The Augmented Arms
The second-round opponents rolled onto the court like war machines.
Kael watched from the sideline as the Ironclad Collective took their positions. Four men and one woman, each wearing exoskeleton arms that hummed with hydraulic pressure. The arms were chrome-plated, jointed with servos that clicked with every movement. Their hands were oversized, fingers tipped with rubberized grips designed to palm the crystal ball like a grape.
The announcer’s voice crackled through blown speakers. “The Collective! Undefeated in the lower bracket! Their sponsor, Meridian Forge, has outfitted them with Mark-7 hydraulic assists. They throw at one hundred and ten miles per hour. Let’s see if the gutter rats can catch.”
The crowd in the substation jeered. Most of them had bet against Kael’s team. The odds board flickered at the edge of the arena: Ironclad Collective -450, Undercity Scraps +350.
Kael’s team had no name. They hadn’t bothered to register one. The tournament officials listed them as “Team 14.”
Ryn skated to Kael’s side. Her wheels squeaked on the concrete. “We can’t block those throws. The ball will punch through our hands.”
“I know,” Kael said.
“So what’s the plan?”
“You’re not going to block.”
Ryn stared at him. “Then how do we stop them?”
“You don’t. You dodge.”
The whistle blew. The Collective’s center, a man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo of a gear, caught the opening toss. His exoskeleton arm cocked back. The servos whined. He threw.
The ball left his hand at a speed that made the air pop. It hit the glass court two feet in front of Spin, bounced at a right angle, and slammed into the backboard with a crack that echoed through the substation.
Spin hadn’t moved. He was still blinking.
“Move!” Kael shouted.
Spin scrambled. The Collective’s point guard, a woman with braids and a scar across her cheek, caught the rebound. Her arm whirred. She faked a throw, then passed to the center.
The center threw again. This time the ball aimed directly at Mira.
Mira tried to shift. Her new leg—the junkyard socket—didn’t respond fast enough. The ball caught her in the shoulder. She spun, hit the glass, and slid into the net.
The referee’s whistle blew. “Foul! Intentional targeting of a disabled player!”
The Collective’s center shrugged. “She’s in the way.”
Kael helped Mira up. Her shoulder was already bruising. “You okay?”
“It’s fine,” she said, but her voice was tight. “I can’t dodge that fast. The leg doesn’t turn like my old one.”
Kael looked at the Collective. They were laughing. The center mimed a throwing motion, then pointed at Mira.
“Timeout,” Kael said.
The referee nodded. Kael’s team gathered at the sideline. The crowd booed. Someone threw a half-empty beer can that clattered off the glass.
“We’re down ten points,” Spin said. “They’ve scored five times. We haven’t touched the ball.”
“We will,” Kael said. “But we have to change the game.”
Ryn wiped sweat from her forehead. “How?”
“They’re using the exoskeletons to generate power. But those arms are heavy. They can’t sustain max throws for a full match. The hydraulics overheat after about twenty hard throws.”
“So we wait them out?” Brick asked. His voice was a low rumble.
“No. We make them throw more. We force them to exhaust their systems.”
Mira frowned. “How do we force them to throw if we’re not blocking?”
Kael pointed at the court. “You dodge. Every time. Make them miss. Make them throw again. The ball will hit the glass, bounce back, and they’ll have to chase it. Their arms are built for power, not endurance. After ten misses, the servos start to lag. After twenty, they’ll be throwing at half speed.”
“And if they hit us?” Spin asked.
“You get hit. You get back up. You dodge again.”
The timeout ended. The teams returned to the court.
The Collective’s center sneered. “Ready to lose again?”
Ryn didn’t answer. She skated to her position, her wheels carving a slow arc on the glass.
The whistle blew. The Collective’s point guard caught the inbound pass. She wound up. The servos whined.
She threw.
Ryn didn’t try to block. She dropped to her knees. The ball sailed over her head, hit the backboard, and rebounded to the center.
