#watchpoint

Saya was laid out on the backseat of the off-road truck. She was leaned against the door, feeling every soft bump of the lone road that cut through the Kassif Desert leading to the coast. Her eyes glanced down from the view of her imprisonment, away from the dunes outside the window and toward the sniper rifle tossed into the footwell. Then, to the shawl her legs were currently rested on top of, a beautifully hand woven blending of earth tones currently in a bundled heap. And finally, to the blood soaked gauze that was hastily wrapped around her left bicep. The wound underneath was probably still coated in sand, but at least the bleeding had stopped. The car’s air conditioning was causing every pore of her skin to cry in gratitude, despite it doing little to numb the pain of the newly acquired gash. It was doing less, however, for her mental state.

“Another failed mission. Another emergency call to Beatrice. And another village forced to deal with the Farmhouse,” Saya thought to herself on loop.

“I’m glad that was all the damage they did to you. It could’ve been a lot worse.” All Saya could see from the driver’s seat from her point of view was a head of black hair tied back into a ponytail. Her words sounded relieved. But, it still barely drew a reaction from Saya, nothing more than an exasperated sigh. Beatrice tried to go on, “Who was there?”

“Usual suspects. The German shepherd that yips like a chihuahua, and the gator and the hawk," Saya said.

"Farmhouse," Beatrice muttered. Just the mention of Auran’s toughest, most thuggish, and - in Saya’s opinion - most annoying squad was enough for her to groan. And it was being mentioned more and more often, as skirmishes in the outskirts of Kassif-En were becoming far too frequent for liking.

“Yeah. There was someone else, too. Someone in a hood, I couldn’t get a good look at their face. I had my shot lined up and… I waited too long. The hawk got me in the back. Knocked me off the roof and got me in the arm with his talons. I got him in the ankle with a knife and got away before they were able to surround me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing those guys aren’t even half the fighter you are,” Beatrice responded in an attempt to try and lift Saya’s spirits.

“I’m still just one soldier, Bea. I can only do so much against their numbers game.” Beatrice frowned.

“Then why do you keep going in alone?”

“Because someone has to! I can’t just leave these villages out here to rot!” Saya’s burst of anger dissipated as quickly as it came once the pain shot through her arm after clenching her fists. She sighed once more. “The government thinks they can just ignore us, ignore thousands of years of history and culture. They just wanna focus on their shiny new toy, their bright little tourist trap. But these sands are my home. They’ve made me. They’ve made this whole kingdom. Kassif-En wouldn’t exist today without these villages and these people. And I haven’t been able to stop fighting for them since I was 14.” Beatrice couldn’t really argue any of what Saya was saying. Still, she thought repeated attacks from a foreign invader would warrant at least some kind of action.

“What does Auran even want anyways?” she wondered..

“I don’t know. Probably just looking to rob some defenseless people and make their lives miserable. They strike me as the type,” Saya shrugged. The exhaustion made her too tired to care about the reason, and it was evident in her voice.

“What about the Watchpoint League? Isn’t the whole point of the League to stop conflicts like this? Shouldn’t the Observers be stepping in?” 

The Watchpoint League. What the nations of the world tout as their greatest achievement. In order to avoid all-out war and the destruction that comes with it, any conflicts of interests are settled a different way. A year-long fighting circuit where each kingdom can send teams of their best warriors to battle in arena combat. The best brawlers, swordsmen, mages, and marksmen, in front of huge audiences, fight for large prize pools and to bring glory and influence to their home. Organizing it all at the top is an impartial group appointed by the world's leaders, an enigmatic group known as the Observers.

"You know as well as I do they only care about your kingdom when your team is toward the top of the standings. Or when they can spin an interesting story out of it," Saya said.

"You could get a team started. An actual team, not-"

"After what happened last time? No thanks. Don’t need to be reminded of that," the sniper interrupted. No response from the driver’s seat.

“That makes two of us…” thought Beatrice. The sting of embarrassment was just as prevalent reliving the memories as they were first experiencing them. All that could come out was a soft “I’m sorry”. The words were barely loud enough to pass the threshold of noise. She wasn’t even sure what she was apologizing for entirely. “I just wish you didn’t have to be a one woman army. I wish I could’ve helped then. I wish I can help more now. But I’m not you.”

“Huh? What for, Bea?” Beatrice was amazed Saya even heard her, as if she could have sworn she only mouthed it. She mentally scrambled for a reply but could come up with nothing. “If anything, I should be the one who’s sorry for making you come out here and putting you in harm’s way. Again.” Beatrice now wished she could just have the words to articulate how it wasn’t a hassle and she would never leave her hanging like that. But, before either of them could go any further, the first change of scenery for dozens of miles began to come into view through the windshield over the horizon.

