Rise of a Champion

The rhythmic clap of forty thousand fans echoed down the hallway that led into the arena.  The hallway was dark, but lights flashed green and gold in the arena, the national colors of Lyrr. Wendall clenched his teeth.  His nerves were getting to him.  He hated the sport SPEKOPS, but he needed the money.  All he had to do was survive longer than the six other people around him, and he’d be able to eat for a week. If he could last three minutes, he could eat for 6 months. If he could eliminate a member of the other team, he’d probably be incarcerated, but he would go down in history as the greatest SPEKOPS player ever.

Who was he kidding?  The rules of SPEKOPS were designed so that none of these things could happen.  He was a Root, the lowest caste in society.  Living underground, starved of basic resources, everything had a catch, a rule, or a competition limiting how much you could have from society.  The hardest resource to get was education—learning to read meant having above-ground jobs in Lyrran society.  Education meant assimilation into the topside culture. Going above ground meant more money and access, but more Roots who learned to read meant the talent pool for scarce jobs grew, so the one thing you could not find below ground was a teacher.  Root teachers were routinely kidnapped or killed by other Roots to prevent others from learning to read.  

“People of Lyrr! Are you ready for the next round?” the announcer bellowed, his voice reverberating throughout the arena.  The crowd erupted in cheers. “SPEKOPS Champions two years ago, winners of the King’s Medal last year, and your hometown team, the Hawthorne Golden Eagles!”

Out of the opposite side of the building emerged the team called the Golden Eagles.  Seven players, each wearing tactical armor, glowing gold beneath the seams of the hardened plates protecting vital areas.  In their hands, they carried ranged weapons, heavy machine guns, light rifles, and pistols, and on their backs and at their waists, melee weapons, axes, swords, and knives.  They wore helmets designed like the heads of eagles, eyes glowing green.

Wendall looked down at his uniform, red shirt with blue trousers.  This was unfair. He squeezed the bat he held in his hand. A red light glowed dimly around its sweet spot.  It brightened as he moved it around.  No helmet.  He looked around--no one was well-equipped. The best weapon they had was a crossbow with 5 bolts, not even enough to win the match.

“And their opponents…” the announcer continued, as the cheers of the crowd soured. “The Arvanauts!”

“Go. Go!” The backstage manager pushed Wendall and his cohorts down the hall.

Entering the arena, the jeers were oppressive. The moan of hatred vibrated through him, making it hard to breathe.  He gasped at the size of the arena.

“Three minutes.  Just last three minutes.” He whispered to himself.

Suddenly, the lights went dark, and spotlights illuminated the arena floor alone.  Then the floor began to rise and fall, creating hills and valleys.  Black Rods grew from the floor, which sprouted into trees and other vegetation.  Arms dropped walls from the rafters, creating buildings and cover.  In seconds, the area went from a flat plane to a greyscale battlefield you could find in any forest in Lyrr.

“Begin in 3-2-1…” A computerized voice spoke.

When the lights came back up, the greyscale forest was now an immersive experience.  It was as though they had been teleported outside.  He knew he was in an arena, but his senses told him he was outside.  He was amazed at how realistic everything looked. It was so impressive.

Wendall felt a sharp pain in his chest.  He looked down, and the blade of an energy knife had penetrated his shirt.  He turned to see one of the Golden Eagles fighters standing behind him. Wendall clutched at the blade, his fingers burned as they touched it.  The periphery of his vision grew dark.  He gasped for air, but one of his lungs had collapsed.  Then everything went black.

The arena screen showed a picture of Wendall Bottomroot with a green X over his face and the time —18 seconds.

On the other side of Lyrr, in a city called Ash, Arthur Wildroot was committing a crime punishable by death.  All Roots, unless in uniform and carrying out a specific task, must be underground by sunset.  It was the law and was considered a capital offense.  There were no exceptions. 

Arthur’s parents and grandparents had worked for the Ashes for generations and established a relationship with them that allowed Arthur certain privileges, sleepovers at the home of one of the wealthiest families in Lyrr. Hidden under the bed of his friend Declan Ash, he watched Wendall’s body fall to the arena floor in a heap.  A leg twisted backward, having broken under the sudden collapse of his body.

“Every match, at least one of those idiots gets killed marveling at the tech,” Declan laughed.

“How can you blame them?  Where are they going to see the floor become a forest in seconds?” Art asked.

