46. We Have Takeoff

“But am I good enough to compete with the pros?”

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 slots in the Trench Wars, Alhannah and the crew dive into S.L.A.G. upgrades—only to discover that training Wendell may be harder than building the machines themselves.

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Once in a while, the Universe steps back and just lets you do your thing.

…oh yeah, it feels awesome.

Week one was dedicated to training both Dax and me in the basic functions of the machines. How to move and pilot both standing and prone, troubleshoot small glitches, and communicate with the pit crew. When all else failed, how to escape the machine if something went critically wrong. Dax was a natural, but that was thanks to the modifications the crew made to mimic his own body movements. I was even more impressive, able to create my own combinations from the simple programming of a video game.

Yay for me.

Week two was hardcore fighting, with Alhannah and Dax rotating training sessions with me. It was no longer about making the Gnolaum move—but making it lethal.

From dawn until dusk, we trained in condemned warehouses owned by Mr. Bellows in district eighteen. Old storage facilities, at least a decade old, where no one had walked the roads in years. The surrounding warehouses were abandoned too, which was convenient—because the sessions were loud and rough.

Before the week was out, more and more people were getting ‘lost’ and finding themselves in the abandoned sector. Rumors started circulating among Bellow’s factory workers about sponsoring the famous Alhannah Luckyfeller and her new prodigy fighter.

More than once, Shamas had to chase off bystanders peeking into windows and hiding in doorways, trying to take pictures.

“Let them get a few before you chase them off,” Alhannah grinned.

By the end of the second week, even she was astounded at how good I’d become.

“You’ve got to roll up to your knees when you’re hit from behind like that,” she said over the com-link. “If you don’t, you’ll be an open target for a secondary attack.”

I growled, “I know, I know. Sorry—it’s not that I can’t make this thing roll…it’s just that I feel like I’m being knocked around like a piñata in here. My head flops around so hard, it’s killing my neck.”

“What’s a piñata?”

Sighing, “Never mind. Not important. This just hurts, a lot. If I can strap myself in more firmly, I’ll be able to do more. Something to protect my head.”

“Alright, Wendell—I’ll have Tumbler look at it. Maybe he can weld some support bars and pad it.”

“Thanks,” I said, slamming Gnolaum’s hand against Banshee’s in a resounding high-five—steel on steel.

She beamed. “You, young man, are ready for some action! Let’s call it a day.”

Both S.L.A.G.s knelt down and powered off. The chest cavities popped open. I tossed the ignition key to Freak.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, his face openly eager for a compliment.

All I could do was grin.

Freak adjusted his goggles and wiped his forehead with a dirty rag. “That good?” He looked over to Alhannah. “That's good…right? The grin? He ain’t saying much.”