60. Beat Down

Turnpike raised his fists. “In yer dreams, dirtbag.”

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 learns more about his place in this world, about talents he has but has yet to see himself…and being a fly on the wall is actually a possibility.

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Chapter 60

Don’t fear a barking dog.

It’s the silent ones you should be worried about.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” I said again, trying not to sound like a whiner.

Dax strapped himself into Turnpike, pressing the button that sealed the pilot hatch with a mechanical hiss. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I stepped back, arms folded. “We got jumped in broad daylight by government goons inside the arena. Now we’re out here, completely exposed, no backup. Something could happen.”

He didn’t even look at me. “We’re already here, Wendell. Took the deposit. Too late to back out. Besides,” he added with that smug grin I hated and admired in equal measure, “we’ve got six news stations live-streaming this brawl. If anyone makes a move, the whole city’s gonna see it. So relax and let me kick this guy’s can.”

I thumped Turnpike’s leg with my fist. “Fine. Rip his head off.”

Off to the side, Alhannah stood with Shamas just behind the growing crowd, wedged between the two team camps. She looked tense but focused. Her eyes tracked the Trinity crew, whose transport was wide open. Ten gnomes scrambled around Beatdown like it was a NASCAR pit crew. Booker, their pilot, lounged with his security team nearby, grinning like a troll with a gold tooth.

The Steel and Stone crew sat on the tailgate of our own transport. Even Nat had abandoned his wheelchair, sitting beside Nibbles with his legs dangling off the edge. Since this wasn’t an official Trench match, programmers weren’t really needed. No weapons, no coding tricks—just pilots in their S.L.A.G.s going toe to toe.

Pure, brutal hand-to-hand.

The venue? Classy as ever.

The Carver Building—a condemned beam and welding factory stamped for demolition. Perfect place for a brawl with zero safety measures. Thousands of gnomes wrapped around the building’s perimeter ropes, chattering, pointing, and snapping pics of the combat machines. It didn’t feel like a regulated event. It felt like a schoolyard fight—like someone was gonna yell “Fight!” and a ring of backpacks would magically appear.

Shamas didn’t look happy. His gaze never left the Trinity crew as Booker climbed into Beatdown.

“I don’t like this, Red,” he muttered. “You should’ve given me two more days to prep.”

“We’ll be fine, Shamas. We can’t hide forever.” She tried to sound casual, but her fingers fidgeted with her sleeves.

“Who’s hiding?” he asked, smiling tightly and waving at a Trinity crew member who flipped him off. “But recon, escape routes, crowd control? That’d be nice.”

Alhannah smirked. “Crowd control? There are a dozen cameras here—five pointed at the audience. Everyone’s in plain sight.”

“Exactly,” he said under his breath. “Too plain.”

Meanwhile, I kept shifting my weight from foot to foot. I’d been in plenty of fights by now, but something about this one made my skin crawl. I scanned the crowd. Definitely more than a thousand gnomes packed in. And this was supposed to be a demolition site? What could go wrong?

The smell of oil and dust hit the back of my throat. Gnomes were everywhere. Kids on shoulders, elderly with binoculars, vendors selling glowing popcorn. It was a circus meets a mosh pit.

A gnome in a blue cap was yelling near the rope line, waving papers and shouting odds. People were actually betting…a lot. Hands waved money, papers, tokens…whatever.

It felt wrong.

“You should go place a little wager,” Dax’s voice crackled through the external speaker.

I snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet against the pilot from the team that’s trying to destroy us.”

“Oh come on, Wendell, this’ll be fun! I get to be myself and grapple. Cheer up, will ya?”

I tried to shrug it off, but even the smiley on my shirt was scowling at Trinity’s transport, tongue sticking out in protest. I mean, sure, no one’s using weapons, but still—this whole thing felt off.

A gnome with a white coat and a megaphone stepped up and barked, “Fighters to the warehouse!”

“That’s my cue,” said Dax. With a metallic whine, Turnpike twisted at the waist and strutted across the lot. Each step made the ground tremble. Kids squealed in delight. I didn’t.