“It happens every match. A new environment every time.  Doesn’t anyone watch this sport down there?”

Art pulled himself out from under the bed to look in Declan’s face, his dark brown eyes meeting Declan’s sky blue ones.  Declan knew the absurdity of his question.  Roots were struggling to eat hundreds of feet below the Lyrran cities.  Luxuries like screens weren’t something a Root could afford.

Art attempted to change the subject, “SPEKOPS is dumb. Isn’t there Robofalconry on? Shock fencing?”

“My screen, my rules. Besides, someday, I’m going to be a Golden Eagle.” scoffed Declan.

The match ended in under three minutes.  While the Golden Eagles celebrated, the bodies of the Arvanauts were placed on stretchers and hauled out by other Roots wearing green jumpsuits. 

Despite the brutality of the sport, the Lyrran government had actually made it safer for Roots.  Originally, bladed weapons and kinetic weapons were used, which meant longer clean up time between rounds.  The switch to energy weapons meant most Roots were only unconscious due to the shock of the weapons and were easily revived post-match.  Even Wendall’s collapsed lung and broken leg would be repaired, but the recovery time for his leg meant his pay for the match would not feed him long enough to get back on his feet.  That was the risk Roots had to take if they wanted a chance at something more than a day’s worth of food.

Art pulled himself back under Declan’s bed and settled in to watch the next match.  The roots never won.  Most matches finished in under three minutes.  No match lasted longer than five.  Unlike Declan, who watched because the Golden Eagles were an elite team, most fans watched for the variety of macabre ways a Root could meet his demise.  Art watched the different camera angles of red and blue clad bodies rendered unconscious via electrocution, the slow motion video of a Root being dropped from a height and impaled on an energy spear, the hidden mics catching their screens of surprise and agony of a compressive shock bomb exploding behind him.  It was war turned into a sport and packaged as slapstick comedy.  He hated it.

“Always keep moving.  It’s going to get dark.  Start running then.  It’ll be hard to see, but nothing in the rules says you have to wait until the lights come up. Hey you, with the crossbow.  You know how to use that thing?”

After 10 years of watching SPEKOPS matches at Declan’s house, Art had become an expert on the sport.  Art walked over to the Root, holding the Crossbow. He grabbed it from him and demonstrated loading a bolt.  There were only four bolts for this match.  

“Don’t forget to charge the Bolt.  It’ll bounce right off their armor if you don’t. Got it?” Art moved on to the next Root and the next, giving instructions. Each one, a simple, tailored plan based on what weapon they held. After everyone had been given individual instructions, Art walked to the backstage manager.

“Do you happen to know what environment we’ll be fighting in?” Art asked.

“Next is Lake Rowan.  You know how to swim?” the manager asked.

“No.”

“Well, then don’t drown,” the manager laughed.

It wasn’t true. Art had swam at Declan’s house hundreds of times.  While most Roots did not have a lot of experience with water, some were raised near underground aquifers, while others had parents who worked on fishing barges and shipyards.  Of his team of seven, he and three others could swim. He pulled them together.

“There’s going to be a big lake in the center. Get to the water and stay below the surface as much as possible to trick the thermal vision.  You should be able to make three minutes just staying under the water.”

Before he knew it, it was time.  There was so much Art needed to explain.  He needed seven days to prepare, not seven minutes.  He looked at his team, a ragtag bunch of bottom feeders wearing ill-fitting red and blue uniforms, holding an assortment of antique weapons from the old age. He shook his head as the announcer spun up the crowd.

“Introducing the Sylvan City champions for the fourth year in a row.  It’s the Sun Hawks!” 

Again, on cue, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.  The team of seven emerged from their tunnel—clad in polished gold armor, glowing green beneath the plates, helmets with red eyes glowing.

“And their opponents, the Arvanguard!”

As the crowd booed, Art rolled his eyes.  It was such a dumb name. 

The backstage manager pushed them onto the arena floor.  As the Sun Hawks played to the crowd, Art focused prepared his team, “We’ve got a Shadow’s Chance, roll green fellas.”  And with that, the lights went out.

Shadow's Chance is a popular dice game among the Roots communities of Lyrr. Played with two six-sided dice, one die is called the "Root,” black with one red and green square on opposite sides, and the other is called the "Noble,” black with one red and green square on adjacent sides.  Rolling one red and one green results in a scenario where, against significant odds, a player who rolls two greens can win big. As they stood in the dark, underequipped and underprepared, their chance was slim, but it was the only chance they had.

