#weevilsmith

“You!” cries Caracal from the stage. “You know you aren’t welcome around here any more!”

Mantis steps down from her seat and walks calmly up to the stage. “You don’t have anything on me, Caracal. I’m within my rights.”

Caracal’s face is a mask of fury as she shoves her arms into one of the platformed suits. “People don’t just change overnight. I know you’re reporting back to Eleanor about us. You should have just stayed in hiding.”

“I am NOT working for that woman!” cries Mantis. “Mamba saw that Roland and I were in danger and she helped us! We were so thankful and honored to be a part of this place. Who do you think we were running from when we came here?”

“You’re lying.” growls Caracal. “It’s too convenient. You two show up, my father disappears a week later. I know the Privateers took him, and I know you helped them.” The suit hums to life around Caracal as her feet slide into place. “I shouldn’t even be entertaining your objection but damn I need to hit something! Get in that suit and let’s get this over with.”

Mantis drops her arms to her side helplessly. “I’m on your side, you know. And if you can’t put me down now you’re going to have a hell of a lot of paperwork to get through if you want to get rid of me.”

Merrick scratches furiously at the back of his head. “What is going on right now?“

The Weevilsmith chuckles. “That’s Warden Eleanor’s daughter. She and her brother Roland are Privateer defectors that ran off and joined Phylla when Mamba was leading.”

Merrick stops scratching his head when he realizes he is still wearing his gauntlets. “She’s the one that saved us when we got kidnapped.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Nobody told me anything about kidnappin’! You’re about to tell me things I don’t wanna know, kid. You just keep that to yourself and watch the fight.” The Weevilsmith inches away from Merrick. He is sweating more than usual.

Caracal roars as her suit comes to life, a dazzling beam of white projects from her out into the middle of the stage. Her body roils and tenses, shifting an enormous blob of light before her. The light solidifies into a sinewy pawed leg, claws bursting from it and disappearing into the dirt. Two tufted ears pull themselves up as the other legs form, the lithe body of a short-faced, wicked-eyed predator. The light dances around the enormous cat for a moment before smoothing into a fur coat.

Across the stage Mantis moves confidently in her suit, striking her arms straight out as light bursts from her metallic core. She brings them quickly together in front of her like a boxer, dancing lightly on the fronts of her feet. Her light, a slightly hazier version of Caracal’s produces a giant mantid roughly the same size as Caracal’s beast. It’s head twists left and right, calculating as it examines its opponent.

Merrick pokes his head up from the ground where he has thrown himself for cover. The Weevilsmith rolls his eyes. “Now how are you going to see the action from down there?”

Merrick blushes. “There are two animals the size of King Kong right in front of me. Of course I’m terrified.”

“The wonders of science, my friend,” chuckles the Weevilsmith. “They only work on each other. Might make your eyesight go bad, but otherwise they’re harmless.”

Merrick rises apprehensively and sits back in his seat. “What happens if Mantis loses?” he asks.

The Weevilsmith’s face falls. “They’ll probably send her back to her mum. If Eleanor is as bad as they say she is, Mantis needs to win this.”

The great Mantis has barely finished forming when Caracal pounces, clawing mercilessly, jaws seeking throat or vitals. The fighters themselves move as though in a physical match, each thrown punch matched by an appropriate impact in the other’s suit. The great beasts move differently, claws and pinchers swinging naturally with the flow of battle. Merrick tries to watch the fighters themselves but the allure of colliding light is far too strong.

The Caracal cat is angrier, stronger. It tears into the great Mantis, dragging and clawing. The Mantis is more precise, a surgeon of war. It grasps at the cat, catching hold of it in midair and squeezing down hard on it’s soft throat and belly. The Caracal twists free, roaring, biting down hard on its opponents shoulder. On the ground Caracal is holding hard to empty air while Mantis flutters against an unseen force pressing her into the ground. She reaches an arm across herself and pulls at the space before her. Above, the Mantis clamps it’s great pincher over the Caracal’s back. Neither lets go. Neither surrenders. The crowd is absolutely still.

Caracal pants from where she stands frozen, arms locked in place by her suit. “You could be the end of us,” she chokes, heavy breath and sweat thickening her voice.

“You know I won’t be,” answers Mantis. She turns her head and the great insect eyes of the Mantis land directly on the crowd. “Hey announcer?” she grunts. “I think you owe me something.”