Standing side by side, Turnpike and Beatdown made quite the contrast. Beatdown was tall, jagged, like it had clawed its way out of a scrapyard apocalypse. Dents, holes, mismatched armor panels—it looked like it had been stitched together by a blind goblin with a welding fetish. Turnpike was broader, sturdier. Freak’s last foot modifications had made it squat, almost monkey-like. But it looked powerful.

The referee raised his megaphone. “Rules are simple: the environment’s expendable. The last bot standing wins. No weapons unless made from the building.”

Dax’s voice piped up, “Wait—weapons? I thought this was open-handed?”

“Still is,” the ref barked, “but you can use whatever you create by wrecking your surroundings. Understand?”

Beatdown twisted to the side and jeered through its speaker. “Backin’ down already, boy? Su-su-su-scared are ya?”

Turnpike raised his fists. “In yer dreams, dirtbag.”

“THEN TO YOUR POSITIONS!” the referee shouted, now plugged into the speaker system.

The crowd erupted.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Alhannah said quietly over the comm. “Perimeter’s clear. We’re all here. Give ‘em a great show, Uncle Dax.”

With a familiar crunch-crunch-crunch, Turnpike strutted across the lot and climbed the edge of the loading bay. Dax made sure to keep Beatdown in his sights as they squared off. “Oh, I intend to, ‘Hannah,” he muttered over comms. “Just imagining a confrontation with Vallen back home to get the juices flowin’.”

I stepped backward until I had a clear view of one of the massive floating screens overhead. Probably better than trying to peer over a forest of gnome hats.

“Hey, down in front!” barked someone from Trinity’s camp. A thick-necked gnome with forearms like steel beams glared at me from under a dirty blue cap. “Move your butt, kid!”

“Sorry!” I stammered, awkwardly shifting off to the side—and a bit closer to the Steel and Stone camp, thank you very much.

“Try not to fraternize with the enemy, Wendell,” Alhannah teased in my ear.

I turned to look at her and Shamas—both grinning like this was just a day at the park.

“Just enjoy the show,” she added.

Right. Enjoy the show. A couple of tons of metal about to beat each other senseless in a condemned building while thousands of gnomes scream their heads off.

What’s not to enjoy?

The energy in the crowd was climbing fast. I watched as more signs popped up—some homemade, some clearly printed by sponsors. Turnpike Rocks! Crush ‘em with Stone! TGII Takes All Pilots but Trinity!—and a dozen variations in between. Kids waved banners, parents lifted toddlers onto shoulders, and cameras swooped overhead looking for the most enthusiastic fans. A few small hover vans popped up selling food, drinks, and pirated merch—including “Unofficial Steel & Stone” shirts with our faces on them. My face. On a shirt. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.

Suddenly, the screens above changed—big red digits began to count down.

5…4…3…2…

Dax chuckled into the mic. “Here we go…”

And then the roof exploded.

A thunderous BOOM shook the entire structure. Dust and debris shot skyward in a towering plume. The crowd roared with excitement, and the referee's voice boomed over the sound system, “AND FIGHT!”

The camera feeds flicked to life, showing multiple views from within the building. The two S.L.A.G.s began circling each other like enormous, metallic wolves—low to the ground, braced for impact.

“I’m going in…” Dax started, but before he could move, Beatdown twisted sideways and dove through an inner wall.

Turnpike hesitated. “Where does he think he’s—?”

“It’s a hide-and-seek tactic,” Alhannah cut in. “He wants you to come looking. Or he’ll just wait until your back’s turned.”

“Great,” Dax groaned. I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. Turnpike jogged forward and leaned to peer into the hole.

A blue fist exploded from the opening.

“ARGH!” Dax’s scream echoed across the comms as Turnpike flew backward, crashing into the concrete floor and skidding across the hangar in a shower of sparks.

I flinched. “Oh, crap…”

“Or he’ll do that,” Alhannah added casually.

“Gee, thanks,” Dax muttered. Turnpike rolled up and onto its feet.

He didn’t hesitate. Sprinting back toward the hole, Turnpike veered slightly and dove through the wall a good twenty feet away from the original opening. Cinderblocks exploded like chalk dust, and Turnpike tucked tight, landing in what looked like a production room.

