66. FIST AND FACE

“You know what they’re talking about, don’t you?” Morty said, mid-chew.

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 Dax’s behavior, he and Alhannah are summoned to meet with their benefactor, and Bellows reveals Wendell’s presence…

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Chapter 66

My dad always told me to stand up for what I believed in.
“Don’t be a sheep, son. People eat sheep.”

It’s amazing what can happen in a few short days…especially when the truth exposes evil. I’m hesitant to call people my ‘enemies’, but I’m not sure what else to call those who tried to kill me.

I mean, I’ve been bullied and beaten, sure. That’s the life of most unpopular nerds where I come from. But no one ever tried to kill me, as in actually and honestly take my life.

Being thrown down more than a hundred stories garbage chute was a new experience. Whoever was responsible didn’t think I’d survive.

…and if it weren’t for the Ithari, I wouldn’t have survived.

By their fruits you’ll know them, right?

Hearts of your enemies.

The moment we got back to the warehouse, calls were made, favors were cashed in and a late-night press conference was thrown together. A huge one.

…only for the indie media outlets.

Talking Twins Media, Boisterous Banshees, Rock Solid Tabloid, Fly On The Wall Communications, and a slew of big MeTube influencers were welcomed into our warehouse home and given almost two hours of question time.

Alhannah didn’t reveal everything that happened to me, but she planted a seed of accusation. She looked right into the cameras and warned that if anyone tried to kidnap or mug me again, they’d get a sucker punch from her.

…via a S.L.A.G..

Dax laughed…but I’m pretty sure she was serious.

The city came unhinged.

Media panels started questioning the city’s ability to control violence and criminal activity. District mayors were called on to explain how the most popular Trench Wars pilot could be attacked in such a nefarious manner.

It had the effect we’d hoped for.

Exposure.

We had to deal with more fans, but the people were our protection now.

“If we open our arms to the public,” Alhannah said, “we’ll all be safer than if we try to do this on our own.”

Shamas agreed with her, which said a lot.

I remembered that while I chewed.

Not because anything dramatic was happening…but because nothing epic ever happened when I was trying to eat.

Thank goodness.

Morty scooted around a pack of giggling teenagers. He moved from counter to counter scooping up forks and napkins with that ridiculous, proud bounce he’d picked up over the last month. When he handed Deloris her plate, he slid back into the booth beside her with sauce on his cheek and a look on his face as if the world was finally making sense.

“I love that you do that,” Deloris said, trying not to make a scene. She kissed his cheek in a lingering way.

Morty blinked, confused.

I wanted to laugh. I’d seen that face more than a dozen times since we’d moved into the warehouse: earnest, baffled, utterly certain he’d missed a memo.

“Do what?” he asked.

“You don’t even know you do it… which makes it even more precious.” She sighed. “You always sit next to me when we go out. It…makes me happy.”

He beamed. “Who wouldn’t want to sit next to a lovely girl like you?”

That made the teen girls in the next booth over giggle again. Several faces peeked over the seat, grinning ear-to-ear.

I shoved the straw into my drink to hide how uncomfortably warm the room felt. Who didn’t want to sit next to a lovely girl like her?

Turns out Morty had rizz.

Warm or not, I felt grateful. We all needed to get out of the warehouse, and these two lovebirds wanted to treat me to their favorite street food. The week had been crazy. Turns out that MeTuber influencers had far more pull than legacy media in Clockworks City. Each outlet started a buzz about those responsible for my…*ahem*… ‘fall’.

Rocco’s Bottom BBQ smelled like victory and bad decisions. Twenty years and Rocco still made the place look like someone had stapled a wood smoke halo above the building. He hung meat like an artist and rubbed it with things that tasted like home and small crimes. I took a bite of my sandwich and decided the day wasn’t just good…it was perfect.

…which immediately made me nervous.

Perfect things always require payment later.

“Still good, Mort?” Rocco asked, wiping his hands on a towel like he had invented hospitality. The artisan cook was short, even for a gnome, almost as wide as he was tall, with a full belly and a smile that made you smile right back. His thick black eyebrows arched high, waiting for the judgement.