There is a scrambling sound from the announcer’s booth and the suits begin to power down. Caracal screams and her great cat pulls back a heavy paw to strike before fading against the flat dirt backdrop. Both fighters are ejected from the suits and rest on all fours, gasping for breath as sweat streams from their bodies. Merrick blinks for the first time in a while.

The announcer hesitates for a moment, shrugs, and raises a fist in the air. “Citizens. Please welcome your new Beta Guardian, MANTIS!”

The Weevilsmith tumbles out of his seat and waves his arms in the air. “Great show! Amazing fight! What a rush! Who’s got that Mantis Initiate card?”

Merrick wipes sweat from his forehead and turns to his friends. “That was something else wasn’t-” Merrick stands, putting his face immediately in front of the Weevilsmith’s. His voice is low, menacing. A threat. He grabs the man by his beetle suit and pulls him close.

The voice of an announcer is already booming as the Weevilsmith leads his three apprehensive companions to the base of Klava Besto. Their eyes widen as they approached, awestruck by the spectacle of the monstrous Beast Club. What was once a giant hill has had its entire face cut away, leaving a solid dirt monolith towering thirty feet over a flattened lawn below. A wide platform of trodden earth creates an enormous stage below the towering earthen wall, the centerpiece for a half-moon seating area a good distance away. On each end of the stage is a ring of elevated earth on which a lightweight suit made of wires and thin metallic bars rests motionless. They stand empty, hollow sentinels looming over the gathering spectators. Between them the dirt stage is completely bare.

The Weevilsmith had turned out to be a jovial and helpful fellow, marching the trio out to see the farmland in the hours before nightfall. He had fed them, too, producing a basket of foodstuffs from somewhere inside his curious beetle suit. A salad of kale and onions, as well as sandwiches spread with a funny-smelling paste had held them over for most of the day.

“We’re late,“ says the Weevilsmith dejectedly, “We already missed Gharial’s fight!”

“Who is Gharial?” asks Merrick.

The Weevilsmith gapes, “Good Lord, boy! Gharial is THE fighter to see. He’s the oldest, most cunnin’ Shogun in the Phylla houses. The shadow waitin’ in the waters, the devourer of predators. He’s- c'mon y'all! He’s Gharial!” The tall, strawlike appendage above The Weevilsmith’s head wobbles back and forth as he speaks, as if emphasizing his point.

Merrick rolls his eyes. “Calm down, beetle man, we don’t know anything about anything yet.”

The Weevilsmith slaps his forehead. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s just… I just really like Gharial, alright? Always have. I have all three variations of his Initiate tradin’ card in mint condition back at the smithy.”

Riddle perks up. “There are Phylla trading cards?”

“Sure are!” beams the Weevilsmith. “Some kid came in and gave them the idea a decade and a half ago. Now they’re one of Phylla’s hottest commodities. Citizens come to events like this to trade them and bet on the fights. The value of the cards usually goes up or down depending on how people do. Same happened durin’ the Alpha Tournament, of course.”

The announcer’s voice echoes across the field. “We’re about to return, folks! Please make your way back inside the dedicated seating area. Fighters, stay where you are. We have an important announcement coming!”

The crowd surges obediently around them toward the seating area. The Weevilsmith grabs Friday by the hand and marches forward, “C'mon, y'all! Hurry!”

As she hurries behind Merrick’s dimly glinting armor, Riddle catches a glimpse of red-shirted people standing at the back of the seating area. They huddle together, whispering and nodding. All of them remain standing. She sits automatically with the others, eyes still searching the venue. She spots the announcer in an elevated booth a good distance away from the stage. Lights illuminate an entanglement of gears and wires around him.

The announcer continues, “Citizens, I am now going to turn the booth over to a very special guest. Please welcome the ruler of the animal kingdom, Alpha Caracal!” The crowd roars. Caracal thanks the announcer and steps into his place as he takes a seat behind her. She raises her hands high above her head with a smooth, confident grace.

“Welcome, one and all!” it’s not a shout. The crowd cheers for a moment and then falls into respectful attentiveness. “Tonight I am pleased to announce my selection for Beta Guardian.” Tremors run through the crowd. The Weevilsmith tightens his fists and drums his knees.

“It’s gonna be Proteus,” he whispers into Merrick’s ear. Merrick swats him away with a gauntleted hand.

