49. TRENCH WARS

“GET YOUR BETS IN PLACE,” the announcer screamed, “BECAUSE WE START IN TEN… NINE…”

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: Wendell, Alhannah, and Dax hit the nightclub GAH to stir the waters—and it worked. After a flashy faceoff with Grand Champion Darcy Dunnit, things spiraled into a public fight that made headlines. With Trench Wars officially underway, Alhannah enters the arena and shows why she's still a force to be reckoned with… even as unknown forces threaten the outcome.

---

Those who win in combat aren’t necessarily those with the greatest strengths, but the least number of weaknesses.

Even through the reinforced walls, I could hear the crowds.

The Trench arena was filling up—fast. Two hundred thousand bodies packed into the upper sections of the building, barely protected by chain link fencing. I imagined them stampeding through the gates, racing to find their seats, all pumped and ready to see us beat each other into scrap.

I sat next to Nat, watching him work like a madman, adjusting the Trench-issued computers to match his shortcut preferences. A six-foot-wide table, four padded chairs—standard fare for a RAT team, supposedly for the four programmers. But it was just him now.

“You sure you’ll be able to handle all this, Nat?” I asked, watching his fingers twitch over the desk. The poor guy had been grinding non-stop for two days prepping for this first event. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but his hands were still steady. I gave his shoulder a pat.

“I… think so,” he said, stretching his fingers across the counter, eyes flicking between monitors. Out in the stands, a swarm of fans were still flooding through the gates. Vendors were already hawking snacks and shouting over the din. Nat glanced my way and gave me a weak grin. “Just don’t tell them I’m scared, alright?”

“Not a word,” I promised.

Five corporate inspectors waddled past the table—big-bellied gnomes in blinding white lab coats—scrutinizing every crate and cable. Nat was practically growling under his breath, “Come on, come on. Check your list and get out already, will you?”

Freak and the crew were doing their final check on Banshee while he and Socket set up the emergency flash welder. Dax was hauling crates and making himself useful. The pit was spotless. The S.L.A.G. was prepped on the lift.

The only thing missing…

“Where’s Alhannah?” I asked.

Nat exhaled as the last inspector shuffled off. “She said she wanted to be left alone. Some pre-game ritual of hers. Don’t worry.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a small disc, setting it in front of the monitors. “Cryo?”

“I’m here, Nat,” came the smooth, familiar voice. A blue-tinted face shimmered above the disc like a digital genie.

Nat plugged a cable from the disc into the switchboard under the monitors, cracked his knuckles, and muttered, “Stealth mode. Hook into the arena mainframe. Let’s get ahead of this thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I leaned back and watched the crowd through the feed. My heart pounded. I was in the arena. The most popular sport on the planet. And I was in it. I couldn’t stop the grin stretching across my face.

“All right, team,” came Alhannah’s voice from behind us. She strutted into view, sliding leather gloves over her hands. “Time to suit up.”

“Showtime?” I asked.

She winked. “Showtime.”

Cryo’s expression shifted, suddenly puzzled. “Nat, the Trench system has been programmed to resist external tampering until the event officially begins. A deterministic algorithm is operating on fixed-length groups of bits. The cryptographic protocols are advanced—I don’t have sufficient resources to breach it.”

I blinked and looked at Nat.

He just smirked at me. “That means it’s locked.”

“Right. Locked,” I said, nodding like I totally understood.

Nat chuckled. “Okay, Cryo—guess we’re playing it old school. We’ll just have to move faster once the starter pistol goes off.”

Suddenly, the whole room trembled. The chairs, the desk—everything vibrated as the roar of the crowd hit a new level. The monitors dimmed slightly. Onscreen, fans were going nuts, waving flags and reaching for the sky as cameras soared overhead.

“Here we go!” Alhannah shouted.

She strapped herself into Banshee and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life. The chest plate door closed with a loud clank, sealing her inside. Her voice crackled over the speakers along the desk, “Banshee to Wheels.”

Nat rolled his eyes and slipped on his headset mic. “I wish you would stop calling me that.”

“When you get out of that thing and walk, I will,” she teased, and I could hear her grin. Banshee flexed her massive arms and turned to face us. “Stats?”

One of the monitors flickered, switching to a blueprint view of the S.L.A.G.—motors, generators, hull integrity, vitals—all of it. Nat tapped in a few commands.

“Looking good, Red.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“When you change your hair color, I will.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

The music blasted all around us—louder than anything we’d heard before. Drums, heavy guitar riffs, and industrial synths exploded in surround sound. The pit doors groaned open.

“Wish me luck,” Alhannah said through the coms.

Then Banshee strutted forward, vanishing into the light.

The crowd erupted.