“After twenty years, you have to ask me, Rocco?” Morty said, grinning so wide his bifocals nearly fell off.

Rocco gave the tinkerer a single nod and a squeeze on the shoulder, then waddled back to his station behind the flames. He tossed another slab on the grill with the proud arrogance of a man who knew his town by the way it chewed.

The girls at the next table squealed again.

Deloris watched them the way people watch car wrecks…fascinated and vaguely horrified. Kids so bold in their dress, you knew they’d consumed fashion magazines haphazardly and never looked back. Many of the girls from my school dressed that way, and I…didn’t mind.

Okay, some of it might be extreme, but most of the time the girls are super cute.

Deloris made a tiny face like she was embarrassed for them.

I leaned forward and whispered, “I think society is a slow-motion train wreck.”

Deloris laughed.

“You know what they’re talking about, don’t you?” Morty said, mid-chew.

“Let me guess,” I said.

“You only get one,” Morty smirked, sauce dripping down his beard.

That’s when my name dropped into the other table’s conversation as if I’d been surgically inserted.

“That’s him, I’m sure of it,” said one of the girls.

“Quick, someone look up his picture,” giggled another.

“Who knew the handsome, yet aloof Trench Pilot, Wendell Dipmier, was a patron of Rocco’s Bottom BBQ?” Deloris said, with a perfect imitation of local-news drama.

The whole table of girls turned. Eyes wide, smiles fixed.

It was terrifying.

I wanted to crawl under the bench.

The headlines loved me right now, sure; I wasn’t naïve. We’d engineered our exclusive leaks to get our faces past the gatekeepers of the city. WHRN, the Church, the Government…talk of Steel and Stone was flying among the normals. Word of us spread even faster in the lower districts. But hearing your own name spoken like it belonged on a poster was its own kind of…humiliation.

“This is insane,” Morty said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of Clockworks shows up for your arena fight tonight. Your face is on every channel I’ve turned to in the last 48 hours.”

We knew the legacy media couldn’t stand to be outdone by the independents, which gave us free publicity.

I tried not to notice the bus outside the window plastered with my face staring back at me. Under my chin touted the slogan “Making Trench Wars History.”

Huh. Was that even accurate?

I’d been pulled out of a collapsing arena, thrown into the city furnace, and now I had to go fight again for the cameras.

Fame was a sticky thing.

Morty kept talking about the week. He told Deloris about the challenges at the warehouse and upgrading the S.L.A.G.s, and the fights Shamas had to defuse on three occasions. We’d had two side bouts, and the reporters I was apparently supposed to charm tried to trick me into saying things they could clip and reframe the narrative on.

It was amusing to watch the old tinkerer. His mannerisms.

Morty spoke in that excited gnome way of his…as if he were assembling a machine out of sentences. When he talked about Dax and Alhannah, it sounded more like he was describing wiring diagrams than talking about friends.

“This is a date,” Deloris said suddenly. She squeezed Morty’s hand. “Leave Wendell and the others at the warehouse, where they belong. Be here with me. Okay?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He gave me a weak smile. “To both of you.”

“You’ve been working so hard on PROMIS,” Deloris told him. “Even if you don’t make the deadline, Stump pushed on you…you’ve made more progress in the last few weeks than you have in over a year.”

Morty lit up like a neon sign. “Using the box my father made as a model,” he said, “I’m so close to discovering a perpetuating energy source. Something that can feed itself and produce energy for the whole city. Cryo’s tweaks amplify a small source, but not more. I’m trying to generate light, amplify it, then split it so the generator feeds itself. If I can figure that out, the rest can power Clockworks.” He paused. “I just haven’t figured out the split yet.”

Deloris leaned over and kissed Morty softly on the cheek. “You will, you brilliant gnome. You will.”

Rocco wandered back, threatening fatherly judgment. “You seein’ this, Doc?” he said, pointing to the tiny, wall-mounted TV like it was a prophecy.

