44. Burton & Ernie

It blew me away that such little people had built all this.

When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: After securing their spot in the Trench Wars, Alhannah pushed Wendell into brutal S.L.A.G. training, only to realize his human instincts didn’t match gnome mechanics. But with the TNT crew’s help, they rewired Gnolaum’s controls—giving Wendell a fighting chance… if he could survive learning to walk.

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We can learn a lot from little kids. They stay in the moment, leave tomorrow to itself and they find amusement in the simplest things.

Then again, adults get to play with twenty-foot robots, machine guns and rocket launchers.

…………!?!

Never mind. Put the kids to bed.

I had no idea just how popular Trench Wars was until I followed Alhannah and RH into public.

The sheer scale of the hype hit me like a brick wall. Billboards and posters were plastered across buildings, flashing in shop windows, and even printed on handbills being shoved at pedestrians. Kids ran by clutching miniature S.L.A.G.s, wearing their favorite team shirts like armor.

I swallowed hard.

And they were all going to be staring at me.

I tagged along behind Alhannah and Shamas, feeling like a ghost in their wake. They chatted easily, not even acknowledging me—until we stepped onto the transport platform. Then, it was like someone flipped a switch.

The moment Alhannah stopped, gnomes swarmed her.

Cheers erupted as fans rushed forward, shoving hands out for autographs, others thrusting cameras in her face for a photo. A few even demanded to know why she had left the games in the first place.

Shamas stayed at my side, guiding both of us through the mass of bodies.

When we finally boarded the tunnel tram, he positioned us in a corner, planting himself between us and the rest of the passengers like a human wall.

At first, I thought it was ridiculous to be riding public transportation. If the goal was to keep a low profile, wasn’t this the worst possible way to do it?

“We want people to know we’re here,” Alhannah told me.

I frowned. “And that’s… good?”

She smirked. “We need rumors started.”

“You want people gossiping about us? Why?”

“Nothing moves through a community faster than a rumor. We make a simple showing, avoid any direct questions, and let the working class—your ‘water cooler’ types—spread the news for us. That’s where the real fans are.”

For two hours, we rode across town, deeper into the heart of the city. Unlike the district where Morty’s warehouse was located, I finally got a glimpse of something incredible—the center shaft of the main tower.

It was a gaping abyss in the middle of the structure, thousands of feet in diameter. Heavy lifts moved like streaks of light, shooting up and down at dizzying speeds, shuttling passengers, machinery, and goods to different destinations. I tilted my head back, trying to see the top, catching only glimpses of blue and white sky through the steel-and-stone colossus above.

It blew me away that such little people had built all this.

I shook my head, remembering my stay at Til-Thorin Keep, where human civilization felt like it was centuries behind. It just didn’t make sense. It was like I had stepped into another world… again. But despite the alienness of it all, I smiled.

At least it looked and felt a bit more like Earth.

Shamas and Alhannah led me into a small alcove where an open cage lift dangled from a thick, rusted chain. I stared at it. The entire thing swayed slightly, even without anyone inside.

An old, gray-bearded gnome sat on a bucket beside a lever nearly the size of his body. He grinned, revealing the three remaining teeth in his mouth before spitting something brown into a tin pot at his feet.

Alhannah casually stepped inside.

I stared. We’re… getting into that?

She smiled, waving me forward. “Come on—it’ll be fine. It’s an express lift. Fastest way to get around—just costs a bit more. If we wait for one of the main lifts to reach the bottom, it could take all day.”

She motioned again, trying to coax me in. “It’s okay, Wendell. Trust me.”

Shamas didn’t bother hiding his amusement, muffling his laughter into a fist.

The old gnome scoffed. “Move it, sonny, before I keel over and die for TGII’s sake.”

I inched forward, swallowing hard. My legs felt like lead. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the brakes released. The floor lurched downward.

I stumbled, slamming against the cage wall. My hands shot out, grabbing the nearest rail as the floor dropped from under me.

My stomach followed.