“I have to use the restroom,” says Friday.

“I’ll come with you,” offers Riddle. Merrick grunts acknowledgement. The Weevilsmith keeps his eyes fixed on Caracal. Riddle and Friday wander away from the seating area in search of a restroom.

“For years this fighter has shown Phylla what it means to never give up. He suffered the devastation of losing his sight-”

“Told you!” whispers The Weevilsmith. Merrick glares and shushes him.

Caracal’s voice echoes from the booth, “He was beaten again and again, but he always got back on his feet and rushed into the fray once more. He knows when to speak and when to listen, and I believe each of us could learn from him. Proteus, will you please step onto the stage?”

A brown-skinned man with a slim stick in his right hand steps into the wide lawn between the two earthen platforms.

Caracal does not attempt to hide the pride in her voice. “Proteus, here in the presence of your fellow fighters and Kingdom citizens, I name you my Beta Guardian.” His downcast eyes glisten in the bright stage lights. “You are my voice when I cannot speak, my right-hand and protector of our order. You will protect the helpless, hunt down those who abuse their power, and you will mould the six houses under my direction. Until the day I am driven from my position, you will serve. Accept the will of your Alpha or leave.”

Proteus does not smile, but his face is earnest. “I will serve, Alpha. Until you no longer lead us.”

Most of the crowd cheers. A few members of the Reptile House shake their heads. Some Amphibians nod knowingly.

Caracal’s voice rises, thundering now. “As is tradition, I will defend my choice.” She steps down from the booth and makes her way over to the stage. Proteus bows low as she passes him and walks off, taking a seat at the front of the sitting area.

The Weevilsmith leans toward Merrick. Merrick stops him. “I can hear you, man. What now?”

The Weevilsmith’s voice is eager “I was just goin’ to fill you in on what’s goin’ on. Caracal can choose whoever she wants to be her Beta Guardian. Sometimes it’s the Alpha’s lover or spouse, sometimes a siblin’ or mentor, really just depends on who they want to work with every day. So Caracal chose Proteus, right? Well get this- if anyone doesn’t like that they can fight her for the right to the title.”

“That’s weird. Why wouldn’t they fight HIM for the title?”

The Weevilsmith chews on a low-hanging antenna. “I think that used to be the way of it until Alpha’s started wantin’ brainier types to be their Betas. Sort of balances the leadership team a little. Better for diplomacies and such.”

“I see,” says Merrick. “So can anyone just go up and challenge her?”

“Usually just the first person to object. She can’t fight everybody. I’d guess after the Alpha Tournament there aren’t too many keen to fight her again, though.”

“How is anyone going to beat the Alpha, though? Isn’t that why they’re the Alpha? Because no one can beat them?”

The Weevilsmith’s entire suit shakes with his head. “No, no. They don’t have to beat Caracal. They have to survive. Four minutes in a Holo fight without gettin’ creamed and they’re the new Beta.”

Merrick scans the crowd for signs of objection. Gharial and his House remain uncomfortably silent. The Mammal and Amphibian Houses remain at ease, both represented by the potential leading duo. No movement from the Order of Fish. Half of the House of Creeping things seems to be absent. The uncomfortable silence lasts a couple minutes.

The announcer clears his threat. “Will there be any objection to the Alpha’s choice?”

The three people sitting on a set of crumbling concrete steps do not look happy. The building behind them sways when the wind blows, rotting boards pulling against rusted-out nails. The head of an ancient-looking animatronic giraffe sticks out of the ground ahead of them like it has just dug its way through Earth from the savannah.

“What next?” asks a girl with a sash full of files, picks, and gauges.

"Do you believe them? What they said about dying if we try to leave?" asks a young man in a suit of elaborate, burnished armor.

"I don't see any reason for them to lie to us now, not after rescuing us and then letting us go," says the third. The other two nod their heads.

Riddle, Merrick, and Friday had found themselves alone when they awoke that morning. No sign of the masked Mercury or the green-scarfed Mantis they had spoken with so recently. They were in a barren room populated by three identical beds. A small pack of food, a toothbrush, and a crude hatchet had been lain beside each of their heads with a handwritten note that said, "Find your way."

Now the trio sits on the steps of the empty house they woke up in, trying to decide what to do next. "I need to know what happened to my dad," says Merrick for the thousandth time. "We have to find him."