We watched a news flash. Centurions — five of them — were getting checked by med teams. A transport smoked in the background, charred like a bad barbecue. The anchor gnome babbled about terrorists in the underbelly, electrocuted guards, and a missing soldier named Leith Potter who’d apparently been taken hostage.

“They’ve fled back to the underbelly of Clockworks, to rejoin their diabolical cult!” the officer roared into the camera, fist over his chest like that solved logistics. The anchor gnome smiled and winked toward the end. I took that to mean that an upbeat sign-off was apparently the cure to a burning city.

Rocco scowled. “What is this city comin’ to? Criminals walking around like they own the place? Assaultin’ our law enforcement?” He nudged Morty. “You believe this stuff, Mort?”

“We used to be producers, inventors…a community,” Morty said, wiping his mouth and making a serious face. It made his chin look proud. “Now, the thing that unites us is things like Trench Wars…which is nothing more than mock combat by giant machines. It’s all gone crazy.”

“Could always be worse.” Rocco’s tone turned theatrical. “The real Gnolaum could always show up and bring about the end of our way of life.”

Deloris choked on her sandwich.

Morty reflexively patted her back like he’d been trained for small disasters.

I tried to keep my head down, letting the adoration and horror swirl past.

When we left Rocco’s, sweat and smoke still clung to my jacket like unwanted clout. The city hummed with the news cycle, and it was going to get worse. I tucked my hands in my pockets and wondered whether standing up for what I believed in would ever be as simple as telling someone to stop being a sheep.

Mostly, I hoped it didn’t require dying.

I didn’t mean to snap at her.

That’s the part that sticks. It wasn’t even a fight, not really—just another conversation that went sideways like everything else lately.

“But why are you holding back your portion of the money, Wendell? That’s all I’m asking.” Alhannah’s voice trailed after me down the corridor, thin and tired but still trying to sound like command. “Not like you haven’t earned it, of course—I just…”

I stopped. Turned.

“Just what?” I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t lean forward.

Just…stared.

Alhannah looked like a ghost someone forgot to tell was dead. She’d been losing weight—bones pushing against skin, eyes turning yellow around the edges. I’d seen her refuse help from everyone, even her father, because pride was stronger than logic. Her hand went to the wall as if she needed it to keep her upright.

“‘Hannah…” I started to say, but she held up a hand.

“I’m just trying to help,” she whispered. “That’s all. I don’t trust Bellows. All your private meetings have me worried, Wendell. He’s holding something back…I just know it.”

I reached out automatically, fingers brushing her elbow. “Alhannah…”

She jerked away as if I’d burned her. “Ow!”

My stomach dropped. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” I hadn’t grabbed her, but she looked so breakable it felt like she might shatter if I breathed wrong. “You need to rest, ‘Hannah. You can complain and argue all you want, but your last fight nearly did you in. Go to bed. Let me and Dax handle the rest.”

She tried to straighten up, stubborn as ever. “The S.L.A.G. wasn’t responding properly, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

Sure, and I was the tooth fairy.

She looked like death wearing a brave face. I tried to smile for her sake, but the grin painted across my shirt looked more like mockery. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? You lost your match. It’s up to me and Dax to finish this. So stop playing little miss accountant and—”

Her knees folded.

No warning. No cry. Just—gone.

She hit me like a rag doll, all limp weight and heat. I caught her before her head hit the floor. “Alhannah!”

Nothing.

“HELP!” My voice cracked down the hallway. “Dax! Chuck! Höbin!”

Tha-Thump-Thump.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

I dropped to my knees, holding her tight.

She felt too small.

Too light.

I told myself she was just exhausted. Just needed rest. But her skin was clammy, her body slick with sweat.

“Hang on,” I whispered. “You’re gonna be fine, okay? We’ll get you help. You’ll rest up, get better, and then kick my backside like you’re supposed to.”

Her hair was plastered to her forehead, so I brushed it back.

…and froze when strands came away in my hand.

Whole clumps of it tangled between my fingers.

What the…?

Before I could think, she convulsed. Loud hacking coughs tore out of her chest. A thick line of phlegm clung to her lip, stretching, snapping. I held her shoulders, terrified she’d hurt herself if she thrashed again.