The center caught it. He threw again, this time at Brick.
Brick sidestepped. The ball grazed his shoulder and bounced off the court.
The Collective’s forward grabbed the rebound. He threw at Spin.
Spin ducked. The ball hit the glass, bounced twice, and rolled to the edge of the court.
The Collective scrambled to recover. Their exoskeleton arms whirred as they chased the ball. The center lunged for it, his arm extended. He grabbed it, but his momentum carried him into the net.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
Kael’s team had possession for the first time.
Ryn took the inbound pass. She skated toward the goal. The Collective’s point guard moved to intercept, her arm cocked back.
Ryn faked left, then passed to Mira.
Mira caught the ball. Her junkyard leg groaned. She shifted her weight, aimed, and threw.
The ball arced high. It hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The crowd went silent.
Then someone in the back clapped. Then another. Then a few more.
Kael’s team had scored.
The Collective’s center glared at his point guard. “What was that?”
“She dodged.”
“She’s a cripple. Hit her.”
The match resumed. The Collective’s point guard took the inbound. She threw at Mira again, harder this time.
Mira saw it coming. She dropped to the ground. The ball hit the glass where her chest had been, bounced high, and rebounded to the center.
The center threw at Ryn.
Ryn skated backward, her wheels spinning. The ball passed inches from her face. She felt the wind.
The Collective’s forward grabbed the rebound. He threw at Brick.
Brick didn’t dodge. He caught the ball.
The impact drove him back two steps. His hands smoked from the friction. He grunted, held the ball, and passed to Spin.
Spin didn’t hesitate. He threw a blind behind-the-back shot.
It missed. But the Collective had to chase it. Their exoskeleton arms whirred as they scrambled across the court.
The center grabbed the ball. He was breathing hard now. Sweat dripped down his neck. His arm servos clicked slower than before.
He threw at Ryn again.
Ryn dodged. The ball hit the glass, bounced, and rolled out of bounds.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
The Collective’s center slammed his fist on the glass. “This is ridiculous. They’re not playing.”
“They’re playing smart,” Kael said from the sideline.
The center glared at him. “Shut up, has-been.”
Kael smiled. “Your arms are overheating. I can hear the servos. You’ve got maybe five more throws before they lock up.”
The center’s eyes widened. He looked at his arm. The chrome plating was warm to the touch.
The match continued. Kael’s team dodged, ducked, and weaved. They didn’t block. They didn’t challenge. They let the Collective throw until their arms screamed.
By the third quarter, the Collective’s throws had slowed to sixty miles per hour. The servos whined with every motion. The center’s arm seized mid-throw, and the ball dribbled out of his hand.
Ryn scooped it up. She skated past the point guard, who tried to grab her but missed. She threw.
The ball hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The score was 45–40. Kael’s team was closing.
The Collective called a timeout. Their coach, a thin man with a tablet, shouted at them. “You’re letting them dictate the pace! Hit them! Make them feel it!”
The center nodded. His eyes were bloodshot. His arm hung limp at his side.
The timeout ended. The Collective took the court with renewed aggression.
The point guard threw at Spin. He dodged. She threw again, this time at his legs. He jumped. The ball hit the glass, bounced, and she caught it again.
She threw at Mira.
Mira didn’t dodge. She stepped into the throw.
The ball hit her prosthetic leg. The junkyard socket cracked. Mira stumbled, but she stayed upright. She grabbed the ball, passed to Ryn, and collapsed.
Ryn caught the pass. She skated toward the goal. The center moved to block her. His arm whirred, but the servos were too slow.
Ryn faked left, then right. The center lunged. She passed between his legs to Brick.
Brick caught the ball. He didn’t throw. He charged.
The Collective’s forward tried to block him. Brick lowered his shoulder. The impact sent the forward sliding across the glass. Brick kept moving.
He reached the goal. He threw.
The ball hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The crowd erupted.