Riddle casts an uneasy glance at Friday. "Merrick," she begins, "I can't go with you."

Merrick reddens. "Can't or don't want to?"

"Neither. And both. I want this," she grabs a handful of gray dust from the step beside her and lets it sift through her fingers. "This mess, this kidnapper heaven, this mystery- I want it."

Merrick clenches his jaws, "Sounds like you don't even care what happened to him," he says through gritted teeth. They all remain quiet for a few minutes. Merrick looks straight ahead into the broken stone walkway. "You killed some of those men, you know. Some of those Privateers. They probably had families and lives. Does that bother you at all?"

Riddle draws a question mark in the dust by her left foot. "Is a life still a life when you live to bring death?" she wonders aloud. "Would they have wondered the same?"

Merrick's face is returning to its usual pallor, but the sides of his jaws still bulge. "Friday?"

Friday's brow furrows, a single wrinkle in the center of her forehead. "You're chasing your old life. Riddle's running from it. What am I doing?"

"Well ya don't seem to be grieving too hard, that's for sure," calls a voice from the rubble.

Merrick is already on his feet, hatchet in hand. He looks like an angel as he steps into the morning sun, light burning from his polished armor. The hatchet looks pitiful in his clenched fist. Friday raises her eyes in the direction of the sound just in time to see Riddle dive into a nearby house. A thin whipping sound as something small and sharp is thrown and an abrupt THOCK as it embeds itself in a wall. Indignant cries. Merrick rushes toward the collapsing doorway and is knocked to the ground by an enormous charging beetle.

The beetle skids to a halt in the dust, an about-face as it readies itself to charge back into the building. Riddle appears panting in the doorway, one hand reaching for something in her sash. Merrick sputters and pushes himself to his feet.

"Hold it, murderer children, now wait a minnit!" cries the beetle.

Friday stands and calmly walks over until she is between her friends and the newcomer. "We apologize, we aren't sure who's the enemy around here," she says, reaching out a hand.

"You and me both, lady!" says the giant bug.

The beetle straightens, totters, and stabilizes on two legs, revealing itself to be a man wearing the exoskeleton of an enormous insect. A tall, tubelike snout protrudes far above his head. Two enormous black orbs- eyes long dead- emerge where his ears should be. Brawny bare arms have been thrust out through holes where the beast's middle legs must have once been. Riddle scrunches up her face in curiosity. Merrick gapes. Friday's expression doesn't change. Her hand still hangs expectantly in the air. The man shakes it.

"Outsiders, eh?" says the man good-naturedly, "Don't see many of you around The Shambles. Seems like they're always shippin' you off to the University or the fields."

Friday releases her hand first. "It's nice to meet you, sir. I'm Friday, and these are my friends, Merrick and Riddle."

"Nice meetin' ya!" he waves. "They call me the Weevilsmith."

Merrick deadpans. "So, what? You smith weevils or something?"

"Yes." The Weevilsmith holds Merrick's gaze to assure him that he isn't joking. Merrick finally looks down.

"Sir, we have no idea where to go from here. We know we can't leave Kingdom, but we don't know what's next for us. Is there a place for people like us?"

The Weevilsmith scratches at his thick mustache, fingers trailing down to the black stubble covering his chin. "Don't know that I've ever seen people like you before." He walks over and knocks his knuckles against Merrick's chestplate. It echoes softly. "Interesting getup. Like weevilplate for humans..."

"Sir is there anywhere we can go that won't get us killed or arrested?" Friday pushes.

"Klava Besto!" replies the Weevilsmith.

Friday shoots Riddle a questioning glance. Riddle shrugs and grins, "Club of the Beast, I think. It's like they jumbled two languages together."

The Weevilsmith continues, "In fact, tonight is the perfect night to get on Phylla's good side. Holo fight. New Alpha looking for fresh initiates. And with the outsider controversy getting heated, Phylla might be your best place to start."

"The outsider controversy?" asks Friday.

"Bunch of Wrath Worshippers blaming Kingdom's problems on the newcomers. It's gettin' pretty bad."

Merrick punches through the window pane nearest to his gauntleted fist. "We didn't ask to come here. We just want to go home."'

The Weevilsmith looks at him with a faint trace of sympathy. Riddle starts walking down a long stone walkway leading out of the crumbling ghost neighborhood. "Is she going the right way?" asks Friday.