Chapter FiveGo to chapter: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 ==February 13, 2096, 7h Trent was eating breakfast when the doorbell rang. The hotel room, a low-budget affair chosen only for its proximity to WAR's headquarters in Iolo Crater, was small enough for him to cross the room and open the door before the visitor thought anything amiss. His display identified the visitors as Bob and Steve McDunnet; the name seemed vaguely familiar, and they didn't look like they were selling anything, so he let them in. The McDunnet brothers obviously bore more than simply a familial resemblance; they looked exactly the same, from the identically cut short brown hair down to the immaculate collars on their identical shirts. They stepped inside, bowing their heads to get through the hotel room door, and wasted no time: "You are Trent, I presume?" A simple affirmative seemed to satisfy the speaker, who continued, "Hi. We're Bob and Steve McDunnet, and we're reporters for LBC. We're here to interview you about the Mantis Project." Flustered by this unexpected reply, Trent was on autopilot as he invited his guests to take a seat, took a last sip of hydroponic orange juice (the hotel was so cheap that real oranges cost extra), and extended the usual pleasantries. His muscular, broad-shouldered frame had never fit well in the chairs, and today it was even worse, distracted as he was. He managed to think of a coherent question by the time he sat down: "Why are you interviewing me? I have no popular background like Dr. Hothe or Jonus Augardi, and you know I never tell the press anything useful." The brother on the right leaned forward to answer, while the leftward one pulled out a pad and stylus to take notes. The talker responded with something on the order of "Because we think you have a more interesting story than any celebrity. You can really give LBC a different angle." Brother, you don't know the half of it! Trent thought as he digested the excuse. On the spur of the moment, he decided to string them along a bit, see whether they could be trusted with his secret. Holding up a hand, he forestalled a question, saying, "Wait a minute. Which one of you is Bob and which is Steve?" The brother doing the talking responded quite amiably, "I'm Bob." Gesturing toward the other with his stylus, the writer added an absent-minded "And he's Steve." Now thoroughly confused, Trent was about to object, but Bob (or perhaps Steve) explained, "We've both gone by each other's names so many times, my colleague over there gets confused once in a while. If it helps, you can call me Steve and him Bob." A weak "Thanks" accompanied Trent's strange look at the identical reporters. Gathering himself up, Steve sallied a question: "So, why are you entering this tournament? Do you think you are the best man for the job of WAR's lead tester, or are you just putting something on your résumé?" "As you know, I am not a WAR employee, and so by all rights I should have little no experience working with HARs, and certainly no fighting ability in them. When I win the tournament, I'm just going to sell the position for all it's worth and leave. The testing department, indeed all of WAR, will be humiliated... which is what I've wanted all along." The vehemence of Trent's response surprised all three of them, with Bob furiously taking notes. Probably something like "The agitated contestant defended his lack of experience", Trent thought bitterly. They'll just twist my words like they always do. Slightly taken aback, Steve quickly regained his composure and soon had another question ready. "Your first fight is scheduled for today. Are you nervous? Do you think you have any new tricks up your sleeve that the others don't?" The larger man began to take a liking to these odd characters; at least they didn't immediately write him off as some kind of wacko or try to find the reason for his supposed vendetta. So he answered their question truthfully: "I am a bit nervous, but that happens to everybody. But I've been doing nothing but training myself as a HAR pilot for weeks, and I'm confident I can take down the competition, no matter how good they are." He relaxed in his chair (as much as the shoddy workmanship would allow him to), hoping that half-answer would satisfy the reporters. He could only expect disappointment from such a skillful pair, and a whispered comment from Bob led to Steve's next sally. “The only robot you fight with is an outdated model of the Jaguar, originally designed for security projects. Would you care to elaborate for our viewers on what this bot is and why you use it instead of something more powerful?" Trent was used to this one, and the answer flowed easily to his lips. “The Jaguar looks roughly like a short, stocky human, so it’s easier to control for those of us who have reflexes based on our own bodies. It’s also extremely agile, and with a few sensors added on, can give me a direct feed of the opponent’s status, allowing me to change attacks based on the opponent’s physical and mental condition. While that would merit use in itself, your average Jaguar also has a head-mounted concussion cannon that lets me keep the opponent at a distance while I let the sensors do their work." He paused a moment before continuing, enjoying the attention like anyone asked about their specialty. “On a more personal note, I’ve had this Jaguar for five years, and I could probably repair it myself by now. I know my capabilities, which is more than most of the competitors have.” "You have no official name in the Common Government records, so you choose to call yourself Trent, is this correct?" A terse nod from Trent was anticipated by the immaculate reporter, who bulldozed over any response in favor of the next question. "Can you tell us anything about how this came to be? Why you chose Trent instead of a more common name?" Bob propped his feet up on the table, cheap chair creaking in complaint at this sudden abuse. I knew they'd get around to this, Trent muttered. He contemplated giving the usual "No comment" and slamming the door in their faces, but these guys were different. He felt he could trust them not to exploit him for higher ratings. Most importantly, they kept an open mind. He decided to tell them the truth, but he had to tie up the loose ends first. "Let me get just one thing straight. You don't publish this until I give the go-ahead, OK? I definitely don't want this coming out before I beat my first opponent, and probably not even then. Are you willing to sit on this until I rise through the ranks a little?" Eyes spoke volumes between the two brothers, and they nodded in unison. Satisfied, Trent started his tale. "I don't know my last name, or my parents, or practically anything else about myself, at least not anymore. You see, I'm genetically engineered, a secret experiment gone wrong. I was created by Shirro Lang and his underlings at WAR to be the ultimate HAR pilot. I've probably been indoctrinated with martial arts and robot schematics, physical and mental training since birth. On all the tests I rank genius-level or above; the police still don't know anyone with faster reflexes or more pain tolerance. "The part about doing nothing but training is true; it's all I know how to do, other than defend myself, and that part isn't hard, since obviously they made me physically capable as well as mentally. But something went wrong with their plan, and I managed to escape using my trusty Flail. I keep it as a memento of how WAR has ruined my life. I could have been a great contributor to society; instead, all I can do is use a HAR better than the rest. I'm in this tournament for revenge, to get back at WAR as much as I can for what it did to me!" Trent looked down to find that his now-empty juice cup was crushed, lightweight plastic littering the floor. For perhaps the first time in years, the McDunnet brothers were speechless. They knew the tabloids were always accusing Lang of some diabolical plot, but this twisted marvel of genetic engineering (if indeed he spoke the truth) told a tale beyond what anyone dared suggest. The best Steve, usually the smooth talker, could come up with was "I can see why you wanted this kept under wraps. If Lang knew, he'd probably throw you out for slander." Bob put aside his stylus and interposed the usual "Well, we've got a shuttle to catch; we need to report to Ms. Kijap in barely an hour. Thank you very much for letting us know this, and whenever you want this released to the world, just let me know. Here's our card." The card was snatched from a proffering hand by the HAR fighter, almost an automatic action, and the McDunnet brothers exited the hotel with alacrity. Once outside, Bob turned to Steve and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Kijap had something big here, all right! |