Warmups are second nature to us.
We fall into place at the foot of the stage, in sequential order according to our Digits. Zero steps onto the platform and a simulated wireframe person appears holding a rudimentary lead pipe, charging right at her.
She slips under the swing and plunges her huge knife into its chest then rips it out the very same second. Darting across the stage, she's gone before the body drops and disintegrates into cyan particles.
Zero's a speed fighter. She's there, and then she's gone. With her haptic controls, she's built to move, hit specific targets, and slip away. Not stick around and fight crowds or big things.
Next up is One. She's a cheerful blonde girl who's typically lost in her own head like me yet somehow manages to have plenty of friends. She's even nice to me. I like her. She's like an older sister, even though we're all the same age.
With gusto, she steps up and freaking baseball slides with her twin machine pistols shattering the air in the room and dropping a half dozen Sim combatants in less than a few seconds. Whoa. Cool. With a proud twirl of her pistol, she jumps feet first after Zero.
"Done!"
Ones are gunners. They exclusively use firearms, which includes something called a Morphgun. It's some kinda versatile weaponry thing which can be changed around into different firing modes, calibers, shapes, and sizes. For whatever reason, One makes hers into a pair of tiny pistols.
I don't get it, but the Ones do.
Two follows without a second's delay, using a Conduit staff to draw power from his Cortex and land a burst of explosive fire dead center on another crowd, blasting them apart with limbs and heads flying everywhere.
Twos are neat. The Conduit isn't magic. Unfortunately. It's a nanomachine conductor which also uses psionic energy like my Halo. Twos can use it to make things catch on fire, or explode, or melt, or freeze, even shoot lightning. It's all chemistry and technology. Not magic. But it looks like magic. I want it to be magic.
So I'm conflicted.
Three leaps into the fray, ExoArmor hissing as it heats up, and a spherical shield of orange hexagons forms in a wide ring around him, forcing the five simulated combatants back as they struggle to break through it.
Threes are walking tanks. They're virtually unstoppable defensive units who protect the more vulnerable targets in the Deca, like me. Heavy armor and brute force. Not much more to it than that. Though they can be demolition units too, and carry some serious explosives and rockets.
While he's doing that, Four disappears from sight with her cloaking field, reappearing right behind him as she snaps a bolt of electricity which catches the first of the five combatants and arcs to all the rest, destroying them too.
Fours are the fastest units in every Deca. Compared to Naughts, they hardly show up on the field at all, but bodies drop regardless. Electrical charges and remote explosives, a short electrized blade called a tanto, a secondary visor for more detailed visual information over their VO, and the cloaking field, that's their gear.
I might be scared of her if Four wasn't stupid.
Okay, I am scared of her…
With that, it's my turn. I touch off the floor, weightless, soaring over both their heads. More simulated enemies appear from all sides below, and I fly over the next crowd's collective head.
My hand drops low in the split second I have to nail the timing. They're all flattened into the floor by a blasting wave of nearly invisible psionic force, like a surge of wavering natural gas. They're crushed. Smashed. Broken. I may as well have dropped a freaking building on them.
On the far side of the stage, I land on the balls of my feet with a bounce, returning myself to my easy float. Hardly a challenge, but that's warmups for me.
Three and Four follow me off the far end of the ring, then Six and Seven step up together, both wearing giant mechanized ExoHands on opposite sides. Seven is right handed and Seven is left handed. I'm pretty sure all Sixes and Sevens are, but I don't know.
The robotic extensions grapple with each other as they throw one another at each sequential simulated combatant, pulverizing them before reaching back to launch the other at the next. Hand over hand, head over heels. Like leapfrog, but devastating.
Sixes and Sevens are the only two partner pairs per Deca that exclusively operate with one another. They're heavy hitters too, capable of going up against armored robotics and even Threes, probably. Catching hands, we call it. Well, the other Subjects call it. I don't get many chances to talk with anyone, so…
Once they're across, stupid Eight jumps up.
Whirling into action with her huge, steaming, hissing, piston-headed, fission-powered, atrociously powerful mechanical hammer, she enters as a spinning vortex of destruction. Nothing can withstand the impact force of that thing. It's almost sickening what it does to the simulated combatants.
Eight gives the weapon a final spin and then brings it crashing down on the last one, the force of its booming blast lifting her vertically off her feet by a meter or two as she laughs.
She's glowing yellow. The girl loves to destroy.
It's concerning. She should be institutionalized.
Somewhere far away from me.
Nine follows up after her, a virtually silent boy who I hardly ever notice, scrawny and small, but with a penchant for competitive video games just like me. Electrolyzed bolas whip through the air and restrain the first combatant while paralyzing it too, then he flicks needle-like taser darts at the next pair which drop backwards, and finally tags the last one in the chest with a hand, forming an electrolyzed cage around it.