“Begin in 3-2-1…” A computerized voice spoke.

“NOW!” Art yelled.  He was already running.  He hoped everyone would get to their spot.

The ground shifted beneath his feet.  One moment he was running on flat ground, the next, up a steep incline, a moment later, a decline. As trees sprouted and steel walls were lowered around him, he hoped that his team listened to his instructions.

As the lights came back up and Art was fully immersed in the virtual world of Lake Rowan.  He ran through the vegitation towards the massive lake that was still filling the void created by the environment.  Across the way, he could see one of his cohort headed towards the lake as well.  They crested the hill at the same time, and the lake was there.  

Art dove in and swam as quickly as he could to the center of the lake and started treading water.  The crowd cheered as one of the Sun Hawks caught one of Art’s team cowering in a bush.  Not all of them had heeded his advice.  The finish was slow and gruesome as the Sun Hawk eliminated him with the blade of his energy knife across the throat.  As the body fell, he stabbed it a few more times for show.

The three-minute horn blew, and all but the unlucky root would eat for six months.  Regardless of the outcome, they had achieved what few of their lot could imagine.  Now, it was time for his next phase of the plan.  

Those who could not swim should have remained hiding in the steel shelters in strategic areas around the arena.  At three minutes, they would start making their way to the lake as well.  For most of the matches, the Roots don’t use the structures to hide, so it didn’t occur to the Sun Hawks to check there first.  They spent the first three minutes hunting in the woods; now, the only place left to search was the structures, and if the other two were lucky, they’d move right past the Sun Hawks and make it to the lakeshore.  Only one root showed up.  The other got blown up with a concussive energy grenade. The highlights were repeated in slow motion on the jumbotron.  It froze on the victim’s shocked face as whimsical music played over the still frame.

The clock continued running.  Nearly five minutes had passed.  No Root had made it this far in years.  This was not a good showing for the Sylvan City champions.  The audience had started growing antsy.  They could all see where the Roots were, but the Sun Hawks couldn’t find them.  The time ticked on.

With no clue what to do, the Sun Hawks decided to split up to cover more ground.  Art had hoped they’d do this.  He swam back to the shore and led his teammate into the water.  

“Stay calm.  Get in the water to your neck.  Then squat down so just your nose is above the water.”

The Root did as he was told. Only the top of his head could be seen. They waited some more.  Art swam to deeper water and continued treading.  His other colleagues swam nearby but kept their distance.

“Lake! Lake! Lake!” The crowd had lost their patience. 8 minutes in and the Sun Hawks were scattered all over the arena.  Two Sun Hawks made it to the lake first. 

Art wasn’t prepared for how accurate they would be with their energy rifles.  The targeting systems in their helmets were accurate, but they did not predict how the energy shot would react with water.  As soon as the blast hit the water, it diffused among the gentle waves.  They did produce a mild shock, but nothing as intense as they would be on dry land.  Frustrated, they put down their energy weapons on the shore and waded into the water.

They began to swim out to meet Art, wading in the middle of the lake.  Solely focused on him, they didn’t notice the other three Roots closing in around them. As the two Sun Hawks reached him, Art engaged the first one.  As the first grabbed for Art’s shoulders, Art reached for his throat.  The suit would provide oxygen, but the weight of the suit would drive him down.  

The other roots converged on the remaining Sun Hawk, driving him down below the water while restricting his neck.  Cutting off the bloodflow would activate live support systems and since the fighter was underwater, bouyancy floats would expand leaving each downed Sun Hawk looking like a pool floatation device listing helplessly in the artifical lake.

With two Sun Hawks incapacitated, Art swam to the shoreline and collected the energy weapons left on the lakeshore to the audible gasp of the audience.  Rushing back to the water, he handed one to the Root crouching in the water.

Pointing to the safety switches on the rifle, Art gave brief instructions, “Hold down. Point and shoot. Wait for them to reach the shore before you fire.”

The Root nodded, and Art began swimming with the other rifle to a flanking position.  Without the helmets, targeting would be more difficult, but the sights on the weapons were still serviceable.  Energy weapons’ long beams made it easy to adjust where the next round would hit.  

Ten minutes in, the remaining five Sun Hawks emerged at the tree line facing the shore.  Art ducked low in the water, holding the energy weapon below the surface.  The other Root noticed Art’s posture and did likewise.

