Everything Abridged, page 28
From my perch, Renee had two appealing options. Once she finished picking crumbs out of a thoroughly finished bag of chips, she could either move twice and challenge Trianna’s control of the hill or shoot twice and whittle down her sister’s forces. Both choices amounted to coin flips, and the result would set the tone of the game.
“You two look way too serious,” Renee mumbled. Then she moved her men away from the hill, toward her edge of the map. She split her forces between the plates on the northeast corner and a cracked vase to the southeast. Both landmarks sat just out of range of Trianna’s inevitable turn two counterattack from the hill. She used her second action to fiddle with both squads’ formations.
My feet tapped the floor at a hummingbird’s pace. They’d both surprised me, which pointed toward genuine talent. There were, broadly speaking, three types of great general: tacticians, berserkers, and madmen. Tacticians (like myself) memorized, fine-tuned, and exploited conventional tactics. My failure to predict the Freeman sisters’ movements pointed toward them occupying the other two camps.
If I understood anything about the game, Trianna was a berserker. Her type relied on constant, unrelenting offense. In this mindset, no losses were too hideous as long as the enemy’s matched. They’d inherited the spirit of two world wars. One survivor on their side and none on the other meant victory. They were also fond of tanks, which often reduced the more complicated aspects of warfare to “Crawl forward and shoot.”
Madmen like Renee had a knack for wholly original and wildly unexpected maneuvers. This approach seldom led to a tie. Their experiments produced stunning failure (Pickett’s Charge) or historic routs (the Trojan Horse). The best madmen inherited the spirit of the Colonial rebels, who realized there was no reason to stand in line and exchange fire with the largest empire in the world.
Stereotypically, Space Glaive generals lacked a certain social grace. I disputed that, noting that maladjustment was a feature of my entire generation, not the hobby. That said, the Freeman sisters added a dimension to the game that I’d never seen or considered: psychological warfare.
“What, are you just going to run away?” Trianna stopped drumming her fingers. She watched her sister’s response with a predatory glint.
“Yup.” Renee’s impassive mask held.
“I guess that’s a way to lose a little more slowly.”
“Yup.”
“Are you just going to keep saying that?”
“Yup.”
“Your band sucks.”
“Yup.”
“Goddamn it!”
The sisters fought on an axis I’d never acknowledged in my own battles. Admirable. I made a private note to compose a list of insults in case I encountered this tactic in the future.
Trianna opened turn two by going around the backpack. She used her first action to move her entire army to the northeast, at spitting distance from Team Shitkicker’s northern detachment. As a firm believer in the value of holding ground, I was mortified. Then I understood the brilliance: claiming the hill would open her up to a pincer attack. Charging north allowed ETKD to face half of Team Shitkicker on even footing. Which was entirely uneven, considering their relative numbers.
“Is he okay?” asked Renee.
“Who cares? Focus on getting your ass kicked.”
After taking three minutes to reread the rules for shooting, ETKD opened fire. Tanks, riflemen, and grenadiers unleashed a torrent of laser fire across a once-peaceful field, an event represented with several dozen dice rolls. Out of the thirty-six shots involved in her offensive, twenty-two rolled above three and confirmed hits. The barrage reduced Team Shitkicker’s northern detachment to one medic, three spearmen, and eleven corpses. An act of ruthless butchery I found immensely entertaining. Without the cover offered by the plates, there might’ve been a rout.
Renee’s contented visage hardened. She crushed her empty bag into a ball and pitched it at the garbage. The shot missed.
“Watch this.”
The general—and Renee earned that label here—sent her southern detachment charging for the hill. Then she pointed to the ragtag survivors of her northern detachment. First, she rolled for her medic, who managed to bring a single jet spearman back to life.
“I’m using the afterburner-ability thing. The flying one,” Renee announced. Her sister glanced at me and waited for an explanation. I perked up. Renee had read beyond the basic rules in the pocket manual and discovered the name “Rocket Elf” actually meant something.
