[b]Preparation and Anticipation.[/b] [i]Two Weeks Later.[/i] Corbec dived aside, squeezing the trigger of his rifle as he did so, crashing through the jungle foliage while his shots found their mark. The two targets crumpled and dropped flat, crushing undergrowth beneath them. Momentum keeping him sliding along the wet grass, Corbec thumped into a tall tree, provoking a quick shower of heavy leaves from its boughs. Scrambling upright, he ducked again when he heard shouts to his right: “There he is!” “Get him!” “Take him down!” Dashing away as fast as he could and sparing only quick glances behind him, Corbec rushed between palm trees and through bunches of Canna plants. A burst of shots split the air above his head and whistling on into the view-obscuring flora around him. Feeling almost slighted by this, Corbec wheeled on the spot, snarling, and hosed the area behind him. Bushes of tropical plants shook as the rounds passed through them, and saplings shivered when stray shots impacted into them. Corbec gripped the trigger hard until the rifle clacked empty. He hit the eject button and the drained clip released automatically and tumbled lazily to the floor. In a flash, Corbec reached to his belt, grasped a replacement and slammed it into place with a satisfying [i]click[/i]. Panting, Corbec remained standing and squinted as he scanned the seemingly harmless tropical growth for movement. Of course, it seemed utterly harmless, but what Corbec had recently come to learn was that this type of arena could conceal many threats. The Forest Canopy above was still, allowing only irregular but bright shafts of light through to the ground, covered in dead leaves and dropped branches. Eventually that dead, rotting plant material would release nutrients into the soil, which would in turn feed the hungry tree it came from. The cycle of life here in the jungle. Life came and went, and the survivors gorged themselves on their fellow’s remains. Slowing his breathing down, Corbec listened hard and licked his lips. Nothing. Quiet. But perhaps too quiet. Corbec dug his heels in and tensed, preparing to face his foe. Suddenly, he heard a twig snap behind him. Without thinking, Corbec threw himself to his left and went into a roll, finishing in a crouch behind the wide trunk of an old evergreen tree. Meanwhile, the ground he stood on only a moment before was riddled with gunfire, dead leaves thrown around as if the wind was playing with them. Corbec risked a glance out of cover. He couldn’t see a bloody thing. The jungle foliage was just too thick. He ducked back inside just as another brace of shots puckered the tree he hid behind. Corbec thought about returning fire, but came up with an idea instead. “Ahh, my bloody leg! Bollocks it hurts! Ahh!” He cried, calling his opponent’s bluff. Occasionally crying out a salty curse, Corbec stayed still, listening intently for movement. Midday sun shone brightly through a gap in the canopy, throwing Corbec in a stark contrast to the comparatively dark surroundings. He wore a jungle camouflage fatigue, heavy-duty combat boots and a full-face mask of black plastic, complete with two clear plastic squares for vision. Along where Corbec’s forehead would be on the mask, a line of blue tape had been applied. He wore an ammunition belt around his waist and two bandoliers, one over each shoulder. After what felt like an age of tension, something finally stirred out there, and Corbec listened even harder. “No! Not now!” One voice hissed vehemently. Corbec never clearly caught the second, but he fancied he heard: “Relax.” Corbec remained stationary for two more heartbeats to make sure that his targets had come forward into view, then sprang to his feet. Corbec swung out of cover and sprayed one man with half a dozen shots, sending him thumping to the floor. Gun-butt raised to his armpit, Corbec jogged forward, passing his most recent victim along the way. Still nothing else to be seen. Aggravated, Corbec almost crushed the trigger as he vented his frustration-and ammunition-on the jungle around him. He circled as he fired, blitzing every stretch of space he could see. Eventually, all that answered him when he held the trigger was: [i]Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack.[/i] As if on cue, however, at least two figures tumbled from their perches on tree branches. It was almost comedic, and Corbec started to laugh at the situation. It was ironic though, considering that things weren’t over with, a fact Corbec was reminded of when more gunfire headed his way. Swearing at the top of his lungs, Corbec fell on his stomach and scrambled as fast as he could into cover. He found himself once again under fire, and once again cowering behind some god-forsaken tree. Heck, the shooter was probably the same one as he’d just tried to deal with a moment ago. Cursing his position, Corbec fumbled for another clip to replace his empty one and got to his feet. But, just as he got a hold of a new magazine, his rifle was smacked form his hands with a savage blow. Corbec whipped around and faced his assailant, a man dressed as he was with combat fatigues and boots, with an identical mask but for a stripe of red tape in the place of blue. He held a long, straight branch of some hard wood with a sharpened point in both hands. Corbec realised that the gunfire had stopped completely-this man was clearly the gunner who’d pinned Corbec for so long. Corbec lashed out a kick, connecting with the man’s midriff and forcing him back for fear of receiving another rib-cracking attack. Cursing, the staff-wielder swept downwards, narrowly missing Corbec, who had stepped backward. He immediately shifted his grip on the impromptu weapon and tried to catch Corbec with a slash from the back of the staff, also barely missing. The attacker launched himself at Corbec again, lunging the staff forward in a stabbing motion, the pointed end first. Corbec sidestepped barely in time, and the attack left this newcomer dangerously overbalanced and open to a counter-attack. Corbec acted quickly, snatching the staff from his enemy’s hands by grabbing the end intended to spear him, forcing that end downwards. The sudden and strong downward force made the staff slip from the attacker’s hands and the blunt end veered upwards like a see-saw into his chin, cracking the plastic mask where it struck. Hands holding his chin, the man stumbled backwards and gave Corbec another opportunity to strike. He swung the staff around in his hands, bringing the blunt end of the staff around by three hundred and sixty degrees and, all in one movement, smacked it into his assailant’s crotch with an audible, agonisingly painful [i]‘thwack!’[/i] “AHHH!” He screamed, hands dropping from his chin to his balls, the nerve endings in which sent electrical messages to the brain telling it that something had just gone terribly wrong and with painful consequences. He tried to back away, doubled over in pain, he tripped on a root sticking out of the ground and fell on his back, moaning in pain. Corbec nimbly twirled the staff for dramatic effect, forever the showman, and finished with the display with the pointed end a mere centimetre from his defeated opponent’s throat. Suddenly, the end-game siren blared, and Corbec broke out into a cackle, throwing the wooden staff/spear away. [i]“All Death Game volunteers are to exit the Simulation Arena via the nearest designated exits.”[/i] A flat, monotone machine voice boomed from recessed speakers. [i]“All volunteers are reminded they are to visit the showers before reporting to their quarters for their one-hour free period. That is all.”[/i] “Looks like I just screwed your precious Red Team over single-handed, JS!” Corbec observed. “To say nothing of you!” He pointed at the prone body in front of him, still clutching his wounded manhood. “Up yours.” Came a response, muffled through the mask. He paused, then added: “Sir.” “Ah, you’re just a poor sport.” Corbec replied, taking off his mask and running a hand through his fine, blonde hair. “Come on, let’s get you up.”