Convalescence Part 5

Two corner pipes with the lazy slope Eiserne hates and a single central rail block stocky enough to clear in a bound on a bum leg — Greaser has the kid gloves on and you can't help but feel a touch patronized. Then again, you don't feel patronized one bit as Alita straps the extra padding in place with motherly concern, so you know you're just being petty and playing favorites.

"Everything feel tight? They didn't have elbow braces in your size so I had to go one smaller."

"Any tighter and it'd be a tourniquet."

"Do you want me to loosen it?"

"That was a joke."

"I know it was. Do you want me to loosen it?"

"Yeah."

The barbershop eave provides little cover from the elements, but it keeps the rain out of everyone's eyes long enough to gear up. Feeling unusually competitive, you size your rivals up. Greaser and Alita you discard right away — he has a designer's brain and is always more interested in working new lines through the track than actually playing Motorball, while she isn't likely to leave your side for a moment once the match begins.

Vela leans against the wall with one leg propped up, tinkering away at the old metallic arm Alita always asks about and you always lie about. It's a depreciated design — poorly-sheathed electrical systems and some persistent circulation issues — but Vela never stops bragging about the modular forearm mounts. Besides, acquiring it nearly got her marked for death and that must carry some serious sentimental value. She doesn't have the shatterblade attachment on today so you aren't too worried.

Eiserne's a different story. The blurb on her Motorball trading card — "when the lights go green, she sees red" — isn't just catchy marketing. And it was already bad enough before she plugged into a state-of-the-art machine body; one reflexive swing from that lead-pipe left and you'll be hung up at Ido's for another month. Doc won't even need the chains.

Your eyes must be speaking concern in that language only lifelong friends can decipher. As Alita gives your skates a once-over, Saku taps your shoulder and cocks his head in Eiserne's direction.

"First streetball match since going pro. Figure she remembers how to roll easy?"

"I don't think she ever knew."

"You'll change your tune when you see her under the lights. She's turnin' guys to dust out there."

"Just the kind of thing I wanted to hear right now. Thanks, Saku."

"Hey."

He leans in close.

"I chatted her up this morning. She's good, she's cool. Gonna lay back and let us chumps go at it. You know, kiss the rail and all that lame shit you usually do."

You send him off with a shove, playful but hard enough to let him know you resent the comment, however truthful it may be. Unlike Greaser, you have at least a passing interest in the competitive aspect of Motorball — you just don't have the skill, nor the physique, to keep up. Hardbodies always win, even on the street. What's wrong with some clean technical grindwork, anyway?

Alita gives the motor housing on your skate a hard slap and rises to her feet. Only now do you notice how quiet she's been.

"Trying to figure him out, aren't you?"

"I don't know why you put up with it."

"All part of the charm."

***
Greaser starts the match with his customary shout just as a few weak rays of sunlight begin peeking out from behind the clouds. His scoring chamber is on the fritz again, so Alita brings the ball into play rather crudely with an underhand toss into the first corner. You've never known a street Motorball crew with good equipment and this one is no exception.

The opening moments play out as you had expected: Saku, Vela, and yourself jump ahead in pursuit of the ball, with Alita trailing close behind. Greaser immediately makes a lazy turn for the center rail while Eiserne, true to her word, doesn't seem to be doing much of anything at all. You recall that her next pro match is tonight and hope she can manage to have a little fun at least.

Vela is first to the ball, snatching it up with her strong hand while deftly avoiding Saku's flailing forearm. She cuts a quick half-circle with her right foot and attacks the first corner in reverse, partially for defensive purposes but mainly to give Saku a full view of her teasing expression.

"Getcha every time!"

You slip ahead into second as Saku struggles to regain his balance. He always goes for the early shiver and everyone knows it but him.

The banks are too shallow to stage an attack from afar, so you run a high line and look to build as much speed as possible for the following corner; Vela is sharp on her wheels, but not sharp enough to outpace you backwards. Running smooth on exit, you begin to close the distance.

"Not bad at all! Looks like you've got you legs back, at least!"

Still sailing blind, she begins to sway serpentine down the straight, angling so deep that water and sparks flare up in equal measure with every violent shift. You quickly realize you're now carrying too much speed, but your wheels catch slick as you try to throw on the brakes. Too late to match her maneuver, there's nothing left to do but try your luck on the pass. This is your day and you'll be damned if anyone else is scoring first.

Just as you ready for the strike, Alita veers out from behind you and shoots forward with the kind of burst only she can summon. The two of you bear down on Vela, who looks now like she very much regrets slowing up.

"Typical!"

Alita moves in with a low feint and lands a lightning-quick blow to the body that sets Vela wobbling. A fraction of a second later you dispossess her with a well-placed palm strike. The Motorball launches ahead into the second corner and you take off after it without missing a beat. Street rules are loose and a little cheap teamplay isn't against them anyway.