Then her body went slack. Head rolled back.

Blood started running from her nose—thin at first, then faster, dripping down her cheek and onto the floor between us.

I just sat there, heart hammering so loud it hurt, too scared to move her in case I made it worse.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

Tha-Thump-Thump.

“SOMEONE HELP ME!” I yelled again, the words breaking apart as they left my mouth.

No answer.

Just the echo, bouncing down the corridor, sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“She’s going to be fine,” Dax said again, like a mantra.

I didn’t buy it.

I clicked my harness into place and lit up Gnolaum’s dashboard. The lights blinked, and the console hummed awake, but all I could hear was the pressure — too many people counting on me, and every choice felt like the wrong one.

Dax’s voice buzzed in my ear. “Come on, kid — let me know you’re hearin’ me. I ain’t no shrink, but I know you’re worried. Höbin’s a genius with herbs, and Chuck’s cookin’ a mägo brew that could probably raise the dead. They won’t let her out of their sight…so she’s gettin’ the best care possible. You know that, right?”

“I’m not worried. I’m mad,” I snapped, because that sounded better than feeling helpless. I could see Dax on my monitor, pacing around Gnolaum’s feet like a caged wolf.

“Look, you don’t have ta—”

“I’m mad because she’s sick and we don’t know why. I’m mad because there are good, kind people in this city treated and cast out like garbage. I’m mad because…” I choked on the words, then forced them out. “Because I’m not able to change any of it.”

“You listen to me,” Dax said, voice steady. “I’ve been around a long time. Seen cities rise and fall. I’ve seen the darkest evil, but I’ve also seen some of the brightest light you can imagine. There’s one thing I learned…it’s a kick in the teeth, but it’s true.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Affecting change takes time, Wendell. Not a day, not a week, not a month. Sometimes not even years. You plant seeds. Generations water them.”

I scoffed. “I don’t have generations, Dax.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper, words dripping into my ears. “You do, Wendell. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, kid. You’ll outlive all of us if you have to. Your job’s the long job. You keep forgettin’ you’re plantin’ seeds today to bear fruit tomorrow.” He paused and then, firmer, “When this is over — when we can go home — we’ll make a plan. A generational plan. You, me, that senile old fart, and ‘Hannah. We’ll do it together. No matter how long it takes, okay?”

I wasn’t sure if he meant it as a pep talk or a promise, but it sounded…right.

“Deal?” Dax said loud and clear.

I flipped the switch to start Gnolaum’s engine, sucked in a breath, and said into the mic, “Deal.”

Dax rapped the metal and stepped back. “That’s a boy. Now go rip some heads off.”

I smiled like I meant it. “Nat, you copy?”

My monitor clicked on, and I could see Nate click his headset into place as he squeezed Nibbles’ hand. “Loud and clear, Wendell.”

I rotated at the waist and tested a few basic moves with Gnolaum. “Freak, how’s Gnolaum looking?”

Freak went down his checklist like a priest reciting prayers. “Prepped as soon as they opened the pit. Perks of stashing S.L.A.G.s in here — all the latest tools for the final oily kisses. You’re good to go.”

Good to go, I told myself.

Except for Alhannah’s color and the way my stomach felt like a fist. Two more fights and I’d have enough to buy licenses to get the muddles out of Clockworks. If I could find my stupid moneybag, I could give all of them a fresh start somewhere safe.

That was my personal goal.

Stay on top, keep swinging, keep winning.

It hurt to keep my plan from Alhannah; she would have argued until the lights went out. But she wouldn’t have understood why I had to do it.

The walls shook with the crowd’s roar. The noise threaded through my chest and stiffened my spine. Tonight would mean food and heat for hundreds of gnomes if I won. The thought lit something stubborn in me. I wanted to do right for once.

“Place your bets on Gnolaum for the win, ladies and gentlegnomes,” I muttered under my breath. The grin hurt my cheeks.

“You’re spendin’ too much time with Chuck,” Dax said, laughing.

I chuckled.