The Squad leader stood back and directed his remaining troops.  Two were directed to enter the water, and two were directed to take covering positions on the shore.  As the Sun Hawks raced toward the water, the Root opened fire haphazardly, energy beams going everywhere.

The two Sun Hawks providing cover were much more accurate.  Two shots, both striking the Root in his exposed head, ended the attack and provided sufficient cover for his comrades to enter the water.

“Damn, “ muttered Art.  He’d expected that his other gunner would have taken one of them out. The Sun Hawks, providing cover, opened fire on the other roots located deeper in the lake.  Despite their impressive accuracy, the water diffused the impact of the beams.  Art used the opportunity to open fire from his position.  Surprised by the second shooter, the Sun Hawks lept from their positions and retreated back to the forest.  Neither one made it.  Art, despite taking numerous shots, stopped both combatants before they made it to cover.

Turning back to his comrades in the water, they’d found a way to incapacitate the Sun Hawks that entered the water, leaving four human rafts floating in the lake. This was unprecedented.  Never in the storied history of SPEKOPS did a Root squad defeat one, save six, of a professional SPEKOPS team.  The crowd was silent, horrified.  They hadn’t realized how barbaric the sport was until bodies that looked like them writhed on the ground, electrified.  The humor of seeing unconscious Lyrran bodies floating on the lake was now lost on them.  It was suddenly unfair that five Roots with commandeered weapons were now stalking the Sun Hawks’ squad leader.  With Art directing, the group spread out, making their way in the forest. 

Suddenly, the lights in the arena came up. Sirens blared, and the artificial battleground flattened out to become the floor again.  The sole Sun Hawk remaining crouched only a few feet from Art.  The producers decided that it was wiser to end the match rather than see a full defeat of the team.  Doors around the arena opened to a flood of heavily armed soldiers entering the arena floor, and they encircled Art and his remaining squad mates, cutting them off from the squad leader.

“Drop your weapons.  You’re under arrest for endangering the lives of Lyrran Nobles,” shouted one of the soldiers.

Hands raised, Art put his rifle down.  The others followed suit.  Without warning, the soldiers converged on the Roots, mercilessly pummelling them into submission.  Art smiled as his head bounced off the metallic floor, rendering him unconscious.      

“CUT THE DAMNED FEED YOU IDIOT!” Henrod Sylvan, Colonel of the Ash Protectorate, shouted.

The beating of the first Root SPEKOPS victors was being broadcast all across Lyrr. Unconsious bodies, bloodied and bruised were dragged into a line as the program cut to a static shot of the Green and Gold Lyrran Sun flag while playing the national anthem in the background.

Henrod paced the hallway outside the production room, hand rubbing his short-cut, blond hair as his piercing blue eyes searched for the answer to, “What do we do next?”

His mobile screen rang.  It was a call from Elisha Hawthorne, one of the representatives from the king’s council.

“Elisha, I didn’t expect a call so soon…”

“Cut the crap, Henrod.  You didn’t think to cut the feed before you attacked?”

“Elisha, this has never happened before—”

“The King is livid,” she warned, “After the first noble went down, you should have cut the feed. Instead, you waited until six were defeated and the final surrendered like a coward.”

“I know this looks bad.”

“Looks Bad? Henrod—” Elisha paused, “Our contacts across Estra are reporting that stories are already being written about this catastrophe.  Arvan’s national paper is calling it, ‘A Work of Art.’”

Long ago, the nation of Arvan was part of Lyrr, but an uprising of the Root population successfully freed the nation from Lyrran rule.  The apartheid caste system was broken, and Lyrr had failed numerous times to bring Arvan back into the fold.  As a result, the nation of Roots took every opportunity to mock the proud people of Lyrr, even down to the Arvan national flag, a red and blue setting sun—a setting Lyrran sun.

“Listen, Elisha, these beasts are in custody. They’ll be executed in the morning.  We can make it a public spectacle, make them serve as an example to warn others,” Henrod said.

“You Sylvans always turn to violence first,” Elisha sighed.  “I’m sure a public execution of Roots is exactly the type of international incident my cousins welcome while trying to negotiate trade deals with the nation of Thalass,” her voice lowered,  “Or maybe we give the Arvans another proof point that our society isn’t a model one after all.”

“I don’t like your tone, Elisha,” Henrod growled.

“Ok, fine. You’re not interested in the international ramifications of your heavy-handed decisions.  Let’s think more practically—do you think Roots will participate in SPEKOPS if the first team ever to win a match was publicly executed?” Elisha asked.