“Um, afterburner lets Rocket Elves fly short distances. In practical terms, they can jump over enemy units. You know, like knights in chess. Only this is way better than chess.”
Trianna snorted, successfully this time. Renee bunny-hopped her four spearmen over a siege tank and landed them one inch south of the same tank. The difference was minor but essential: they were between Trianna and the high ground. ETKD couldn’t move toward the hill without finishing them off first. Murdering the spearmen would cost Trianna a move action and win Team Shitkicker the high ground.
“Ta-da!”
“You realize you haven’t killed anyone yet, right?”
“I’m getting to that.”
Turn three went by quickly and predictably. Trianna purged the rest of the northern detachment, and Renee claimed the hill. Middle fingers and glares quietly replaced the volley of verbal insults. Surprisingly, these felt more sporting. They were backed by grudging respect rather than disdain.
That respect was the heart of my plan. Space Glaive rivalries were a unique bond. I had my own rivalry with Maron Reyes, NYU’s star player. It wasn’t the same thing as friendship; he had a persistent lunch meat smell and considered casual racism a charming quirk. But we’d come to understand each other through combat. Maron was intelligent, passionate, and getting his ass kicked the moment I bought my new jet spearmen. After that, we might get lunch.
On turn four, ETKD pushed forward and fired. Team Shitkicker took minimal losses (three riflemen, one shaman) and spent their round shooting twice. ETKD took eighteen points of damage, losing a third of its infantry. The left tank was on its last legs. Renee looked poised to claim victory over a mountain of dwarven corpses.
Trianna coiled a section of hair around her ring finger. I recognized the gesture: I tended to pick at my twists when backed into a corner.
“Hey, do my guys have any bullshit powers?” Trianna asked. It was the first time I’d been acknowledged in fifteen minutes.
“Two, actually. The first, Cybersight, lets their snipers—”
“Next,” she interjected.
“They also have Sacrifice. Undwarf infantry can self-destruct, dealing two points of damage to every unit within three inches.”
“English.”
“They can blow themselves up.”
Her predatory grin returned.
“So as long as I can get a few guys up that hill, I’ve got a shot.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But that sounds less like a plan and more like suicide.”
“That’s because you don’t have any vision. When I’m your age, I’m not going to spend my weekends babysitting. I’m going to be class president, head of the anime club, and interning at a three-letter news network.”
“. . . That hurt.”
“It’s not about you. It’s about coming out ahead. I’m not into the family hobby of passive failure. I’m starting a lifelong winning streak here and now.”
“I really don’t feel any less insulted.”
Trianna didn’t have time for my feelings. The berserker spirit had found her again. She stacked her surviving infantry behind her two tanks, using their large frames as mobile cover. Then she made another straight run for the hill, disregarding a forest of salt and pepper shakers that she could have used to hide and regroup. It wasn’t traditional but it was tactically sound: camping in the forest might have allowed her to heal a soldier or two, but Team Shitkicker would have another turn to freely chip away at her forces. The aggressive path put ETKD at the base of the hill, bloody but not defeated.
Renee smiled pitilessly. With victory in sight, the elder sister finally looked engaged with the game itself. She committed most of her army (one shaman, six riflemen) to two shooting actions, focusing fire on the left tank. It collapsed under the barrage, effectively stranding half of Trianna’s army. Then she flew her five spearmen to the base of the hill, poised for a pincer attack. I was impressed: Renee had found a way to turn ceding half of the high ground into a trap. I could smell a rout.
“Excellent game,” I mumbled. No response. Turn six started in still silence until the berserker turned back toward me.
“How much damage does a sacrifice do?” asked Trianna. She’d let go of her hair.
“Four dice of damage per soldier.”
“Nice.”
Trianna sent every rifleman trapped behind the ruined tank downhill, stopping directly in front of the melee-oriented spearmen. This would have been insane if she had any intention of them surviving.