Jutting above the highway was an impressive city skyline, a couple skyscrapers serving as the centerpiece amidst of other high rises with no doubt of bustling streets below. D’marya. In their more immediate future, however, right where the outskirts of the capital unofficially began, stood an unassuming building just off the main road. It was nothing spectacular from the outside - two stories made with a combination of wood and sandstone. A quaint porch made way for the front door, and upstairs there was a balcony on the right wall just big enough for a pair of chairs and a small coffee table. Next to it all rested a school bus that had long since rusted over and been reclaimed by the elements. Nobody, not even the ones who called this region home for decades, could explain where it came from. As Beatrice parked next to the decrepit heap, she peered through the front window to see a party of three jovially conversing over drinks. Standard affair for the Dune Rat, the tavern which Saya and Beatrice both called home.

It took a moment for Saya to psych herself up enough to get out of the car. With her rifle slung across her back and her shawl in hand, she trudged up the front steps. It might as well have been hiking up a mountain for her sore legs. Their entrance into the establishment went hardly noticed, except for a couple polite hellos from some regulars. That was, until one patron sat by himself towards the back of the bar, decided to make their - and his - presence known.

“There she is! Look everyone, it’s our hero! The savior of Kassif-En! The Desert Spider!” The man’s over the top sarcasm came through a horrible drunken slur, and his arm wobbled as he lifted his drink for a mocking cheers. Saya openly scowled at him throwing the moniker some of the villages gifted her, but never bothered to even look his direction.

“Fuck off, Zephyr,” she grumbled before slumping onto a barstool and laying her head down at the bar. She couldn’t even be worried with coming up with a more spirited response. Beatrice took her usual place behind the bar and began polishing a pair of glasses, all the while eyeing the loud drunkard. 

“At least you got fuckin’ smart and decided to just lead yourself off the cliff instead of takin’ the rest with ya!” Zephyr half stood up from his chair and half stumbled out of it and started walking towards Saya. Each of his heavy, clumsy footsteps grew louder as he got closer. But, Saya didn’t flinch. She just sat there, head down, hoping he would try something. 

Click.

The small sound of Beatrice pulling the hammer back on her trusty revolver was all Zephyr needed to hear to sober up fast. He glared right down the freshly shined barrel. Engravings of blossoms ran up the length of it, glistening softly in what light the Dune Rat could provide. All of the regulars, including Zephyr, knew she kept it stashed under the bar in case of a too rowdy customer. No one was sure if she had the guts to pull the trigger. No one dared to find out.

“Zephyr, you know the rules. No fighting in my bar. If you wanna brawl so bad, why not train for another shot at the League. Otherwise, I suggest you sit down,” Beatrice said. After a brief staredown, Zephyr slinked back to his spot, muttering things only his drunken wisdom could decipher.

“I used to be a fuckin’ legend back in Wendjo,” he said before plopping back into his chair.

“Thanks. You know I woulda handled him though,” Saya said, finally lifting her head just enough to glance at the bartender.

“I know, but you’ve had a long enough day. You shouldn’t have to deal with him. He’s got two brain cells and they’re both fighting for third place,” she whispered softly enough for Zephyr to not hear so they didn’t reignite the whole situation all over again. Saya attempted to suppress a laugh, resulting in only a snort that hurt her insides trying to contain it. It was the first moment of the day that she didn’t want to completely forget. When she looked over, she was halfway wishing a glass of whiskey on the rocks was awaiting her. Anything to forget today. Instead, after stowing the firearm away, Beatrice sat a tall glass of cold water on the countertop before her. It might not be what she wanted, but Saya recognized it was exactly what her body needed.

Smiling softly at Saya making quick work of making her full glass of water a memory, Beatrice once again returned to her task at hand of wiping down. As she dusted past a pair of decorative bottles of aged wine, she noticed an unfamiliar glimmer from something she unknowingly pushed aside. With two fingers, she retrieved an envelope. It was crisp and clean, with slight gold trim on the edges. It was sealed shut with a sticker with a logo she had never seen before on it - a silhouette of a person running outlined in pink. On the other side was only a stencil drawing of a spider.

“Anybody know what this is about?” Beatrice said to the crowd, only getting a few shrugs and indistinct “dunno” noises from the ones that actually heard her. A bit more perked up and with a now empty glass, Saya cocked an eyebrow as she eyed the envelope.

“What is that?”

“For you.”

“For me?” The slight intrigue turned into bewilderment as Beatrice flipped the envelope around to reveal the spider insignia. Before reaching for it, her attention slowly fell to the spider tattoo on her right hand. Her famed calling card. With her face clearly displaying distrust, she took it and flipped it back and forth between each side a few times. When she could not make any further sense of it, she carefully tore into it with one finger, almost as if she was expecting to self-destruct in her hands. But, she pulled out a letter and unfolded it with little fanfare as opposed to the spy movie scene she was anticipating.

“What’s it say?” Beatrice asked, too curious to be content with just watching Saya silently scan through it. Saya cleared her throat and began to read word for word from the beginning.

