Chapter 12: When Slicing and Dicing is Needed

The entry to the arena precinct was majestic in size. The massive blast doors opened up as Bransen walked out. The overhead lights made his green armor shimmer. His talon feet pressed into the soil past the hardened floor of the open door. It was here that Girsha’lar, Nir’vina, and Doctor Abril stopped. They couldn’t proceed any further.

“Don’t push yourself,” Abril told Bransen. “Remember that nothing else matters except your head.”

“Remember your weapon,” Girsha’lar said. “You choose well. Just remember what I told you in how you use it.”

“Focus on the weaknesses,” Nir’vina added. “Even the Alara’jal can be taken down in battle.”

Bransen turned around as he watched the heavy doors slowly close. He quietly nodded his head. His biomech body responded perfectly to his actions as he waved his hand at them. There was so much that he wanted to say to them, but everything was so different now. He felt a driven purpose. It was something that was telling him that he wanted to win. One more victory, the last victory. It was all that mattered now.

He continued to look at himself. It was as if he possessed another body. His sharp talons flexed as he looked at it. The metal feathers shimmered from the overhead lights. He knew that Girsha’lar was correct. However, all the choices of each biomech came down to his preferences. He never knew the concept of guns, shields, and cannons. He was a cook, first and foremost. If it was one thing that any chef would ever work with was how to properly use a blade.

He reached behind him. His armored hand grabbed onto the hilt. With a simple yank, the giant sword came off his armor as he stopped to look at it. It was amazingly light in design, perfected in war and stealth, and made of the finest composite metals that promise sheer durability and stopping power. The shape of the sword measured near the height of a human. It was similar to a broadsword and a samurai sword mixed into one. The hilt wasn’t anything ordinary, either. It was shaped in a way that it offered controls and even a trigger for the pointer finger to rest. A green light emitted as the tip glowed and ran down the center hilt. The blade opened up to reveal a barrel. Inside the hilt was a firing chamber with a limited number of bullets. The Klint didn’t just carry a sword. They used gunblades.

Bransen turned to the arena. This was more than just a stage. This was a coliseum. The area was enormous, more extensive than the prior arena stage and the surrounding floor. Dirt and soil lined the entire floor. It was said that vehicular and mech combat could be waged inside of this place, and they weren’t lying about it either. The massive circular wall consisted of two layers, one being made of heavy armor plating capable of withstanding light autocannon shells. Another layer was made of transparent alloy so the audience could watch safely behind it. The people that watched were elevated, able to see everything going on beneath them. Among one of the seats was a place for the announcer and the Kop’ak to sit and observe. The roof allowed both artificial and real light to flood into the area. On the other side of Bransen was another closed blast door. The stomping of feet drummed through the entire dirt enclosure.

“Here we are at Precinct 2 on New Atrea,” the announcer said. “And here comes Bransen. I tell you, Itrean technology is just amazing, isn’t it? One day you’re in your body, and the next thing you know it, you’re in something else. I’ve heard of brain transfusions where you can have yourself put into a robot, but the Itreans do this on a regular basis. Bransen will just say no to defeat. He’s chosen to use what is called a Klint, a stealth biomech, in order to win against Nata’jaga.”

Bransen put his sword back onto his back and slowly walked to the center of the arena floor. Each step that he made felt like he was traversing through some dreamscape. His combat sensors continued to evaluate and highlight imperfections of the environment, showing him unnecessary stats at times. He didn’t feel human. He felt like he was transforming. It was both euphoric and terrifying at the same time. However, in each step, he was aware of this. The desire to be back in his human body remained, but he fully understood what the Itreans felt to be inside of these things and why they wouldn’t mind having their real bodies back. War was always a nasty concept willing to push people, human or Itrean alike, to put themselves into such death machines.

“And it looks like Nata’jaga is coming out as well,” the announcer said. The doors on the other side slowly opened. Bransen watched as the towering Itrean stepped onto the dirt. Jaga was not in his wrap armor, at least not yet. Bransen’s sensors showed him everything in vivid detail, identifying and scanning the Alara’jal as he stepped closer. In seconds, the man’s computer showed every weakness of the Alara’jal, areas to hit, places to stab and cut, and what would maim and disable Jaga.

“Bransen...,” Jaga called out to him. It didn’t take long before the Alara’jal stopped and stood looking over him.

“Jaga...,” Bransen replied back in his deep mechanical voice.