There was a long pause.

“Well, no, but—”

“So we have to do something else.”

“Just a regular execution, then?” Henrod asked.

“You’re…serious, aren’t you?”

“Elisha, they can’t be allowed to live.  Roots have been executed for much less.  MUCH LESS.  Allowing these…” Henrod stammered, “…allowing them to get away with this will only breed more aggression from those animals.  Before we know it, the violence will spill out onto the streets,” warned Henrod.

Elisha sighed and then spoke, “Henrod, there are two types of hope, individual hope and community hope.  Community hope is what drives a person to link arms with their neighbors and rise up for the chance to change the systems in place to make their collective lives better.  Individual hope is what causes a person to abandon their neighbors for the chance to make their own life better.  This tragedy has given us an opportunity.”

“Elisha, what are you thinking?”

Across Sylvan, the capital city of Lyrr, the national stadium was filled to capacity, 110,000 Lyrrans in attendance.  In heavily secured train stations across the nation, 300,000 Roots watched on massive screens that had been erected for them to bear witness to something that had never occurred in the thousand-year history of Lyrr.  Dignitaries from all 10 Lyrran noble families were present, even the King, Eirik Sylvan, sat perched on high in a massive golden throne, a scowl on his face, his consort at his right hand, and the Council of Nobles seated behind him.

A round stage was constructed in the center of the stadium.  Heavily armed soldiers ringed the stage and police officers lined both sides of the walkway leading up to the stage.  The crowd murmered as the massive clock on the north end of the stadium reached midday.

Suddenly, the Lyrran Victory fanfare reserved for military appointments and other official proclamations blasted on loudspeakers placed all over the stadium.  It was beginning.

The stadium doors opened, and one Root emerged.

Art walked slowly, still bearing bruises and bandages, but upright, bathed in white and gold. The ceremonial robe of a Champion flowed around his legs. The collar shimmered in the national colors of Lyrr: green and gold. A golden laurel wreath was placed upon his brow.  Art blinked up at the light. He’d expected to be killed. Instead, they’d given him a title. Champion.

Above him, Elisha Hawthorne’s voice rang clear and proud, “For a thousand years, Lyrr has celebrated its greatness—valor, discipline, strategy. And, recently, in the last match of SPEKOPS, we saw those virtues emerge in…someone…we never expected.”

She let the silence hang just long enough, “A root called Art.”

Gasps. Whispers. Tension.

“And rather than punish that…excellence, we recognize it. We elevate it. We honor it.”

She pointed to Art on the stage.

“This is not charity. This is not politics. This is merit.”

The King stood. Slowly. Deliberately. His jeweled hand raised once—then lowered slowly.

The Council, seated around him, followed with slow applause. Then, the applause began to spread. Soon, the entire stadium was standing, cheering, saluting. Art’s eyes widened. His mouth parted slightly. This wasn’t mockery. This was REAL. The hate he’d known all his life was gone in this moment—replaced with reverence, awe, and respect, from the nobles, from the people who lived in the light.  His lip quivered, and he bowed. A deep, grateful bow. Maybe, just maybe, this was the way forward.

Across the nation, 300,000 Roots watched from the shadows of train stations, from cracked screens bolted to underground walls, from makeshift amphitheaters where the smell of damp earth clung to every surface.  They saw Art, in gold, bowing.

The youth cheered. Some mimicked the bow. Others stood tall, fists clenched, eyes bright.

“He did it!” one shouted.

“He won,” said another.

“He’s one of them now,” someone whispered, full of wonder.

And before the ceremony was over, lines began to form outside SPEKOPS recruitment centers. Hundreds. Then thousands. By nightfall, there were tens of thousands of new applications. Young Roots, eager to prove themselves, eager to rise. Eager to be the next Art.

In the crowd, in one of the underground watching stations, an old woman stood silently. She’d seen this game before.

Decades ago, another Root had been elevated. Not for his valor—but as a performer, a novelty. He’d worn different clothes but had that same smile. He’d made speeches about “earning your way to the light.” Then he disappeared, as the system swallowed more of their sons and daughters.  She watched the young people chant Art’s name and shake their fists like his victory meant something. She turned away from the screen.

“We lost,” she said quietly.

An elder beside her nodded, “Again.”

The children cheered.

The nobles smiled.

And the game continued.