tinyprancinghorse
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Untitled Story 1, Chapter 2, Book 5... I gotta figure out a title for this new series. Chapter name: THE MINIGAME.
🕑 Added 2024-11-14 20:13:04 +0000 UTCGrey rainclouds hid the rising sun and threatened rain as Mica stepped into the automatic taxi company’s checkered yellow cab. His hope was that the weather would stay away until midday; training in cool weather was always preferable to the heat, especially considering all the bare metal on his rig and in the ring.
He sighed as the front window of the driver-less cab started to mist up with sprinkling rain as its’ engines whined back to life, lifting off and skimming across the ground about 500 feet up. Not high enough to need a full atmospheric clearance from the FAA, yet low enough to avoid most ground traffic - not that there was much of that nowadays in the exclusion zone.
Mica’s breath fogged up the passenger window as he sighed, the gray rainclouds stretching to touch the matching gray exclusion wall. He wasn’t around when the incident happened, but he absolutely lived in the aftermath; when the world governments were distracted, native New Jersinians - ones who had lived in the state for generations, who had become distilled yanks - took the time to leave New Jersey. The damage to the surrounding states was enormous, and what began as a hasty barricade against roving bands of jersey shore guidos eventually turned into a hundred-meter tall concrete barrier with all the military accouterments that come with such an installation.
Micah hadn’t seen a live guido in… well, ever. His father may have, but that was before the great tanning oil culling of ‘77. The official American position was that all escapees from the containment zone were eventually caught and returned, but Mica wasn’t so sure. Every so often an Ike’s Famous Crab Cakes restaurant would pop up a couple hundred miles away from the border, swearing it was from Massachusetts.
Mica watched the containment drones dance in the light-grey sky, and frowned slightly as a group of them peeled off from checking the gates and headed his way. The cab banked somewhat sharply, and a helpful chime indicated that landing would take place in just a few moments. Mica looked down at Bill’s; the original name was rusted off of the sign, but it was most likely a junkyard, light motor repair shop and …something else, if the detached munitions-filled workshops were any indication. Mac’s flatbed was already at the gate, Mica’s own rig covered by a well-worn blue tarp, bungee-corded down to keep some of the elements off of it.
The door swung open automatically and Mica stepped out - only to immediately be greeted by one of the containment drones.
“GREETINGS.” The robot helpfully chirped.
“Uh, Hi.” Mica replied, looking into it’s CRT-styled ‘face’. “Can I help you?”
“YOU ARE IN NEW JERSEY.” It pointed out.
“Yes…” Mica said. It was rare for a drone to pick out individuals; usually they only scanned inbound and outbound traffic along the many many open roads in and out of the state and rammed into seagulls.
“THAT’S UNFORTUNATE.” The drone stated, and then floated away.
Mica watched the drone ramble up into the sky in silent disbelief before it juked hard to the right, slamming into an errant seagull and knocking the bird out of the sky, before flying back to the wall.
“Well, that certainly happened.” Mica said, sniffing before scratching his nose, the automated cab letting out another cheerful ding as his account was automatically debited the fare fee. Mica looked both ways before crossing the street; there was no traffic, but old habits die hard. He half-jogged across the gravel-filled potholes that NJDOT considered city roads to the cab of the flatbed, hopping up onto the driver’s step to peek inside.
No Mac.
With a grunt Mica jumped down onto the gravel-mud lot, walking through the gate to the one “customer welcoming zone” that Bill’s had. It of course tripled as a waiting area, probably an illegal gambling den and a holdout zone - though whatever damage Bill swore was from plasfire and bullets looked to be caused by rust and neglect instead. Mica gripped the well-beaten door handle and opened the dingy plastic-white door to the waiting area, an antique bell attached to the top wall dinging cheerfully to announce his presence.
Bill looked up from behind the welcome counter, a premium printed mechanic’s magazine held between blackened fingers. He was, himself, a dingy man, though that was less by choice and more by necessity; when you worked as a grease monkey manufacturer, you ended up just being dirty all the time forever. His bright blue reflective uniform had been bleached over years in the sun and inclement weather to a soft baby blue, the shirt’s reflective stripes barely held on with speed tape and superglue. But Bill’s eyes were sharp, and they studied Mica for a few intense moments before a frown spread across his face.
“He’s pissin’ in my import lot again, isn’t he.” Bill stated as he rolled up his newspaper, standing up from his pleather-padded stool with a sigh. Mica shrugged as Bill turned around, walking out the side door behind the welcome counter into the garage proper without so much as a hello, goodbye, or “please enjoy the coffee, I first brewed it in ‘83 and it’s still good.”
Mica knew better than to ask, and some traditions that had been going on longer than he was alive were better left unquestioned - especially if they involved unzipping your pants and committing misdemeanors. The antique window air conditioner that was slotted into a hole in the wall kicked in, recirculating warm air as Mica wandered the welcome area. He spent the time browsing the yellowed magazine racks, idly rearranging the long-outdated issues into something a bit more coherent, until he could very faintly pick up the sound of yelling from outside.
Mica paused for a moment before tossing a copy of Velocity Chemtrails onto a well-beaten armchair, deciding that whatever the hell was going on outside beat him waiting alone inside. With another cheerful ding the bell chimed as he opened the door, stepping out into the now-misty day.