The score was 45–42.
The Collective’s center grabbed the ball. He wound up for a throw, but his arm seized. The servos locked. The arm froze mid-swing.
He screamed in frustration. He threw the ball with his other hand. It sailed wide, hit the net, and bounced out.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
The Collective’s coach threw his tablet on the ground. “This is a joke! They’re not even trying to score!”
“We’re trying,” Ryn said. “We’re just patient.”
The fourth quarter began. The Collective’s arms were dead. They threw with their natural strength, which was average at best. Kael’s team moved faster, dodged better, and scored more.
The final score was 61–55.
The crowd was silent for a moment. Then they cheered. Not for the Collective. For the gutter rats.
Kael’s team gathered at the sideline. Mira was sitting on the ground, her prosthetic leg cracked in two places. Ryn was breathing hard, her wheels smoking. Brick was silent, his hands raw. Spin was grinning.
“We did it,” Spin said.
“We did,” Ryn said. She looked at Kael. “Your plan worked.”
Kael nodded. “They had power. We had patience. Power runs out. Patience doesn’t.”
The Collective’s center walked past them. His exoskeleton arm hung limp at his side. He didn’t look at them.
Kael watched him go. Then he turned to his team.
“One more match,” he said. “Then the Vipers.”
Ryn’s smile faded. “The Vipers have neural dampeners.”
“I know.”
“We can’t dodge what we can’t feel.”
Kael looked at the glass court. It was cracked in a dozen places, scarred from the match. He tapped it with his foot.
“We’ll find a way,” he said. “We always do.”
The team walked off the court. Behind them, the crowd was still cheering. The odds board flickered: Undercity Scraps +350. The bettors who had taken the long shot were counting their money.
Kael didn’t look back. He was already thinking about the next match. About the dampeners. About the Vipers.
About the woman who used to be his wife.
He touched his ribs. The knife wound from the enforcers was still healing. It ached with every step.
He kept walking.
Kael watched from the sideline as the Ironclad Collective took their positions. Four men and one woman, each wearing exoskeleton arms that hummed with hydraulic pressure. The arms were chrome-plated, jointed with servos that clicked with every movement. Their hands were oversized, fingers tipped with rubberized grips designed to palm the crystal ball like a grape.
The announcer’s voice crackled through blown speakers. “The Collective! Undefeated in the lower bracket! Their sponsor, Meridian Forge, has outfitted them with Mark-7 hydraulic assists. They throw at one hundred and ten miles per hour. Let’s see if the gutter rats can catch.”
The crowd in the substation jeered. Most of them had bet against Kael’s team. The odds board flickered at the edge of the arena: Ironclad Collective -450, Undercity Scraps +350.
Kael’s team had no name. They hadn’t bothered to register one. The tournament officials listed them as “Team 14.”
Ryn skated to Kael’s side. Her wheels squeaked on the concrete. “We can’t block those throws. The ball will punch through our hands.”
“I know,” Kael said.
“So what’s the plan?”
“You’re not going to block.”
Ryn stared at him. “Then how do we stop them?”
“You don’t. You dodge.”
The whistle blew. The Collective’s center, a man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo of a gear, caught the opening toss. His exoskeleton arm cocked back. The servos whined. He threw.
The ball left his hand at a speed that made the air pop. It hit the glass court two feet in front of Spin, bounced at a right angle, and slammed into the backboard with a crack that echoed through the substation.
Spin hadn’t moved. He was still blinking.
“Move!” Kael shouted.
Spin scrambled. The Collective’s point guard, a woman with braids and a scar across her cheek, caught the rebound. Her arm whirred. She faked a throw, then passed to the center.
The center threw again. This time the ball aimed directly at Mira.
Mira tried to shift. Her new leg—the junkyard socket—didn’t respond fast enough. The ball caught her in the shoulder. She spun, hit the glass, and slid into the net.