“I’m sacrificing all these guys,” she declared flatly. After that announcement, rolling for damage felt like a formality. No one walked away from multiple suicide bomb detonations at point-blank range. With the spearmen safely out of the picture, Trianna pushed her surviving squad into spitting distance of her sister’s firing line.
Renee elbowed me and laughed. “See that? That’s the advantage of being a toolbox. She never holds anything back.”
“Thank you,” said Trianna. “Your moves were okay.”
Renee pawed at the spot her chips used to occupy, frowned, shrugged, and resumed the slaughter. Team Shitkicker enjoyed another leisurely round of gunning down Undwarves. The volley cut down four of the last infantrymen standing and disabled the tank’s main gun.
“I’m guessing there’s no way you can win this shootout,” Renee boasted. I started to see how they could be related. More importantly, she wasn’t wrong. The Undwarves had three riflemen and a half-dead tank left. “You know, we didn’t settle on the form of the prize. A trophy would be solid, but I’m also cool with you doing a little dance. You can choreograph it yourself, I’m a big fan of creative expression.”
“There’s not going to be a shootout.” Trianna put her three survivors on top of the tank. (Well within the rules but widely considered a flashy way of turning men into easy targets.) The tank ran over the central gunner, putting Trianna’s team in the dead center of the firing line. If nothing else, Trianna had claimed a foothold on the hill.
“I’m also sacrificing these three.”
I raised my hand. “You can’t win without soldiers.”
“Neither can she.”
Here, I finally understood the strength of her resolve. In General Trianna headspace, losing simply wasn’t an outcome. The joint explosion of her soldiers and tank produced fifty dice worth of damage, which Trianna insisted on rolling out. The conflagration wiped out the rest of Team Shitkicker, cleansing my backpack of all life.
Draws were a rare novelty. Space Glaive, by design, exposed the skill gap between players in sharp relief. A good player often lost to a very good player within three turns. Ties were only common in the later stages of high-profile tournaments, when long-term rivals faced each other for exorbitant cash prizes (by professional gamer standards). The draw confirmed what I’d suspected: I’d watched one of the best games since the first Star Orc fought the first NanoHobbit.
Traditionally, a great game was followed by a clasp around the arm. The gesture went a step beyond a handshake, marking a bond forged through conflict. The Freeman sisters replaced this tradition with passive-aggression. Trianna yawned and stared at the ceiling, pointedly avoiding eye contact. Renee toyed with her cell phone, making a similar effort to avoid acknowledging her opponent’s existence.
A sense of failure settled over me. I didn’t think that a game could unite a family by itself. Even I wasn’t that far gone. But I had hoped it could bring out the bonds that were already there, clearing some of the fog that life puts between people. I didn’t understand a lot about the world, but I understood the game. If I’d overestimated it, then understanding everything else was a lost cause. The silence at the kitchen table mocked my chances of becoming a three-dimensional person.
“Next time I’m going to stomp you,” Trianna declared, ending the standoff.
Renee blew a raspberry. “Just admit that I’m better than you at this. It’s healthier.”
“I pulled my punches. Next week I’m going Lelouch vi Britannia on your ass.”
“I have no idea who that is. But you’re still going to lose.”
To me, this simple exchange was a miracle. While later games would earn me money and respect, this was the match that gave me hope for the other aspects of my life. I even started dating outside the community, which was a paradigm shift for me.
More importantly, I changed up my game. I integrated the other two styles into my own and put an end to my losing streak. The standard division between tacticians, berserkers, and madmen was entirely arbitrary. Most divisions are.
Spider-Man: A character whose story effectively ended after learning responsibility and then continued for sixty more years.
spirituality: Religion without a spine.
stand-up: The only art form you get worse at by dating online, riding planes, going to therapy, disliking your ex, smoking weed, imitating Robert De Niro, observing racial trends, or obsessing over originality.