Much lighter than the regulation eighty-eights made to be hauled by purpose-built machine bodies, Greaser's scuffed old meatball still has enough heft in it to send a twinge through your tender elbow as you scoop it up. Painful as it is, you grit your teeth and tuck the ball tight under your arm; the other one has to play defense and you'll need all the mobility you can get when Vela catches back up. Which she will, now properly pissed off.

"Hey Saku! Alita says it's teams today!"

Saku's response doesn't register through the wooden rumble of turn two, but a quick glance back tells you they've struck an accord. Not a problem — teams suit you just fine.

Without a working scoring chamber to dunk the ball into for points, the match is operating under a pro-style system based on possession at the start line. You feel a bit robbed of a triumphant moment as you complete the lap and record your first Motorball point in a good long while. Ahead and uninjured, it isn't a bad time to cash in and hand the ball off to Alita, but you're feeling sporty today and elect to try for more.

Rolling light and low into the turn one banking, you take another quick look around. Alita shadows you, while Vela and Saku have linked up side-by-side and appear to be closing in. Greaser is well back by the central rail block, while Eiserne...

"Alita! Where'd Eiserne get to?"

"I don't know! Haven't seen her since we started!"

It wouldn't be a great surprise if she has ducked out entirely; she'll be facing death on the track tonight and a bit of neutered streetball can't do much to set the proper mentality. Or she could be hiding in wait beyond the farside pipe for a chance to send you through the barbershop window. You never know with Eiserne.

Too much thinking. A piercing metallic clash reverberates throughout the plaza as Alita and Vela come together sooner than expected — Saku must have slung her out of the corner. They grapple for a moment before Vela threads a skate between Alita's legs and jerks wildly, sending both of them tumbling off-course. You've lost your bodyguard, just as they had planned. And you're only a little bit bitter Alita played nice and let it happen.

"Deck's clear, my man! Let's see what you've got!"

Saku's pumping hard in pursuit and you strain to match him, but there's no doubt fatigue is starting to set in. All those weeks laid up in bed did a number on you legs and you know you're running out of gas. One more point, you say to yourself. One more.

You know enough about Motorball to know cutting too high a line on dead wheels is asking for trouble, even on these soft slopes; getting launched from twenty feet was going to do more damage than Saku ever would, so you run sensibly along the bottom and brace for his attack.

He bombs out of the corner weaving this way and that, trying to keep you guessing. Too sore and too stiff to track him over either shoulder, you stumble out a half-spin in ugly pantomime of Vela's earlier move. Saku doesn't have too many tricks in his bag but they're all good enough to tag you at this point.

"You ever score two points in a match before, Saku?"

Talking trash doesn't make a damn bit of sense right now and you don't care; you never were good at pushing his buttons anyway. As long as you keep a firm grip on the Motorball he can't stop you from crossing the line. And though he has, in fact, scored two points in a match before, you haven't.

The taunt doesn't seem to have any effect — either that or you're getting loopy and never said it in the first place. Saku straightens his skates and tucks down into a compact stance, arm cocked back with all the menace of a rocket hammer. Instead of raising your own in defense, you wrap it around the Motorball and brace yourself.

You hit the line, he hits you, and something hits him — that's the order to it but it may as well be simultaneous. Your hard plastic wheels warble as they shudder out of traction; Saku's blow isn't sufficient to dislodge the ball but it does knock you off balance beyond the point where your tired legs can recover. Time slows again, just as it did in the canal all those weeks ago. As your body skids off track towards the cafe you feel every hit against the concrete, waiting on each for a snap of tendon or crack of bone to put a great big spoil on the day.

It never comes. You slide to a stop at the feet of the suede-clad busker, who regards you with withering eyes and plays a swift ditty in mockery. From the ground you toss him a few credits with one of two still-good arms and try not to laugh at the absurdity of the scene. The rain has stopped entirely and there's Eiserne in the cafe eating a parfait and your race is over and you've got two points, which makes you the winner regardless of whatever the hell else is going on.

Alita arrives just as you rise to your feet, while a grimacing Saku lags behind rubbing the sore out of his shoulder. The scene at the line plays out in your head, and the missing piece falls neatly into place.

"She didn't kill you, did she?"

"Near enough. Hell, I think she enjoyed it."

You brush yourself off, more for show than anything, but Alita wraps you tight in embrace before you can finish. Her relief washes over you in waves; the reaction strikes you as strange until you remember the gruesome manner in which your last match had ended: bloodied, broken, and near death -- all on her account.

You return the embrace with every ounce of strength you can muster, and not a word need be said. The strength alone is enough.