Momomentum is Real (1/28)

 Every cyberpunk/dystopian setting needs its own impractical and excessively violent sport, right? I wish I had started writing this closer to the actual match, but 1,300 words was a lot already. This is sorta a mix of roller derby but is predominantly based on this Marble League Event. If you would like to imagine that event with real people, then that's pretty much what a grindmatch is.

Not sure how "canon" this story is to the larger cyberpunk world, if I like the names or the stuff going on, but this task is about getting words on a page, and I don't believe anyone can deny that there are words on a page here.

The roar of the crowd was audible even through the thick concrete walls of the triage and locker room. Diamond latched their mobileskates into place. A chant rose up for one of the local teams, the thumped rhythm of thousands of feet causing the fluorescent bulbs above their head to shake. The doors swung open at the other end of the room, a grindhead moaned as a gurney trundled him towards the medical bay on the other side of the showers. The stump of a cyber prosthetic sparked and fizzed at the elbow, the poor slug’s eyes searching for any kindness. They found none in Diamond. Stadium Medchanics hustled close behind, getting readouts of the man’s vitals and system performance.

Diamond took a finger and whisked it over the gyroball on their heel. The ball whirled, humming softly in the casing on the bottom of the mobileskate. The gym rumbled as the crowd above cheered, the bloodthirsty howl that only came out when a player went tangent. Diamond imagined they’d see another gurney in here momentarily. Another howl from the crowd above. Diamond reassessed; it was more likely to be a body bag. They stood and began adjusting the straps on their gear. The standard kit of a grindmatch player made them look more like Corporate Mercs than athletes.

Metallic enamel and kevlar covered Diamond from head to toe. The shoulder pads were dinged and scratched, too many matches without a repair. The situation was the same for the uniform’s owner. They yanked another strap, pulling the protecting tighter to their shoulder. They took a big hit last week in the closing moments of the match, some deadzoned grindhead with something to prove looking to get a few extra seconds on the social feeds. It was a cheap, dirty move, one Diamond intended to repay.

They took their short black hair, pushing it back out of their face. A black eye, slowly turning the color of the chipped paint on Diamond’s shoulder pads. They took a big hit last week at the closing time of the local izakaya, crashing someone else’s victory party. They had something to repay, after all.

They turned on the faucet, burning a water credit to splash something lukewarm and brackish on their face. They needed to win today. No, no more than that. They needed to dominate. The victory had to be flashy and absolute. Quick enough to ensure dominance, long enough to ensure high viewership. The algorithm adored a match like that, and the payout was sure to be lush. All they needed to do was survive for four minutes and make sure they drove everyone else over the edge. Simple enough for a sport with a higher fatality rate than some military assignments.

Diamond looked at themselves in the reflection of the dingy mirror. Water traced its way down their face in thick rivulets, pinging on the basin of the sink. Blue eyes met blue eyes. A winner stared at a winner. A weapon stared at a weapon. Diamond slammed their hands on the edge of the sink, snarling. They were going to win this. They were going to win this.

They dabbed their face with a towel that had once been white. Their left eye throbbed with the subtle contact. Nothing that could bother them tomorrow, not with champagne and chems and a dancer or two on their lap. Not when the rent had been paid. They were going to win this.

Another roar of the crowd, the thunder of pyrotechnics. The local boys had won it, it seemed. A klaxon buzzed a three minute warning. Diamond made their way back to their locker. They’d never so much as unlocked the thing, but they’d be billed, win or lose, for use of the facilities regardless. The scrabbling for every last bit of scrip made Diamond sick. They slipped their helmet over their head, midnight purple with a crystal blue mirrored visor. Like the uniform, the sleek design gave it the air of something military. No one besides grindmatch players and military aviators had any need for armor like this. But where the military operators had lush corporate contracts and stock options, Diamond would be lucky to eat tomorrow. They hadn’t had that much luck today.

They glided over to the elevator that had descended, a rickety gate rising to let the players on.

There were eight of them in all, each one hoping to outlast the others. Diamond’s kit showed the most wear and tear, the others ranging from banged up to factory new. Diamond couldn’t help but turn their nose up at the slug sucking on a suit’s nutrient tube. Brand new maroon armor plating, sharp white trim, and the golden Shinohara-Erholtz logo wherever there was real estate to spare. The whole ensemble still reeked of the packaging it had come from, likely only a few hours before. The corps were always willing to shell out a few bundles of scrip to sponsor the occasional jammer. Whether they won or launched off the side, that was still a guaranteed thousand eyes on their logo, on their product.

Diamond traced their eyes over the subtle texturing in the logos, quick-response iconography barely noticeable in the right light. Any optic that registered the QR code would be tagged. The Adbelisks that stood on street corners, serving personalized corporate propaganda to any optic implant nearby, would register the cookies from seeing the logo. A ruster might watch the match at night, and as he’s walking through the city get served an ad asking if he wouldn’t like the feel of driving a new Shinohara. Or maybe if he was in a rougher part of the city, an adbelisk might ask if he wouldn’t feel safer with an Erholtz piece in his pocket. The suitsucker had a name across the back; Speeder. Cooked up by a dozen suits in the arcologies, each one comparing name recognition and brand favorability statistics, the name was as artificial as the fibers of beautiful maroon that it was emblazoned on.

The jammer turned and smiled at them, confident that the cost of the kit was tied to the skill of the player. Diamond didn’t move a muscle. They were going to send him over the edge first. They might not even let him get a full rotation. It was bad sportsmanship, but Diamond had never had any issues playing the heel before.

The elevator jolted. They rose quickly, ten, twenty, thirty stories in the air. The roar of the crowd shook the metal grille of the elevator. On the other side of the grille was the Tower, a great sword plunged into the heart of the city. Like the guard of a katana, a flat disk surrounded the column of iron and hydraulics. 15 feet from the edge of the central colum to the edge, no railing or lip. In a few moments, that disk would be spinning at many hundreds of rotations per minute. Eight jammers would hop on and try to stay on, resisting centripetal force and 7 other tough as nails slugs with money on their mind. You stayed on, or you went tangent, launching into the stratosphere to the roar of a frenzied crowd.

Four minutes to be the last one standing for an automatic victory. Diamond had crunched the numbers, and to get the payout that they needed they’d have to win this thing in exactly two and a half minutes. Every second given or taken was a thousand scrip lost. Diamond cracked their knuckles, glaring again at the maroon Shinohara billboard they were competing against. They were going to win this.

A buzzer sounded, and the eight competitors leapt as one, dropping ten feet onto the rapidly spinning track. Metal sparked on metal as the gyrospheres in the mobileskates ramped up to the speed of the track. The audience bayed for blood. Diamond was going to deliver.