For the Alara’jal, even this was something he wasn’t used to seeing. A human that turned into a machine in one day, the Itrean’s eyes said it all. Jaga was an Itrean that originated in a world with little technology. Now, even he was seeing more and more what the Itreans around him had done so much in their achievements. The cold blank stare of the transformed human stood looking up at him. However, determination filled the Alara’jal’s eyes. In his hands were two large disk-shaped devices.

“I ... no quit,” Jaga told him in his butchered English. Anger filled his eyes. “I win ... different ... but same.”

“Slice ... and ... dice,” Bransen replied. His eyes glowed red as he unsheathed his sword.

Jaga said nothing more. He slapped the two disks onto the front and back of his body. The devices stuck to him as metal grew outward. The armored layer engulfed his entire frame, going from his torso to his legs, arms, and back. It took less than ten seconds before the Alara’jal was little more than an armored knight, a nearly indestructible behemoth. Jaga was a titan shimmering in tan and gold. The Alara’jal barely needed their vehicles. They were unstoppable on the battlefield as it was.

Bransen felt nothing as he watched the Itrean wrap armor work to cover and protect Jaga. Every inch, from his tail, feet, hands, and ultimately, his face, was surrounded by a wall of metal. Even without a gun or weapon, Jaga was the pure representation of a nearly forgotten people. To Bransen, Nata’jaga was an Alara’jal warrior seemingly intimidating with all pure reason. Any sane Itrean would learn to stay out of their way. And now, it was up to Bransen to help break that line...

“Bransen, Nata’jaga!” The Kop’ak yelled out. “Same fight. One wins ... one loses.” She repeated her words in the Itrean language. However, Bransen completely understood everything that was being said. A translation in his brain was being registered. It came out as “May the best fighter win, one will lose, and one will win.”

She raised her hand. There would be no further delays. A flash erupted from her gloved hand, a signal that it was to begin.

“And now it begins, ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer said. “The best and last fight of them all.”

Jaga lifted his arm up, made two steps, and tried to do a pile driver down upon Bransen. However, immediately, the former chef’s computer activated. He moved to the right, almost faster than lightning itself. In less than a second, the Alara’jal’s fist impacted the dirt, making a satisfying plomp as it hit. Dust was sent everywhere. Far from the towering Itrean, Bransen was looking at Jaga. His eyes were scanning for imperfections and weak spots to utilize. Targeting arrays were fully activated. Hitboxes all pointed to negative results. Bransen remembered his training and the use of martial arts. He held his left palm outward, sword fully brandished, pointing to his right.

“Oh, for a second there, I thought that Bransen was smashed,” the announcer said. “He’s fast!”

“Nrgh...,” Jaga grunted as he stood up and turned to look at Bransen. The former human turned his left palm and quietly gestured to come after him.

The Alara’jal was not going to stand there and wait. He charged, lifted his foot into the air, and tried to bring it down upon Bransen. The green mech mapped the entire movement pattern. He wasn’t just trying to stomp him but do a downward uppercut into him. Dust was sent everywhere, but Bransen could see through the mess of sand. He charged and veered to the left, going towards the swinging arm. He grabbed both sides of the hilt and did a full right sweep of his blade. It took less than a second before the sword was brought to the left side, missing the arm but connecting to the hip of Jaga.

TINK! A small number of sparks showered the air as metal impacted metal. The sword struck true, producing the satisfying sound of an impact. The blade bounced off as Bransen leaped over the tail and kept running, putting an enormous range between him and the Alara’jal.

“Bransen managed to easily dodge Jaga’s hits and delivered a hit of his own,” the announcer explained. “Looks like he did no damage. That Alara’jal armor must be tough and...”

Bransen lifted his sword and pointed it at the back neck of Jaga. Then, instinctively and almost against Bransen’s will, he pulled the trigger. A gunshot rang out. A 14mm round slammed into the back of the armor, where it bounced off and smacked the wall.

“Was that a gunshot?” the announcer said. “Bransen is equipped with a gun, but it looks like it did no damage against Jaga’s armor.”

Bransen knew that the announcer was right. A registered impact was registered, but the armor still held strong. The Alara’jal armor was proving to be the ultimate defense. It didn’t take long before the former chef racked the bolt back, loading a new round into place. The computer was telling more and more as it continued to scan for imperfections in the armor.

Can’t do that again ... Bransen’s mind knew that it just fired a round. His intent was to kill his opponent. He felt direct hatred and malice, but the human side fought back. The mech’s head was shaking a little bit. Can’t ... won’t try to kill.