“You alright?” Alhannah asked, leaning casually against the side like we weren’t currently plummeting into the abyss.

I nodded vigorously. Eyes closed. Jaw clenched.

Breathe, Wendell, breathe… you can do this. It’s just a stupid elevator. I gulped again, daring to peek from one eye.One, two… I glanced down—

Nope. Bad idea.

I snapped my eyes shut again. A stupid elevator hundreds of stories in the air, plunging into the blackness of gnome hell!

The further we descended, the darker it got. Floodlights clicked on, casting a weak yellow glow that barely cut into the darkness. The operator, bathed in the sickly light, took on an almost zombie-like hue.

The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the engine overhead drummed in my ears. Each beat a countdown to how much further we had to fall.

“How you doing, little brother?” Shamas asked, his voice calm.

I nodded, forehead pressed against the cage wall, fingers woven through the chain-link. When was this going to stop? Please stop. Please. Please.

My ears buzzed, drowning out all sound for a moment before the hum of distant engines seeped back in.

We were dropping into the belly of the beast.

I cracked my eyes open again. Blackness. Only faint flickers of red and yellow lights dotted the void, like scattered, blinking eyes.

My ears popped. Sound rushed back in.

I thought I was going to be sick.

Alhannah must have seen it on my face because she suddenly had me by the arm, lifting me upright. “You’ll have to ride a lift like this often, so you better get used to it now.”

I turned to her, pale as a ghost. “I need to throw up,” I gurgled.

She patted my back. “Then do it over the side.”

I nodded weakly, shuffling toward the small gap in the cage. I poked my head out, my stomach twisting. The blinking lights below flickered in the blackness like hungry, waiting eyes.

I jerked back so fast I nearly knocked the operator over.

Both Shamas and Alhannah laughed.

“Second thoughts?” she asked, smirking.

I just nodded… and swallowed.

I cringed with every step. It felt like something straight out of an old horror movie—the kind where the clueless victim wanders into a grimy boiler room before getting hunted down and slaughtered. Each squishy footstep sent a fresh wave of dread crawling up my spine. The deeper we went, the worse it got, a labyrinth of twisting corridors and endless staircases burrowing into the very bowels of the city.

Tattoo parlors, pawnshops, smoke shops, and bars lined the streets. Occasionally, I caught glimpses of gnomes marching in single file, each wearing a hard hat, their faces smeared with black soot. The sickly yellow lighting made everything feel even more nightmarish—walls seemingly alive, bubbling with green and black ooze that slithered toward the floor.

"Keep up, Wendell," Shamas urged, glancing back at me. "We’re almost there."

I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be comforting or terrifying.

The neon sign ahead read W.E.T. INC., which felt appropriate since everything in the lowest levels of Clockworks was exactly that—wet, dank, and foul.

Under the sign, two rusted doors stood flanked by guards so massive they might as well have been kutollum instead of gnomes. Both were bald, their beards braided down their chests, held together by metal rings. Each had a single word tattooed across their foreheads. One read TRENCH. The other, WARS.

I instinctively moved behind Shamas as we approached. Right. We’re going in there? Was this the gnome version of a biker bar? The mob? Either way, I suddenly wanted to be anywhere else. I tried to smile at WARS, but it came out more like a grimace.

Alhannah marched up like she owned the place and smirked at the bigger of the two guards. "Sup Percy, ya fat cow."

The gnome with TRENCH on his forehead lowered his glasses and grinned. "My, my, my, it’s the prodigal wench, back for more. Run out of money, girly girl?"

"I see they’ve upgraded security from stupid to **stupid and bald," she shot back, grinning.

Percy chuckled, completely unfazed. "See, Frank? No matter what I do, respect just ain’t part of the package."

The gnome with WARS tattooed across his forehead snorted. "What do ya expect when you treat a star like dirt? Ya got no sense, Percy." Then, with a nod to Alhannah, he smiled. "Good ta see ya, Red." He held out a fist. "And long time no see, RH."

Shamas tapped knuckles with him. "Frank."