Nines are capturers, pursuers, and trappers. Akin to Naughts and Fours, Nines are fast, mobile, and likewise rarely seen. They are capable killers, but they're better utilized for controlling the battlefield through other means. Decoys, sabotage, disruption, stuff like that.
Once the stage is clear, he rolls off it.
Warmups complete.
"Good," Mister Mason says, drinking a coffee. We're not allowed to have coffee yet, but he is. "You guys look good. Fluid. Nine, that was beautifully executed."
He doesn't say anything, only nods. He's a sad looking boy. Pitiful, like a wet dog. Just like me. Perhaps I sorta think he's kinda cute. Maybe.
Nobody will ever know that. Ever.
Mason keeps saying, "Eight, let's tone it down a touch with the spectacle."
"I'll consider your suggestion but ultimately ignore it!"
"Style is fine, just don't let it get in the way of what it is you need to do. Six, Seven, that was outstanding."
They high five their giant hands and both laugh.
"Five, flawless as always. Way to turn around from earlier."
I wish he hadn't said the second part, but, "Thank you, Mister Mason…"
"Four, that was a little slower than what I'm used to seeing from you."
"I'm a little distracted, sir. I'll adjust for the live combat drill."
"Sure, sure. Three, where did that come from, kid? Your shield was on fire!"
"I don't know! It was cool, right?"
"Yeah it was cool! Fantastic. Keep at it just like that. Two, careful with those explosives. I like it, but the potential for teamfire is there. Just be aware."
"Yes, sir."
"One," Mister Mason says, then laughs a little. "I love the enthusiasm, as always."
She beams, glowing a warm pink. "Glad to show results, sir!"
"Glad to see them. Good aim, by the way. And finally, Zero. You were seventeen milliseconds behind your average time. How could you? Kidding. But what happened?"
"I'm not certain at the moment but I will adjust to this error the same as Four."
"New environment, new responsibilities; it's a lot. Don't let it get to you. Do everything you already do, that's all. Yeah?"
"Yes, sir."
"Just in time," he says, and the door nearest us slides open with a hiss. "Welcome to the Dojo, Five-Forty."
Hark. The enemy has arrived at the gates.
I don't know the Forty Lead's name–I never cared to learn it. She's a sharp, hawkish woman of maybe fifty, without any of the casual demeanor Mister Mason carries. Her Deca is in formation and step, stiff and rigid, perfect according to the Program's rulebook. She gives us a disgusted look and clicks her heels before facing Mister Mason.
"Is your Deca always so misshapen, Mason?"
"Nope. Never." He gives us a wink. "Fifty, come back over here, let them get geared. Zero, you're first up. Sorry, that's Five-Naught."
We collectively agreed to informally call her Zero.
Naught is just a strange thing to call someone.
Four Orders come in from either door and stand stiffly at attention. The defensive detail, I suppose. I do trust them to keep us safe, they're just kind of imposing.
I follow the others back over to Mister Mason, floating a little higher to see over the stage and inspect our competition. Without knowing anything about them, my Halo tells me their Two is nervous, their Six and Seven are currently at odds with each other, and their Nine is certain she'll win over ours. I make sure to maintain posture and appearance now that we're in view of another Deca and Lead, floating over to Zero to inform her of these observations, watching their Five do the exact same.
"Good intel," she says in a low voice. "I'll pass it along. And Five?"
"Yes?"
"Watch it when you're up. I've heard theirs has a mean streak."
"Oh. Okay. Noted."
With a nod to Mister Mason, she steps onstage to face Five-Four-Naught. As they do so, the gigantic screens on the wall above the ring light up, giving us a view of both Subjects' optics so we can see everything that they see.
Five-Naught is on the right with us, and Four-Naught is on the left, on their side. Two peripheral screens boot up as well, showing vitals and the body silhouettes that will display injuries, whenever they have them.
So they really do want us to hurt each other.
I have a bad feeling about this…
The Five-Forty's Lead sternly declares, "Each Prime Digit matchup will compete under specific parameters, which are graded by three metrics that represent the primary function of each Digit. These three metrics will be graded on a scale of one to one thousand, and summed to represent your overall Combat Readiness grade. A perfect score would therefore be three thousand."
Mister Mason tacks on, "Don't expect or even hope for that. At this stage in your training, you're likely to be in the two hundreds for each metric. Perfect scores are not currently possible to attain. Not until you start to near your graduation, ten years from now."
Sounds like a challenge to me.
With a smile, he says, "Let's begin."