Instead, Jaga turned. If Bransen could see it, he would have seen an angry face. This fight had to end. The quicker, the better. Even now, the slight hints of his humanity were being altered, changed by the mech’s programming.

Bransen shifted his sword forward as he charged. Again, Jaga lifted his left arm up while he fell to his knees. This time, he altered his strategy. Instead, he was trying to reach to grab him. However, Bransen was faster. He leaped into the air, swung his sword to the right, flew past the Alara’jal’s head, and swung.

TINK! ... the blade impacted the armor. However, there was a miscalculation. Bransen’s tail felt a light clamp. Jaga’s helmeted jaws bit and barely grabbed the free appendage from the air. There was a light sound of metal bending against metal. A registered snap could be heard as the tail tip broke off. Bransen landed on the dirt far behind Jaga and turned to face him.

“I tell you,” the announcer said. “It’s a David vs. Goliath story out there. Compared to the prior fight, Bransen has raw speed. The man ... err ... robot ehm ... Bransen keeps making surgical strikes. Even I can barely see it. Each hit fails to do any damage, though. However, it looks like ... yes ... Nata’jaga has managed to bite a small portion of Bransen’s tail off. Most likely, it was the weakest part of Bransen’s body.

“Stand ... still...,” Jaga said. His breath could be heard through the armor. Bransen held his stance again, holding his sword to his right.

Weaknesses ... analyzing. Bransen’s mind was being filled with new data as Jaga tried to charge again. Finally, a targeting box started to show data. The Itrean language was translated into English. Yes ... one weakness has been found so far. Another one showed undetermined data due to inadequate information. But, he was told that the Alara’jal helmet could not track a camouflage field.

How did that information come forth? Bransen was trying to figure it out. Plus ... he had a camouflage? Everything was happening so fast. He needed just a bit more time to think about it. Then, he saw Jaga roll his fist and try to slam down upon him.

THUMP ... more dirt was spilled into the air as Bransen fled. Processing ... processing.

“I don’t know what Bransen’s plan is,” the announcer said. “But, I can’t blame him for doing it either. I wonder if he’s trying to wear his opponent down. Whatever he’s doing, he’s trying to keep space between his opponent.”

Think Bransen ... think. He ran to one side of the wall edge and banked right. Jaga was in hot pursuit. Technically, the Alara’jal couldn’t keep up, but even for his monstrous size, he was still able to run and gallop at relatively fast speeds. The thumping sounds of heavy giant feet echoed in the arena chamber.

Got it ... Bransen had the answer as his sword pointed behind him. Close proximity. When he was right next to him, his scanner equipment could do better scans than the distance he was now. However, more answers and ideas came to him. First, he needed to be close and think of the weaknesses that Nir’vina and Girsha’lar told him about. Alara’jal armor was nearly impervious except against high-powered railgun rounds, heavy directed cannon fire, and missile strikes. Any other small arms were worthless. But there had to be something. Nir’vina mentioned the ligaments ... or was it the shoulder? There was only one way to find out, but he had to close the distance.

Bransen mapped out the maneuver. First, he would slow down his run so that Jaga would catch up. Then, right before he could grab him, he would make the surprise. The thumping grew closer as Jaga was gaining on him. Bransen lowered his sword to the dirt and spun the blunt end of the tip directly into it. A line of sand was being knocked into the air. Finally, Bransen lifted his sword and made a 180-degree turn. His digitigrade legs could swing, recoil, and spring directly toward Jaga.

It took Jaga by surprise. His response time was too short to grab him successfully. Bransen had managed to zip past Jaga’s right side. The Alara’jal halted in his run. His talon feet knocked a massive amount of dirt and dust into the air. Jaga only stood in it, waiting for the dust to clear. However, as the dust settled out, Jaga looked around. Bransen was nowhere. He had vanished.

“I ... I can’t believe it!” the announcer yelled out. “Bransen has disappeared. How was he able to do that?”

Jaga’s response was to look. The eyes of the Alara’jal helmet shifted to different emitted colors. It was trying to search the various spectrums. Movement indicators, infrared, normal mode, and sound receivers ... all revealed nothing.

“Camouflage...,” Jaga said to himself. “Bransen...”

“Does Bransen have a cloaking device in that mech of his!?” the announcer asked.

Jaga spotted something. He thought that he saw glowing red eyes to his left. He turned his head rapidly, but it quickly vanished. The former human was smart, but Jaga was starting to catch on. He began to focus on the dirt itself. He was looking for footprints. Even an invisible person would still leave footprints.