“Head’s up, chump!” Beatdown’s voice snarled.

Something whistled through the air.

Wendell instinctively ducked as a section of old conveyor belt flew straight at Turnpike’s head. The external camera picked it up just in time to make me flinch.

“CRIPES!” Dax yelled as he dove sideways.

“You do know this is a fight, right?” I said, grimacing.

“Ya THINK!?” came Dax’s sarcastic reply. I could picture the veins bulging in his forehead.

Running in a zigzag pattern across the room, Turnpike snatched up a small canning machine and lobbed it toward another projectile mid-flight. The two metal objects collided with a BOOM! and crumpled to the floor, sliding into a concrete pillar.

Dax stopped.

I could almost hear the light bulb go on.

Turnpike surged forward, arms raised, and began smashing through the support pillars. Each one shattered on impact, sending out bursts of dust and debris. Cracks rippled up the walls like spiderwebs.

“Is he trying to bring the whole place down?” I muttered aloud.

The strategy worked. Beatdown stumbled back, pushed to the far wall as his original exit points collapsed behind him.

Then Dax charged.

With a roar through the speakers, Turnpike slammed into Beatdown. Massive hands gripped the opposing S.L.A.G.’s shoulders and drove forward. Both machines burst through the outer wall, tumbling end over end in a cloud of dust and shattered brick.

“SCATTER!” Alhannah shouted—this time not over the comms.

Chaos broke loose around me as the crowd panicked, scrambling in every direction.

The crowd erupted in screams as the explosion rocked the lot. Heat washed over my face as a fireball rolled skyward, sending oily black smoke curling across the area. The concussion hit hard enough to rattle my teeth. I staggered backward, coughing, my eyes burning.

“Dax!” Alhannah’s voice shrieked in my ear, barely audible over the crackling chaos. “Take it into the warehouse—you’re gonna get someone hurt out here!”

Then…nothing.

Just static and a hard, ringing silence.

All around me, panic took over. Freak and the crew started moving people, trying to get them back, while Nibbles helped Nat into his chair and wheeled him to safety. Shamas and Alhannah were shouting somewhere to my right. I could barely see them through the smoke, but I started drifting their way, trying not to trip over chairs, coolers, or fleeing gnomes.

Something didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t just the fire, the cheers, or even the chaos.

It was silent.

Too quiet.

I felt a sharp jab in my side.

“Guhh!” I wheezed, as the air rushed out of my lungs.

Someone big…and fast…had me by the arms, locking them tight behind my back.

“What the—? Hey!” I struggled, trying to twist free, but another figure shoved something cold and round against my neck. It pulsed, sending my muscles into full-body spaghetti mode.

Everything blurred.

I kicked out, managing to connect with someone’s shin.

That earned me a punch in the gut. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

I dropped to my knees, gasping, but whoever they were, didn’t let go. Arms wrapped under mine and lifted me like I weighed nothing.

“Wrong pilot, freak show,” someone whispered harshly in my ear.

I tried to channel magic, but my hands were pinned, and my mind was spinning. I couldn’t find the focus. Couldn't even remember the words. Everything tasted like metal and ash.

The crowd surged around us—cheering now as the monitors showed Beatdown flying through the air. No one noticed a couple of shadows dragging me toward a loading dock.

I twisted…even bit a hand…though my face was jello, so I'm not sure it was very hard.

That got me another punch, this time in the jaw.

Tha-thump-thump.

Tha-thump-thump.

Tha-thump-thump.

The warm healing factor of Ithari started pulsing through my body. It helped me see a bit more clearly, but whatever was in the shot still had my strength.

I blinked a few times to focus as I was dragged through a doorway, down a hall, then another door….and another. Each opening released the sound of machinery.

Huge.

The kind that made the 'KA-CHUNK…KA-CHUNK' sounds, in between the grinding and whining gears.

We approached what looked like a kind of maintenance shed. It had red warning signs taped to each door. Powerful gloved hands yanked the metal doors open.

…revealing a massive garbage chute.

“No, no, no, I breathed… "No, hey…HEY, STOP—”

The last thing I saw was a goggled face and a fist hooking toward my head.

Everything went dark.

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