= = = = =
“Sooooooo…”
“So what, Kid?” Mac responded, fishing into his jacket pocket for another white owl, stubbing the last one out on the “no smoking” sign within the well-used crane cockpit. “Something on your mind?”
Mica rolled his shoulders within the cockpit, the mechanical exosuit mimicking his movements clumsily as he gripped his arm controllers tighter, the increased pressure clenching the fists of his rig. “I was just thinking that maybe-“
The creak of the spider-limbed cranes’ arms was the only indication that anything had changed - with surprising speed Mac dodged hard to the right, the sedan whooshing past where he was a few moments ago, the titanium composite chains holding the impromptu wrecking ball squealing in metallic protest as the former family van arced up before being caught by a second arm.
“Good. But you really should stop thinking about anything other than the fight once you enter the ring.” Mac said, his microphone picking up the hiss of butane as he lit his second cigar of the morning. “Next time, parry.”
Mica listened in, intently, as he heard the electronic clamp disengage, another car silently arcing towards his position. He spun around, meeting the hatchback with a backhand as it passed by, the vehicle crunching under his fist as it spun around in it’s chain prison. Mac didn’t catch or rope this one up - it’s momentum stopped and the car hung silently in the air, floating, before gravity reasserted it’s dominance and the hatchback swung down with a vengeance. Mica braced himself, dragging his left foot forward in the gravel pit to brace for impact.
The car, flip-up lights narrowed in determination, hit him like a truck - the hatchback’s sudden weight class change catching Mica by surprise, the impact rocking his rig violently. He dug in his heels, the crash of metal-on-metal echoing throughout the ring followed by a deafening silence. For a few moments the two metal constructs stayed locked in place, and Mac tapped his mic to get his pilot’s attention. Mica, for his part, heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing in his ears, blinking away the spots in his vision from the sudden concussion.
Mac whistled. “Well. I was expecting another parry, kid... I guess you forgot that today was to work on your dodging, mmm. You know your rig isn’t built to be a tank, right?” He pulled a drag through the cheap cigar, rolling it with his teeth as he exhaled. “If you just want to sit there and get punished, I know a bitch of a nun that can make you feel two inches tall-“
“D’ rather naht.” Mica slurred, the hatchback slipping free of it’s chain and falling to the ground. Mica swore it looked at him with the fury of a failed isekai arc, and rewarded the sassy hatchback with a flurry of punches and kicks, the panels of the car popping off one by one.
Mac watched amused from above, letting the kid work out his aggression for a few moments until the vehicle was a crunched, smoldering wreck.
“Feel better?” Mac asked, a smile in his voice. “They won’t stand still like that for the real thing, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Mica replied, breathing heavily as he wrenched his rig’s fist from the engine block of the erstwhile eco-friendly vehicle. “Just because they can hit like a truck doesn’t mean you have to hit me with a truck.”
“Well, until you make enough prize money for us to afford those fancy holo training dummies, the old ways will have to do.” Mac said, taking a light puff from his cigar, rolling it to the corner of his mouth. “How does that ancient American proverb go? We have an Accord: when it comes to general motors, if you can dodge a car you can af-ford to be jeep with your training?”
“I hate you so much.” Mica replied, as another electromagnetic clamp shut off high above him.
= = = =
The sky had turned darker over the course of the day, the drab clouds lazily threatening rain as the sun set somewhere over the blind horizon.
It didn’t matter to Bill; he still squinted as he looked up into the yellowed crane cab, trying to discern any movement within. “You have to come down sometime.” He called, half to himself and half to his captive.
Minutes passed before the intercom clicked on, an electronic screech followed by staticked silence. Then, a voice.
“Nuh uh.”
“Damnit Mac, why do you do this every single time I get a new load in?” Bill yelled, crossing his arms. “It’s downright unhygenic you prick.”
Mac growled into the microphone. “I’ll be cold in the ground long before I recognize those fucking rustbloods-“
“My cousin is a martian!” Bill yelled up, pointing an accusing finger. “You come from a line of fishermen - what do you even have against them? It’s not like they stole our industry!”
“Then stop importin’ their cheap printed shit, Bill!” Mac replied, cracking a window to let out a puff of smoke.
“I run a crapyard, Mac. It’s bits and bobs and bullshit - they’re in the pick-a-part lot, for fuck’s sake!” Bill responded, sighing. “I’m importing from New York.”
There was a pregnant pause before a cigar nub was tossed out of the window. “Still don’t like it.”
“And I still don’t like you using my crushing rig to train your boy. Speaking of-“ Bill motioned over to the prone fighter who was most likely concussed from an earlier attempt to dodge what was left of a 50 foot trailer. “-can you take him and go? Not that I don’t love you like a brother-in-law, but I’ve got to actually make money today.”
“Pay me.”
“To leave?!” Bill roared, half-laughing and half-screaming. “I’ll pay you in lead, you sonofabitch!”
“Nope.” Mac said, waving his arm out of the cab dismissively. “I did a full 8 hour shift destroying trash vehicles on your lot. You owe me time.”
“You slammed them into a child.” Bill pointed out, not altogether incorrectly.
“Which destroyed them, correct?” Mac retorted. Bill opened his mouth to counter, but then thought for a moment. Mac was technically correct, which is the best kind of correct.
“I hate you.”
Mac laughed. “As long as everyone’s checks keep clearing, you can join the club!”
Comments
Conrad Wong
It's training AND it gets his job done! Win-win!