The dirt would shift. It was near the last supposed place of the glowing red eyes. Jaga started to close in on it. He could see the moving dirt. Finally, however, the trail began to move away from the Alara’jal.

“Run ... human,” Jaga said. “Run! I catch!”

The moving trail slowed down. Jaga saw the last place where the moving dirt was at. When it stopped, he lifted his talon foot high in the air and stomped on it. Dirt and dust were sent everywhere. The towering Itrean thought that he had him until he lifted his foot.

There was a tiny amount of sparks near his smashed imprint. He leaned down and looked closely, confused as to what he saw. It was a cylinder device with little moving corkscrews and propellors. A broken yellow eye tried to look at Itrean before it shut down.

A decoy ... Jaga deciphered it as some sand probe designed to move through the dirt and ground. He had been deceived, but why?

Suddenly, Jaga saw it. Sand that was bouncing off a silhouette. Bransen was near his face and shoulder. The glowing red lights of his eyes showed Bransen everything that he needed to know. He quickly leaped back and away from Jaga’s grasp, moving away from his opponent.

“An incredible maneuver,” the announcer said. “A true game of cat and mouse. I think Bransen is just toying with Nata’jaga. But why is he doing this?”

“ERGH!” Jaga yelled out as he stood up. “Stop ... fight me!”

Bransen maintained his cloak. The computer for his brain was analyzing the data. The cloaking field emitted by his scale emitters had advantages and disadvantages. It both diffused and bent the light that was hitting him. However, to render oneself invisible also held a price for the one that can cloak. Sensors were almost useless. Sudden movements could also reveal him. The case was that he could see nothing but haze. His probe drone was already used up. This would have to force Bransen to use his eyes. Near his lenses was a circular tube that encircled his ocular lenses. They would extend out beyond the field to penetrate the haze. However, to do so would also reveal the eyes in return. Like a submarine, his periscope had to pop out so he could tell where he was and what was coming to him.

Weakness found ... Bransen had the solution. Near the shoulder, both sides near the neck were two areas where metal met metal. It wasn’t an imperfection but an area where the metal couldn’t properly lay upon each other. It measured approximately two millimeters wide and had an area of thin dura flex seal holding the two metal layers together. It would only appear if Jaga twisted his neck to the side. The gap could be extended further if something very sharp could go into it.

Bransen’s purpose was clear. The computer was making massive adjustments, calculation after calculation. A solution had been found. Jaga was looking at the area where Bransen might have been at. He was looking for footprints. Instead, he would get something else...

It was always essential for a chef never to toss his knife in the kitchen. The result could injure another cook, dirty up your utensils, damage something, or hurt somebody else. However, there were a few times that this worked. Careful juggling with knives had been something that Bransen perfected, often wooing the crowds and audience alike. It was time. The sword was tossed. It flew past his field as it materialized in the air. Jaga turned his head as he saw the object spinning above him. The visual stimuli were enough for him to track it. Almost like a dog, he turned to see where it was going.

“Did Bransen just throw his sword!?” Hudson asked. “Nata’jaga seems like he’s trying to get it.”

It didn’t truly matter. Even if it wasn’t Bransen, Jaga knew the former human had just tossed away his only weapon. Any hope that Bransen had to win could be further degraded if Jaga could get that sword.

Bransen could see the hazy silhouette of Jaga. The tail could be seen almost pointing to him. The Alara’jal was closing in on the sword. It was here that Bransen ran toward Jaga. His eyes extended so he could see. It wouldn’t take long before Jaga bent his knees down. His hand was about to reach for it.

“Weapon ... break,” Jaga said with some delight in his voice. His hand was mere inches from touching the hilt when Bransen leaped and landed on Jaga’s back and shoulder. On him, the former human lowered his hand. The razor-sharp metal feathers emitted a small glow. Then, close enough to the hilt, the sword magnetized and flew back to Bransen’s hand. He grabbed it and lifted it high into the air. A gleam of light could be seen from the blade’s tip as Bransen dropped his cloaking field, revealing who was holding onto the sword.

It was now or never. Jaga was standing up. His left hand and right hand were trying to wrap around the back of his neck, seeing that he had been ambushed. Bransen’s actions were quick as he could perform them. He could be grabbed or thrown off in less than half a second. However, the blade’s tip was pointed directly at that small tiny point in a quarter of that second. Bransen’s brain had it mapped perfectly. He stabbed as hard as he could.