the side.

Wendell cringed and threw his own hand up as the camera picked up the motion of the projectile and displayed it on the screen outside. “You do know this is a fight, right Dax?”

“Ya THINK!?” the elf snapped. Running a zig-zag pattern through the room, Dax scooped up a small canning machine and lobbed at the second projectile being thrown. The pieces collided in mid-air and folded around one another with a BOOM! The metal collapsed to the ground and slid up against a cement pillar. A pillar which gave Dax an idea.

Running towards Beatdown, Dax decided to use Turnpike to prevent further escape. Holding out its immense re-enforced arms, Dax smashed through each of the smaller cement support pillars along the way. Each column exploded outward in clouds of dust and chalk, crumpling to the floor or fragments plinking off smaller machinery. The action seems to startle his opponent, because Beatdown backed up to the far wall, the hallways and primary hole he’d made quickly closing off.

With a roar, Dax threw his gloves forward and leapt. Arms outstretched, the powerful S.L.A.G. hands gripped Beatdown’s shoulders and shoved both of them through the outer wall of the building. Both S.L.A.G.s tumbled head over heels, spitting up dust and dirt as they rolled towards the spectators and their team transports.

“SCATTER!” Alhannah yelled out loud.

S.L.A.G.s crashed into a parked fire vehicle. Fuel sprayed over the lot and both machines.

“Take this, ya fairy fart!” Dax roared and grabbed the Trinity S.L.A.G. by the helmet. Leaning his full weight on his opponent, Dax ran long the ground, grinding the metal against concrete. The sparks ignited the pool of fuel, encompassing both pilots in flame. “Try that on for size…” the elf hissed.

The fire vehicle exploded. Black smoke billowed up and across the crowd, encompassing everyone.

“Dax!” Alhannah cried, “Take it into the warehouse—you’re gonna get someone out here hurt!”

There were a few pops and static shrieks in the mic, then it all went silent.

Freak and the TNT crew were already on the move, moving people back from the area, while Nibbles grabbed Nat’s wheelchair. People scrambled about, some trying to escape harm grasp, while others were doing all the could to get closer to the big screens so they didn’t miss any of the fight. Alhannah and Shamas joined their crew, trying to get the crowd away from the flames, while Dax got the fight contained.

A short scream escaped the crowd, then cheers. Small hands could be seen through the dissipating smoke, pointing upward as a grey and blue S.L.A.G. sailed through the air. Beatdown was airborne, but not for long. With a thunderous crash, the pilot vanished through the side of the warehouse, leaving a new, gaping hole.

“Fight contained,” Dax sneered. Turnpike lunged through the smoke and towards the building on all fours—raking up the concrete with each stride. The S.L.A.G. looked like a wild animal. Jumping, Turnpike spun into the hole he’d created,   “I’ll keep the fight inside.”

The collision with the warehouse wasn’t just cinderblocks. Bent and snapped girders lay about or hung from the ceiling. Against the opposite wall, Beatdown was struggling to get up. Part of a girder protruded from its shoulder, not only immobilizing an arm—the weight of the steel keeping it off-balance. The opposite shoulder was severely dented, its rounded cover plate now hanging from a single rivet.

Dax just grinned. “Not givin’ up already are ya, Beatdown?” he said mockingly over Turnpike’s external speakers. Ripping one of the beams from the ceiling overhead, the S.L.A.G. tapped the metal like a club against its large hand. Dax’s grin shifted to a snarl, “I’m gonna show ya why I think ya have the perfect name.”

The reverberating sound of metal on metal was so loud, it echoed out the holes of the building and reached the spectators. Strike after strike the fans oohed and ahhed, cringing as the monitors displayed Dax’s bludgeoning tactics from different angles. Alhannah finally had to yank the earbud from her head.

“You’re a sicko, you know that,” she whispered into the mic. In response, Turnpike stopped, stared at the nearest camera and gave it the thumbs up.

With a final stab, Dax used his weapon like a pry bar and wrenched open the pilot hatch from Beatdown’s chest. With a clawing motion, Turnpike tore the hatch clean of the S.L.A.G., leaving Booker exposed and cringing in his pilot seat.

“You lose,” Dax growled.

Booker’s hand was holding the headset firmly to his ear. When he looked up at Turnpike, his grin was unmistakable.

“Dax,” Alhannah said in a panic, “get out here…now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaving the defeated pilot in his useless machine.

There was a pause as the gnome warrior took a deep breath.

“Wendell’s gone.”