"Are they in?" Alhannah asked, nodding toward the doors.

Frank smirked. "You think we’d be standin’ in the wet' n’ cold like idiots if they weren’t?" With a muscular arm, he shoved one of the rusted doors open.

Alhannah laughed, throwing a final wink at Percy as we stepped inside. "One of you would."

I stumbled through the doorway and into a blinding fluorescent light. I had to blink a few times before my vision adjusted, and unfortunately, that meant getting a clearer view of the patrons.

Tattoos. Piercings. Scarred faces.

I suddenly wished I hadn’t adjusted at all.

A bulky machine with flashing rainbow lights sat in the far corner, blaring out some unholy mix of techno and industrial punk. The walls were lined with exposed pipes, twisting and weaving around each other in a chaotic mess, dripping green and orange goo onto the brick.

"Why exactly are we here again?" I squeaked, stepping away from a snoring gnome with pierced eyelids and a tattoo across his face that just said FEAR.

I bumped into Alhannah.

"Because I want to make sure we get a spot in the games," she said. "They only allow fifteen pilots each season, so I’m looking for some insurance."

Black frames cluttered the walls, catching my eye. Photos.

Curious, I drifted closer.

Each frame contained a pilot, either standing in front of their S.L.A.G. or perched in the cockpit. A sports bar… for little people? Then my gaze locked onto one photo in particular—Alhannah. Bigger than the rest. She stood boldly in front of her kneeling S.L.A.G., a gold medal hanging from a ribbon around her neck.

Well, I’ll be.

Pool tables stretched along one side of the room near the jukebox, while the far end housed the bar counter. Neon signs in bizarre fonts glowed along the back wall: BLITZ, SPOP, DOYT, COMATOSE.

Guessing those are drinks… and probably ones I should stay far, far away from.

Behind the bar, rows of black slates were bolted into the brick. Writing. Numbers? I squinted, trying to make sense of them.

A female bartender with a purple and orange mohawk caught my stare. She grinned, her oversized nose ring swaying as she tilted her head forward and winked.

I gulped.

"What are all those numbers?" I jabbed Shamas with my elbow and pointed.

He squinted at the slates. "Those are the odds on the upcoming Trench games."

"They bet on this sport?"

Shamas laughed. "Wendell, gnomes bet on everything. Trench Wars is a gambler’s paradise. You can wager on almost anything—straight bets, proposition bets, parlays, progressive parlays… even head-to-head wagers."

I blinked. "That… sounds ridiculous."

He patted my back. "If you hit a triple weeker—three successful long-odd bets on the same day, three weeks in a row—you win a hundred times your money."

I nearly choked. "A hundred times your money?"

He nodded. "And this is where the big money is made… and lost."

"Well, well," came a deep, gravelly voice, "if it sin’t the Banshee herself!" The sound was like wet gravel scraping inside a rusty can.

At the far end of the bar, a skinny gnome in greasy overalls lifted his head. Oil and grime covered his face and hands, welding goggles perched on his forehead.

"I thought you’d been banished, Alhannah! Where the tick-tock have you been?"

From a booth, another gnome looked up, plump, with deep dimples on his round face.

Alhannah grinned. "Hello, Ernie. Burton."

Burton poked her shoulder with a thick finger. "You feel solid enough, so you ain’t no ghost."

"No," she chuckled, "but I needed to put a few ghosts to rest." Her expression softened. "I didn’t leave you two in the lurch, did I?"

Ernie cackled. "You most certainly did! We set up an exclusive interview with WHRN, and when we sent the car ‘round, you were—" he puckered his lips and made a PHHT sound. "Gone!"

Burton eyed Shamas, but ignored me altogether. "We still got room in the games if ya want some action." He slurred and raised his glass. "To the first and best S.L.A.G. pilot of the games."

Alhannah smirked. "That’s why I’m here. I need three slots."

The room went quiet.

Burton’s unibrow arched. "Three?"

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Want to start at the beginning? Grab yourself a copy of book one in the Chronicles of Hero series!

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