The referee’s whistle blew. “Foul! Intentional targeting of a disabled player!”
The Collective’s center shrugged. “She’s in the way.”
Kael helped Mira up. Her shoulder was already bruising. “You okay?”
“It’s fine,” she said, but her voice was tight. “I can’t dodge that fast. The leg doesn’t turn like my old one.”
Kael looked at the Collective. They were laughing. The center mimed a throwing motion, then pointed at Mira.
“Timeout,” Kael said.
The referee nodded. Kael’s team gathered at the sideline. The crowd booed. Someone threw a half-empty beer can that clattered off the glass.
“We’re down ten points,” Spin said. “They’ve scored five times. We haven’t touched the ball.”
“We will,” Kael said. “But we have to change the game.”
Ryn wiped sweat from her forehead. “How?”
“They’re using the exoskeletons to generate power. But those arms are heavy. They can’t sustain max throws for a full match. The hydraulics overheat after about twenty hard throws.”
“So we wait them out?” Brick asked. His voice was a low rumble.
“No. We make them throw more. We force them to exhaust their systems.”
Mira frowned. “How do we force them to throw if we’re not blocking?”
Kael pointed at the court. “You dodge. Every time. Make them miss. Make them throw again. The ball will hit the glass, bounce back, and they’ll have to chase it. Their arms are built for power, not endurance. After ten misses, the servos start to lag. After twenty, they’ll be throwing at half speed.”
“And if they hit us?” Spin asked.
“You get hit. You get back up. You dodge again.”
The timeout ended. The teams returned to the court.
The Collective’s center sneered. “Ready to lose again?”
Ryn didn’t answer. She skated to her position, her wheels carving a slow arc on the glass.
The whistle blew. The Collective’s point guard caught the inbound pass. She wound up. The servos whined.
She threw.
Ryn didn’t try to block. She dropped to her knees. The ball sailed over her head, hit the backboard, and rebounded to the center.
The center caught it. He threw again, this time at Brick.
Brick sidestepped. The ball grazed his shoulder and bounced off the court.
The Collective’s forward grabbed the rebound. He threw at Spin.
Spin ducked. The ball hit the glass, bounced twice, and rolled to the edge of the court.
The Collective scrambled to recover. Their exoskeleton arms whirred as they chased the ball. The center lunged for it, his arm extended. He grabbed it, but his momentum carried him into the net.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
Kael’s team had possession for the first time.
Ryn took the inbound pass. She skated toward the goal. The Collective’s point guard moved to intercept, her arm cocked back.
Ryn faked left, then passed to Mira.
Mira caught the ball. Her junkyard leg groaned. She shifted her weight, aimed, and threw.
The ball arced high. It hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The crowd went silent.
Then someone in the back clapped. Then another. Then a few more.
Kael’s team had scored.
The Collective’s center glared at his point guard. “What was that?”
“She dodged.”
“She’s a cripple. Hit her.”
The match resumed. The Collective’s point guard took the inbound. She threw at Mira again, harder this time.
Mira saw it coming. She dropped to the ground. The ball hit the glass where her chest had been, bounced high, and rebounded to the center.
The center threw at Ryn.
Ryn skated backward, her wheels spinning. The ball passed inches from her face. She felt the wind.
The Collective’s forward grabbed the rebound. He threw at Brick.
Brick didn’t dodge. He caught the ball.
The impact drove him back two steps. His hands smoked from the friction. He grunted, held the ball, and passed to Spin.
Spin didn’t hesitate. He threw a blind behind-the-back shot.
It missed. But the Collective had to chase it. Their exoskeleton arms whirred as they scrambled across the court.
The center grabbed the ball. He was breathing hard now. Sweat dripped down his neck. His arm servos clicked slower than before.
He threw at Ryn again.
Ryn dodged. The ball hit the glass, bounced, and rolled out of bounds.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
The Collective’s center slammed his fist on the glass. “This is ridiculous. They’re not playing.”