We let it sit there like a small, necessary lie.

The pit doors opened, and a spotlight hit the floor. The speakers roared, “GIVE IT UP FOR CLOCKWORKS FAVORITE UNDERDOG…THE GNOLAUM!”

The fence rattled with half a million gnomes behind it. I used the shoulder camera to zoom in to see the enthusiasm of the fans.

Signs waved.

People screamed.

A few had a blue ‘G’ painted on their foreheads.

…and a few on bare bellies.

Someone had made a Gnolaum sword-mace out of a pressure-cooker lid.

People were loud and desperate and beautiful for reasons they didn’t understand.

I kept a small feed open to watch them. “I think we finally hit the big time, Dax.”

“Who knew having a temper could herd like-minded psychopaths?” Dax snorted.

Chuck called the fans ‘animals’. Tumbler lit his pipe and called them ‘healthy’ spectators. We were all wrong in our ways.

Gnolaum walked into the light, and the arena swallowed us like a hungry thing. The other pit doors opened, and Alpha Fighter and Armored Ensemble emerged. The crowd barely noticed them…

“GNO-LAUM! GNO-LAUM! GNO-LAUM! GNO-LAUM!”

I pulled back on the controls and made Gnolaum wave.

The buzzer screamed.

We charged.

Gnolaum leaped onto the first step, sword spinning in a reverse grip. I scanned for Alpha Fighter.

“Ensemble’s on your tail, kid,” Dax said.

“I see him,” I answered, “but Darcy needs to be taken out before he uses that super-gun.” I pulled the shield into Gnolaum’s chest. “Where is he?”

Nat’s voice tightened. “He’s hiding among the blocks on the far side…it’s a semi-blind spot. Cameras only catch part of him.”

That didn’t make sense. Trench Wars loved camera spectacle; blind spots were a rookie’s nightmare. My hands moved; Gnolaum sprinted, pistons pumping. I swerved between blocks, pushed off the wall, scanned.

Run, Gnolaum, run!

There he was. Darcy, kneeling, rifle assembling like he’d practiced the motion a thousand times.

Barrel, stock, sights…the whole gun coming together in the instant you didn’t want it to.

Gnolaum raised the shield just enough to keep the muzzle in view. If Darcy fired full, those bullets would shred us. If I didn’t stop him, Ensemble would close and sandwich us. Logic fired off like bolts: strike the barrel, ruin the gun, and let Ensemble get tangled with Alpha. Make one clean pass.

Alpha raised the gun and fired. The bullet kissed the top edge of the shield, jarring Gnolaum but not stopping momentum. I dropped us to a knee, sword sweeping in an arc under Alpha’s position. Sparks fanned as steel ground against concrete. My sword connected with the rifle barrel. Metal screamed and folded into a V like a broken promise.

The crowd erupted.

I smiled.

Victory.

Then Gnolaum froze.

“What’s going on?” I yelled, stabbing the joystick. The machine didn’t answer.

“Armored Ensemble’s almost on top of you, kid, move!” Dax barked.

“I can’t! The controls are frozen!!” I shouted.

Freak leaped onto the main terminal and pulled up the monitoring program. Lights flashed green across his screen. “It’s showing you at full capacity on my end!”

“They’re NOT!” I snarled, yanking, slamming, begging the controls for mercy.

Alpha leaned forward. Its torso tilted and…only I could see…one armored finger lifted up to where a mouth might be. It dragged that finger slowly across an invisible throat.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what that meant.

A shadow moved behind Alpha. Armored Ensemble’s blade swung in a clean, terrible arc. Time did the thing it does when everything goes wrong; it stretched to let me feel the moment like a punch to the chest.

The world suddenly got loud.

The arena filled with a scream that wasn’t mine. It belonged to everyone under the lights. The helmet…gone. Sparks, metal shards, and the smell of hot metal. Controls yanked uselessly in my hands while the screen went red.

I think I actually cursed.

Then I heard Dax, a small animal noise that could have been anything…anger, anguish, a prayer.

Gnolaum’s head tumbled to the ground.

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