Gnomes climbed the fences, shook them like wild animals, and screamed themselves hoarse. My chest buzzed with electricity.

And the show was just beginning.

“LADIES AND GENNNNNTLEGNOMES…YOU’VE WANNNNTED, YOU’VE WAITED…NOW IT’S TIMMMMMME! ARE YOU READY FOR THE CONNNNNFLICT!?”

The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, and the crowd went feral.

“ARE YOU READY FOR THE MAYHEM!?!”

The lights cut out.

Every hair on my arms stood on end as the dark around me exploded in cheers. The noise was deafening. I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts—just the wave of gnomes shrieking and stomping and shaking the building like a tin can. Then a spotlight burst to life overhead, zig-zagging across the floor until it fixed on the sleek, black silhouette of Banshee.

“IN PIT NUMBER ONE, YOU KNOW HER AS THE FIERCEST PILOT OF SEASON ONE AND TWO…THE FIRST GRAND CHAMPION OF THE GAMES…BANNNNNNSHEEEEE!”

The shriek from the fans felt like it would tear my eardrums open. For a second, I honestly thought people were getting thrown from the stands.

“These people are insane,” I muttered, clutching the edge of the desk.

Another spotlight snapped on, dancing across the cracked ground before locking on to a bubblegum pink S.L.A.G. wearing a crooked crown. A jagged steel mace dangled in its right hand—though with the paint job and the way the nubs caught the light, it looked more like a glittery scepter.

“IN PIT NUMBER TWO IS A ROYAL PAIN IN THE KISSER…PRINNNNCESSS!”

A third light snapped on and I instinctively leaned forward, trying to comprehend the sheer size of what I was seeing. That one couldn’t be real…could it? It was easily twice as wide as Banshee, thick and squat with a black finish that had clearly seen some battles. A giant club and shield in its hands, and what looked like another weapon mounted on its back.

“IN PIT NUMBER THREE YOU KNOW HIM AS THE ONE, THE ONLY…IRONNNNHOUNNNND!”

“That thing’s immense,” I whispered, my stomach turning.

Nat nodded without taking his eyes off the monitor. “That’s Burton Trench. One of the owners.”

“They seriously play in the competition?”

He nodded again. “Yeah—but they’re not in it to win. Burton and Ernie? They’re just here to wreak havoc.”

I blinked. “That’s… nuts.”

And yet, I couldn’t deny it made weird sense. When you owned the game, why not jump in and cause chaos for fun?

The fourth spotlight hit another pit, but the glare scattered off polished steel and the cameras struggled to focus. Then I caught sight of it—a lean, broad-shouldered S.L.A.G. with a dense chest and long arms. One smooth motion and it stepped forward, slamming a massive spear into the ground with a crack. The wings folded out behind it—enormous metal strips that resembled feathers.

“IN PIT NUMBER FOUR IS THE FASTEST PILOT IN THE GAMES…GIVE IT UP FOR BETTY 4.0!”

Whoa. That was the first time I’d ever seen a S.L.A.G. that looked like it could fly.

The lights dropped, and for a heartbeat everything went still.

“AND IN PIT NUMBER FIVE, WE HAVE OUR LAST PILOT. THE PILLAR OF POWER, VANQUISHER OF DARKNESS AND DEFENDER OF THE FAITH…ARMORED ENSEMMMMMBLE!!”

When that last spotlight hit, I couldn’t help myself.

“It looks like a knight!” I pointed at the monitor, mouth open.

Heavy blue and gray armor. Longsword. The thing even had the dents and scuffs to prove it had survived hell and come back for more.

Nat grinned, “Isn’t he awesome?”

I elbowed him with a grin. “Whose side are you on, man?”

“GET YOUR BETS IN PLACE,” the announcer screamed, “BECAUSE WE START IN TEN… NINE…”

“I’ve accessed the mainframe database,” Cryo’s voice chimed in.

“Grab control of it, buddy,” Nat ordered.

“FOUR… THREE… TWO…”

Alhannah’s voice growled through the coms, “Keep the coffee hot, boys. This is going down fast.”

A deafening horn blared.

All the lights exploded back on, and I jumped up from my stool. The pit doors slammed shut, locking the fighters inside. Freak and the others bolted to the monitors, tools forgotten on the ground. The screens split into five views—one for each S.L.A.G., tracking every movement from above, below, and side angles.

The action started immediately.

Princess charged out of its gate like a glitter cannon on legs. It hoisted that scepter and—click!—a tiny gun popped out from the wrist. Bullets rattled toward Betty 4.0, who wasn’t even on the ground anymore. Jetpacks erupted from its back and launched it into the air, flooding the pit with fire and smoke.

“Man, those things are fast!” I choked out, eyes glued to the screen.