Star Citizen: The most elegant heist executed without a gun, political office, or Bloomberg machine.
streaming: The soothing trance a nation slips into as everything dear burns.
stupidity: Courage’s understudy.
sugar: 1. See Violets.
2. Sweet.
3. See You.
suicide: I haven’t tried it.
Superman: Defender of truth, justice, and Warner Bros. share value.
surveillance: When intelligence agencies gossip about you behind your back.
sweep picking: The rejection of sheet music in the body, mind, and soul.
T
tabloids: Mom-and-pop disinformation outlets struggling to compete with new competition.
Taiwan: The site of a vast historic tragedy around 2060 or so.
Talleyrand: An icon of the French Revolution who avoided betraying or failing his values by having none.
Tammany Hall: An organization dedicated to enthusiastic voter outreach, strong minority participation, and innovative cement-based footwear.
taste: The self-conscious curation that replaces personality around eighteen or so.
teenagers: Adults without rights, alcohol tolerance, or failure.
therapy: Alt-comedy’s airline food.
thesis: The prayer an undergraduate makes before a great struggle.
three-section staff: The cheapest, flashiest, and most efficient way to kick your own ass.
TikTok: The place a dumber version of you lives.
time: The most valuable asset you can steal from someone without prosecution.
tolerance: 1. The ability to buy milk without lighting a cross on a lawn.
2. A virtue widely displaced by enthusiastic self-flagellation.
3. The conscious, tactical dissociation keeping most marriages together.
Transylvania: A common destination for expatriates with a werewolf fetish.
Truman, Harry S.: The reason we have air raid drills.
Twitter: The place a meaner version of you lives.
U
Übermensch: Someone willing and able to impose his values on a lecture hall completely uninterested in Nietzsche.
Ubik: A novella fitting thirty years of peyote into an afternoon’s reading.
undergrad: Where white people teach you about diversity.
undertakers: Graveyard workers distressingly unprepared to take or deliver chokeslams.
unicorn: A joint effort between an elephant, nearsightedness, and absinthe.
United States: Inventor of the cereal jingle, dine-in gun range, and hydrogen bomb.
universe: God’s toybox. Unfortunately, they’re less fond of tea parties and more fond of pulling the arms off dolls.
Uno: The card game where the winner quits first.
Urban Market, The
Dear Mr. Cole,
Excellent submission. My assistants and I loved exploring the world of DragonSpire, through both your manuscript and hand-drawn topographic maps. I was particularly gripped by Prince Jerrick Glitterblade’s fraught relationship with his half brother Wraith Glitterblade. There’s just one issue, which I’m sure you could solve in a revision. Could you make this a little blacker?
Clearly, your vision of the world involves a number of warlocks. And that’s fine: every black creative faces the specter of oppression differently. Intellectual diversity makes the black literary canon rich. A few small changes will help you fall in line with those diverse voices.
Let’s start with your protagonist. Jerrick Glitterblade’s current background as a HammerMancer from the Valley of Honour is a bit flat. I think he’d work better as a quick-witted arts student from the Boogie-Down Bronx, forced to contend with stiff white academics. Less of a hero’s journey through the underworld and more of a subaltern’s journey through undergrad. Give it some thought.
I also think we could rethink his name. Instead of Jerrick Glitterblade, how about Jamal Kingston? A little regional flavor would add specificity to his character, and we’ve already done Africa this year. As a Jamaican-American, I’m sure you have delightful observations on the blandness of American cuisine compared to “curried goat.” Use that.
Your principal antagonists, the HexWeavers, could use similar branding tweaks. For one, the name Wraith sounds like a fantasy thing. People are more into drama-comedies (or dramedies, for those of us in the biz) these days. Dramedies take two seemingly disparate things—like water and sawdust—and combine them into a stronger whole. In a good dramedy, Wraith Glitterblade might be called Drake Jackson. Instead of going mad exploring necromancy, Drake could be sad because he’s black. Finally, in the fourth cycle’s climactic duel, a Dallas police officer could kill him instead of Jerrick.