“To the Desert Spider,

We hope you are doing well and we hope this letter finds you in good spirits. We must say we have been very impressed with the skills you have shown. Both your performance in the Watchpoint League and your heroics to protect the people of Kassif-En are inspirational. I especially value the determination and grit it takes to believe in a cause when no one else will. But, I am not naïve. I know Kassif-En struggled on the “big stage”, and I know one woman cannot defend an entire kingdom, no matter how adept they are at their craft.

That is why we want to help. I see talent, passion, and drive in you. You have all that in spades. But, I know better than anyone that no one can do it alone. That is why I started the Runaway Academy. To not only excel in Watchpoint arenas as warriors, but to improve the world as people outside of it. I am sending two of my newest graduates to meet with you. They may be “rookies”, but they are two of the best I have ever trained. Please take care of them. My academy and my graduates are my second family. They have asked if you could meet them this Saturday at Club Fuse. I assume you know where that is. I haven’t a clue, all I know is one of them was adamant to go there. 

I sincerely hope you accept this offer. I hope to hear from you soon.

Signed, The Runner”

Saya lowered the letter back down to the counter. Neither her nor Beatrice could formulate anything to say. They were both left to merely stir in a silence that palpably hung in the air Then, with focus still cast downward, Saya’s grip tightened on the letter, crumpling the pristine paper before tossing it aside. 

“What a load of shit,” she said. She pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head pounded, even more so now than when she was in the desert heat. She craved that whiskey even more desperately before.

“Well wait hang on,” Beatrice said, scurrying to recover and unfurl the letter to read it herself. Maybe the answers lied on the page still and they just had to read it one more time. “Runaway Academy…”

“Oh c’mon Bea you can’t seriously believe this! It’s probably just someone having a laugh kicking the ‘weak’ kingdom while they’re down.” Saya made sure to emphasize the air quotes on the word “weak”, even if she was the only person who currently wholeheartedly believed it. “Or worse, it’s a trap set up by Auran or whoever!”

“There’s no way it’s a trap. They wouldn’t pick a crowded nightclub smack in a bustling district of the capital during their busiest hours for a trap. And it seems really elaborate for a hoax, don’t you think? Like what would be the point of making you go to a club if it was just all for nothing?” The bartender spoke softly, gently trying to coax Saya out of her mind running around in paranoia fueled circles. But still, Saya didn’t seem receptive. “Maybe they’re good, maybe you can trust them.”

“Really? Cause I’ve heard things while at the League. I heard that’s where Vangryth got their team from, and those guys are a bunch of bloodthirsty killing machines,” Saya asserted.

“Ok one, I don’t think bloodthirsty part is true. And two, I don’t think somebody who willingly trains brutal killers sends a letter like this, Saya.” Saya groaned and rose from her chair. She had decided she was tired of waiting for her whiskey and decided to walk around the bar to fix it herself. But before she could make it to the booze shelves, Beatrice blocked her path. All she had to do was put her arms out and suddenly Saya felt powerless. Despite being several inches taller and stronger than the Dune Rat’s resident mixologist, she couldn’t move her. She could hardly even meet her soft gaze. The concern from Beatrice’s blue eyes. It hurt Saya.

“You can’t keep going in alone like this. And I can’t keep rescuing you. I know you’re a soldier and all and supposedly you’re prepared for this but-”. Her words trailed off. Her mouth was trying to catch up with her reeling mind. Saya’s crimson eyes were looking away, inadvertently toward the bloody bandage around her arm. As gingerly as humanly possible, Beatrice began undoing the knot that held it together. Saya still winced at the touch. As the wrappings fell to the floor, Beatrice couldn’t help but think how today could’ve gone a lot worse. Any of these days could’ve been worse. It could be worse the next time. “But, if you keep this up, one day you’re not gonna come back. And while you might be ready, the people in your life aren’t.” It was a slight sidestep from what she wanted to originally say: “I’m not.”

“Fine. I’ll go,” Saya said after a long sigh. A comforting hand from Beatrice came to rest on her shoulder, drawing her eye back up from her sand-coated boots. The smile she gave her was genuine yet fleeting, partially because of her uneasiness of the situation, and partially because of what Beatrice had gotten from under the bar with her other hand.

“Thank you. Now let’s get you cleaned up,” Beatrice said, holding a small cloth and a bottle of antiseptic.

“Ah crap,” the marksman said under her breath.

“And while we do that, we can work on getting you an outfit ready for Saturday,” she continued.

“What’s wrong with what I hav-ow!” The burn of antiseptic cut her protest short.

“Hold still!” Beatrice directed, wetting the cloth once more. “Saya, your shawls aren’t exactly fit for clubbing. And besides them all you wear is tactical gear. Last thing you need is to show up looking like the bouncer. Except better armed.”