Dax dropped into the chair beside me, cigar stub between his teeth. “And even more deadly.”

Banshee bolted across the battlefield, and the camera tracked from behind her. Something rose from the center of the arena. Four giant pillars with metal crossbeams up top. A pergola? I squinted. That can’t be right. But then she ducked under it and took position.

Cover. Smart.

She twisted the hilt of her sword—and it split into two blades.

“Time for a little hunting,” she crackled over the speakers.

Cryo lit up bright green. “We have accessed the mainframe. We now control the Trench.”

“Well that was fast,” Alhannah replied.

Nat beamed, cool as ice. “We aim to please, Red.”

“Grrrrrr.”

Dax and I cracked up.

Meanwhile, Princess kept plinking at Betty, who just glided overhead like it didn’t even notice. On another screen, Armored Ensemble and Ironhound collided. The knight’s blade slammed into the shield with enough force to rattle our walls, and Ironhound staggered backward.

The crowd above roared.

Nat typed furiously. “I can’t do anything about Betty, but Ironhound’s near a torch, ‘Hannah…”

The speaker crackled over our heads.
“Blow it.”

Another brutal swing of that broadsword sent Ironhound stumbling backward. I watched, wincing as Armored Ensemble stepped in, just as something popped open on the arena floor.

A pipe? No—some kind of hatch.

A blast of liquid flame erupted across Ensemble’s chest, coating the S.L.A.G. from midsection to its feet.

“Oooooh,” Dax groaned beside me, puffing a little smoke from the corner of his mouth. “That’s gonna melt his shell if he doesn’t put it out.”

But Ensemble didn’t even flinch. The hydraulics under the armor hissed and squealed under the heat, but the knight pushed forward like it didn’t even notice. Chasing its prey.

On the opposite screen, Princess finally clicked empty on her wrist cannon. The awkwardness in the movement made it obvious the pilot wasn’t seasoned. A heartbeat later, Banshee shot from cover like a shadow on fire.

Click-click-click—then impact.

I felt the desk tremble beneath my hands as Banshee collided with Princess. Metal screeched. The cameras zoomed in.

“We’ve lost control of the arena,” chirped Cryo suddenly.

“Already!?” Alhannah barked, followed by a grunt of pain. Banshee jolted on the monitors.

She drove her sword down hard. It pierced through Princess’s foot and bit into the floor below.

“Get control back!” snapped Nat. His fingers flew over the keyboard, a blur of calculated panic.

“Attacking the counter algorithms now.”

Princess swung that ridiculous mace, but Banshee twisted with the momentum, catching it mid-swing. The force wrenched the weapon forward—and took Princess’s entire hand with it. The S.L.A.G.’s arm snapped at the wrist joint with a horrible crunch.

“Wow!” I gasped, blinking.

The TNT crew behind us exploded in cheers.

“AWWWWW,” Alhannah’s voice mocked through the coms. “If you don’t have reinforced joints, you’re liable to break them.”

Banshee dropped the severed hand and clipped the mace onto her own arm. Then—with a grunt from Alhannah—she drove the sword even deeper into the floor, pounding it with the new weapon until the hilt collapsed Princess’s boot shell. A final slice, and her blade took off the fingers of Princess’s other hand.

Dax snorted and laughed. “Game over.”

I frowned, watching as Banshee darted away from the fallen mech.

“What’s she doing?” I muttered.

Nibbles leaned over, tapping one of the split-screen camera feeds. “She’s working the room, Wendell. This isn’t a final match. You don’t want to destroy everyone—you just have to survive.”

My eyebrows shot up.

“Don’t you know the game?” she asked.

“Uhhh…” I glanced sideways at Nat, who avoided eye contact. “No. I’m kinda embarrassed to say I never followed Trench Wars before this.”

Dax made a poorly disguised choking sound beside me.

Thankfully, Nibbles didn’t seem to notice. “Well, only three pilots make it to the next tier,” she said. “Pick the wrong fight, and you’re out.”

On the screen, Banshee dove back under the pergola structure as a storm of spikes dropped from the sky. They came down like hail—only sharp, deadly, and with enough force to punch through armor. They buried themselves in the stone and steel around her like oversized darts.

“Alhannah’s giving Betty some target practice,” Nibbles said casually. “She’s keeping the real threats busy while dodging the high-end artillery.”

Ironhound had pulled back toward the center of the arena. Smart. Probably trying to avoid terrain traps. Armored Ensemble—still smoking—moved slower now. Its once-shiny armor was scorched black and blistered. The knight lifted its sword with both hands and—clang!—sliced the top of Ironhound’s shield clean off.

The hunk of metal flipped end over end and smashed into one of the pergola’s concrete pillars near Banshee.