“They’re playing smart,” Kael said from the sideline.
The center glared at him. “Shut up, has-been.”
Kael smiled. “Your arms are overheating. I can hear the servos. You’ve got maybe five more throws before they lock up.”
The center’s eyes widened. He looked at his arm. The chrome plating was warm to the touch.
The match continued. Kael’s team dodged, ducked, and weaved. They didn’t block. They didn’t challenge. They let the Collective throw until their arms screamed.
By the third quarter, the Collective’s throws had slowed to sixty miles per hour. The servos whined with every motion. The center’s arm seized mid-throw, and the ball dribbled out of his hand.
Ryn scooped it up. She skated past the point guard, who tried to grab her but missed. She threw.
The ball hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The score was 45–40. Kael’s team was closing.
The Collective called a timeout. Their coach, a thin man with a tablet, shouted at them. “You’re letting them dictate the pace! Hit them! Make them feel it!”
The center nodded. His eyes were bloodshot. His arm hung limp at his side.
The timeout ended. The Collective took the court with renewed aggression.
The point guard threw at Spin. He dodged. She threw again, this time at his legs. He jumped. The ball hit the glass, bounced, and she caught it again.
She threw at Mira.
Mira didn’t dodge. She stepped into the throw.
The ball hit her prosthetic leg. The junkyard socket cracked. Mira stumbled, but she stayed upright. She grabbed the ball, passed to Ryn, and collapsed.
Ryn caught the pass. She skated toward the goal. The center moved to block her. His arm whirred, but the servos were too slow.
Ryn faked left, then right. The center lunged. She passed between his legs to Brick.
Brick caught the ball. He didn’t throw. He charged.
The Collective’s forward tried to block him. Brick lowered his shoulder. The impact sent the forward sliding across the glass. Brick kept moving.
He reached the goal. He threw.
The ball hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and dropped through the net.
The crowd erupted.
The score was 45–42.
The Collective’s center grabbed the ball. He wound up for a throw, but his arm seized. The servos locked. The arm froze mid-swing.
He screamed in frustration. He threw the ball with his other hand. It sailed wide, hit the net, and bounced out.
The referee blew the whistle. “Out of bounds. Team 14’s ball.”
The Collective’s coach threw his tablet on the ground. “This is a joke! They’re not even trying to score!”
“We’re trying,” Ryn said. “We’re just patient.”
The fourth quarter began. The Collective’s arms were dead. They threw with their natural strength, which was average at best. Kael’s team moved faster, dodged better, and scored more.
The final score was 61–55.
The crowd was silent for a moment. Then they cheered. Not for the Collective. For the gutter rats.
Kael’s team gathered at the sideline. Mira was sitting on the ground, her prosthetic leg cracked in two places. Ryn was breathing hard, her wheels smoking. Brick was silent, his hands raw. Spin was grinning.
“We did it,” Spin said.
“We did,” Ryn said. She looked at Kael. “Your plan worked.”
Kael nodded. “They had power. We had patience. Power runs out. Patience doesn’t.”
The Collective’s center walked past them. His exoskeleton arm hung limp at his side. He didn’t look at them.
Kael watched him go. Then he turned to his team.
“One more match,” he said. “Then the Vipers.”
Ryn’s smile faded. “The Vipers have neural dampeners.”
“I know.”
“We can’t dodge what we can’t feel.”
Kael looked at the glass court. It was cracked in a dozen places, scarred from the match. He tapped it with his foot.
“We’ll find a way,” he said. “We always do.”
The team walked off the court. Behind them, the crowd was still cheering. The odds board flickered: Undercity Scraps +350. The bettors who had taken the long shot were counting their money.
Kael didn’t look back. He was already thinking about the next match. About the dampeners. About the Vipers.
About the woman who used to be his wife.
He touched his ribs. The knife wound from the enforcers was still healing. It ached with every step.
He kept walking.