Ricochet

The court thrummed with a manic energy that set Rico’s blood on fire. This was the thrill he lived for, the moments before the plunge into total anarchy. The floor shimmered with a pulsing rhythm to the beat of electronic music playing over loudspeakers. The announcer came over the speakers afterwards.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice, tinged with the same excitement that Rico felt, filled the arena and the audience like an ocean of anticipation. It seeped into the audience, seeped into Rico, and seeped into his teammates, too. He knew that the other team was feeling the same thing.

“Let’s get ready ro ricochet!” the announcer yelled.

The crowd roared their approval. The doors to both Rico’s and the rival’s bases opened. Rico ran out into the simulated arena, rifle in hand, and a wide smile on his face.

The two teams ran out of their bases at a dead sprint, each wanting to be the first to claim the ball.

Ricochet had begun.

“Rico!”

Rico looked up from the couch at the one who had just spoken. A tall Sangheili stared down at him, mandibles parted quizzically, and eyebrow raised in what Rico could only assume was a gesture of mirth.

“Yeah, sorry, Shyla.” Rico rubbed is eyes and blinked away the sensation of sleep. “Was just resting my eyes for a bit.”

“Uh huh.” The Sangheili crossed her arms, reclining in the couch. “And the snoring?”

Rico reached for the six pack on the coffee table in front of his couch, grabbing one and snapping it off the packaging. “What,” he asked. “You don’t snore?”

“Not when I’m just ‘resting my eyes’,” she replied. “You missed the pre-game.” She motioned for the screen in front of them. A widescreen sort with no defined borders, that hung on the wall seemingly on its own. Rico knew better, he had spent the better part of three days installing the damn bracket supports.

The Human took a deep swig of beer and sighed in appreciation. The room-temperature liquid tasted cheap, and tacky, with a distinct metallic aftertaste from the can. Perfect beer for a day spent vegetating on the couch watching Ricochet games. “Nothing interesting in that, anyway.” Rico’s eyes twinkled. “I would know.”

“I suppose you would,” Shyla quipped, downing her can in one fell swoop. She crushed it in her hands, and tossed it over towards the corner of the room. It hit a bin and went straight in. She clicked her fingers in triumph, and reached down to her own set of beer to break open another one.

Rico watched her, wondering how any creature could be at once so alien, and so human. She paused and looked at him, shrugging her shoulders and blinking her reptilian eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Who’s playing again?” Rico asked with no hesitation.

“The Deadlifts vs the Angels,” Shyla said, flicking her head at the TV as though it were the most obvious thing.

Rico looked at the TV and saw the logos for both of the teams up on screen. He supposed it was obvious, in hindsight.

Raising an eyebrow, he shot Shyla a look. “The Angels?”

“Yep. The Escalan Angels.” Shyla grabbed a handful of popcorn and quietly slid a few kernels between her mandibles, keeping her eating quiet, so as not to draw attention to the way her kind ate.

“Shit,” Rico leant forward as the teams came into the arena, picked up their simulation weapons, and the arena configured into the map they would be playing on. “That’s a tough one. Angels have been in good form.”

The two teams were allowed to walk up close to one another and exchange handshakes. A few of the team members refused, one of them turned the handshake into a hug, was pushed away, and almost started a brawl. The refs separated them, and motioned to the bases that had configured at either end of the arena. The rules were simple; the teams fought over a ball, and had to get it in each other’s court. Full contact was allowed, simulation-grade weapons that interfaced with their armour systems were allowed. Explosives were handled sim-side to make everything authentic.

In Rico’s opinion, it was the best damn game humanity had ever invented.

Shyla shook her head and propped a three pronged foot up on a stool. “The Angels don’t have shit on the Deadlifts,” she said.

Rico tore his eyes away from the TV and stared at her. “They’ve been reigning champs for two years.”

Scoffing, Shyla waved a hand over at them on screen. “And the Deadlifts ended your career,” she quipped with a rumble of laughter.

Rico went slack jawed, an explosive single laugh leaving him. “Whoa now, it’s like that, huh?”

“I mean,” Shyla shrugged, “it’s true.”

“I’ll have you know,” Rico said, putting a hand to his chest. “That I retired!”

“You retired after the Deadlifts shattered your femur,” Shyla retorted, staring at him with an incredulous look.

“Yeah, that’s the thing.” Rico folded his arms and cast a snide look towards the TV. Each team leader was getting an interview now before the game. “They play dirty.”

“Exactly. The Angels don’t.” Shyla said. “They rely on the rules too much. The Deadlifts are willing to bend them.”

Rico shook his head. “Deadlifters,” he muttered.

Shyla laughed and nudged him. “Oh come on, sourpuss. You can’t deny that they have a shot.”

Rico hummed, and thought about it. She made a good point. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the Announcer on the TV said. Both Rico and Shyla leaned forward, feeling that excitement pool in their stomachs once more.

“Let’s get ready to Ricochet!”

Rico held a hand over to Shyla. Shyla took it, and they snapped their fingers taught, let them go, then bumped their fists together. “Ricochet!” they both said, nodding, still transfixed by the TV.

The two teams ran out of their bases at a dead sprint, each wanting to be the first to claim the ball. Ricochet had begun.

SilverLastname (talk) 13:29, May 26, 2019 (UTC)

“I cannot believe it,” Rico shook his head, holding it in his hands.

Shyla was up on her feet, celebrating by ‘dancing’. Or, it might have been dancing. It might also have been her having a seizure. “I freakin’ called it!” the Sangheili said.

Rico sighed, but couldn’t keep a dumb grin off his face. “You did. Deadlifts won.”

“Won?” Shyla turned to face him. “Winning implies the loser had a chance! That was a straight-up murder.”

She wasn’t wrong, either. Rico had been watching the game. The Deadlifts had the court locked down. They monopolised each centimeter of real estate. The few heroic charges the Angels could pull off amounted to nearly nothing.

“Alright, don’t get up your own cloaca,” Rico said. “Next game is gonna go to me.”

“I don’t even care. The Emerald Heralds suck,” Shyla sat back down. “Everyone knows they suck. And besides, don’t try to change the subject,” Shyla pointed at him.

Rico looked at the finger, then at her face, split apart in what might have been a grin. “What?” he asked.

“You owe me a beer,” Shyla remarked.

“What?” Rico asked again. “I never agreed to that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shyla said. “House rules. The one who backed the losing team owes the winner a beer.”

“And how many times have you backed the loser before and not given me a beer?” Rico asked with a smirk.

Shyla waved a hand. “That’s in the past,” she said. “This is the now. And in the now, I’m thirsty.”

Rico knew better than to argue, reached for a beer can, and tossed it over to her. “You’re a leech,” he said.

She caught it with one hand, snapping the ring pull off with a thumb in one swift movement. “I take that as a compliment,” she said, placing the can between her mandibles and leaning her head back. She drained the can dry and made an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. “Tastes like victory.”

Rico grabbed some popcorn and threw it at her, laughing. “I’m gonna be calling in that house rule from now on.”

“You can try,” Shyla said. “That is, if you can actually pick winning teams from now on.”

Rico rolled his eyes and went back to watching the TV. The next teams walked into the arena, stretching and hyping themselves up while the Announcer rattled off stats. He was determined to get a free beer back.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

“Let’s get ready to Ricochet!”