“Choices, choices,” Alhannah sang through the coms.

Banshee lunged again—rolling low beneath Ensemble’s sword swipe. The blade screeched as it bounced off Ironhound’s tilted shield. Before the knight could bring it back around, Banshee’s mace smashed into its leg joint with a thundering CLANG.

Armored Ensemble toppled.

Nat’s voice rose, urgent. “Watch your back, Red! Betty’s circling around—”

He was too late.

The sky above Banshee cracked open with a rain of steel. The camera feeds lit up with the blinding gleam of falling spikes.

Two slammed through Ensemble’s right shoulder. Sparks. Smoke. The broadsword slipped free and hit the floor.

Three more embedded in Banshee—her left hip, knee, and side. The sparks made me wince.

The crowd overhead roared—half cheers, half groans.

With her remaining sword, Banshee twisted and stabbed upward in a surprise arc. The motion made zero tactical sense, until I realized what she’d done.

Click!

Ironhound’s shield broke loose. She’d sliced the bar pinning it to the S.L.A.G.’s arm.

“Alhannah!” Dax barked.

Her voice came back through the speakers, battered but fierce. “It’s not over yet.”

The camera showed Banshee spinning into a barrel roll across the arena floor. Ironhound staggered, tossed its broken weapon, and reached behind its back—

—and drew a two-handed club the size of a tree trunk.

My throat went dry.

Oh no.

Here we go.

“Cryo!” Nat barked.

“I’m sorry, Nat,” the AI’s voice buzzed through the disc. “The sophistication of the hacking techniques I’m encountering is beyond anything I’ve seen before.”

“Wait! Wait! Look!!” I banged my fist on the desk, nearly knocking over one of the monitors.

Ironhound had just raised its massive club overhead—ready to crush Banshee, who lay in a heap near the arena wall—when something blew. A sharp pop! of white light, followed by a crackle of sparks. Arcs of electricity shot off the S.L.A.G., dancing high into the air.

Ironhound seized mid-motion.

Then it toppled backward with a massive THUD, completely frozen.

“Well I’ll be a vallen-hugger,” muttered Tumbler behind me. I caught the flick of his chewed cigar hitting the floor. “That was a flash-weld if I ever saw one.”

Freak pushed his goggles up and squinted at the screen. “I think the stakes just went up.”

“What’s a flash weld?” I asked, eyes still glued to the display.

The old gnome scratched his head absently. “Special technique. Fuses two surfaces without using any filler. Takes a lot of heat though.” His brow furrowed. “If they’ve got devices that can do that from inside a Trench mech, well…”

“WooHOO!” Dax’s voice erupted beside me. I turned to see him snatch Nat’s mic and jab a finger at one of the screens. Betty 4.0 had just driven her enormous spear clean through Princess’s helmet, sparks jetting in every direction.

“Hannah, can you finish Ironhound? Princess is out of the games!”

“I…think so,” her voice crackled through the com-link.

But nothing happened. Banshee didn’t move.

“I can’t—The controls won’t respond!” Alhannah gasped.

“No, no, no…” I leaned forward, eyes darting between camera feeds. Armored Ensemble was climbing to its feet, smoke pouring from one of its shoulder joints. It limped forward, dragging its blade behind it.

I could feel my heartbeat in my ears.

She wasn't going to make it.

I watched helplessly as Ensemble loomed over the two prone S.L.A.G.s. Betty 4.0 had already bounced across the arena and was literally kicking Princess’s dismembered head like a soccer ball. The crowd overhead roared.

Then it changed.

“BANSHEE! BANSHEE! BANSHEE!”

I blinked. “What does that mean? Are they…do they want her finished?”

Nat’s voice was tense. “I don’t know. But look!”

On screen, Ensemble hesitated—its massive sword raised high. The blade shifted from side to side, targeting first Banshee, then Ironhound.

Then it dropped.

Right into Ironhound’s chest.

The impact split the S.L.A.G.’s head in half, sending smoke and metal shrapnel into the air.

The arena exploded with cheers. The stadium speakers howled overhead:

“AND THE FINAL BLOW FALLS TO SEAL THE DEAL FOR ROUND ONE! MERCY SHOWN MAY COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU, ARMORED ENSEMBLE…BUT THAT’S FOR ANOTHER DAY! OUR VICTORS TONIGHT ARE ARMORED ENSEMBLE, BETTY 4.0…AND BANSHEE!!”

I could barely hear myself think as the chanting changed.

“ARMOR E! ARMOR E! ARMOR E!”

Dax flopped his headset down onto the desk and let out a long breath. “Now that…was close.”

Beside him, Nat stared at Cryo64, eyes hard. “Too close.”

---

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

---

---