TARAT: He does seem to blow big games.
DAN: It’s the playoffs! You know, where teams play other teams that are pretty damn good?
AKBAR: Oh come on, Dan! Pine couldn’t finish a hot dog without choking on it.
DAN: He won two Galaxy Bowls!
TARAT: Oh not that again…
DAN: Screw you, Tarat! And screw you, Akbar! Next caller, dammit, next caller!
The Krakens gathered in the dimly-lit tunnel of Hudson Field. The 250,000 fans crowded into the stadium stamped their feet in unison, boom-boom… boom-boom… boom-boom… The walls and floor vibrated from the bloodthirsty beast’s stomping.
Quentin felt nearly mad with the hunger of battle. He was stepping into it this time, taking hand-to-hand combat into the field instead of sitting behind his wall of Ki linemen. The Earthlings would be coming after him relentlessly, literally trying to knock him out of the game. Cheap shots would abound. He knew damn well he was in for the beating of his life. But he was going to give as good as he got.
[INTRODUCING THE CHAMPIONS OF THE HUMAN CONFERENCE, PLEASE WELCOME THE TEXAAAAAAASSSSSS EARTHLINNNNNGS!]
The crowd’s choreographed stomping evaporated, replaced by the nova-like roar of mostly Human fans. It was a hostile environment — broadcasters had estimated 200,000 of the fans were Texas Earthlings supporters, another 20,000 were Krakens faithful, and the remaining 30,000 were mostly fans from other teams in the Human Conference. All that added up to a nice home game for the Earthlings.
The Krakens swayed back and forth, one organism, one collective brain set on grabbing the prey and tearing it to shreds, tearing it apart with tooth and claw and tentacle and rasper and bare hands. Society slipped away to some abstract concept — for now there was only the battle, there was only the intense, primitive pleasure of destroying another sentient being.
High One help those who stood in the Krakens’ way.
[AND NOW, THE CHAMPIONS OF THE QUYTH IRRADIATED CONFERENCE, THE IONAAAAAAAATH KRAAAAAAAAAAAAKEEEEEEEEEEENS!]
Quentin waited for Pine to call out to the team, to rally them into one cohesive, violent machine ready to crush and to punish and, if need be, to kill.
But instead of his trademark leader’s voice, Pine said only one soft sentence.
“Quentin, it’s your team now, lead us out.”
Forty-three sets of eyes turned to look at Quentin, who wore a warm-up jacket over his uniform. Pine’s words filled Quentin with raw emotion. It was his team now, now and forever, Pine had passed the torch in full view of his teammates.
He wasn’t a rookie anymore. He was the battle-hardened leader of this team, the general who led his soldiers into war. He’d fought and bled with these beings, won and lost with these beings, felt ultimate joy and faced the ultimate sadness. Somewhere during the season, and he didn’t know where, Quentin Barnes had become a man.
The team waited for Quentin to speak. He quickly looked from player to player, taking the time to measure up each Krakens’ emotions. They were all ready to go.
Instead of talking, he slipped off his warm-up jacket to show his orange jersey. Underneath, instead of his number 10, the black numbers with orange trim read “47.”
Fayed’s jersey.
“Screw the Earthlings,” Quentin said.
A brief pause, then a barbaric roar so raw and loud it made the 250,000 being crowd sound weak by comparison. The Krakens shot out of the tunnel like the fiery breath of some legendary dragon. They raced onto the surface, which was made up of a thick, emerald-green plant marked with bright white stripes and numbers. It was finer and softer than Micovi’s Carsengi Grass.
Quentin’s mind raced, not with thoughts, but a lack of thoughts, a mental blankness created by a primitive violence that suffused his every last atom. He walked out onto the center of the field for the coin toss, Hawick on his left, John Tweedy on his right. A zebe waited at the 50-yard line, right in the middle of the multi-colored GFL logo painted on the lush green grass. On the other side of the zebe waited their enemy: Case “Hot Pepper” Johanson, the Earthlings quarterback, and Chok-Oh-Thilit, their All-Pro defensive tackle. The Earthlings wore bright-red jerseys with blue letters and silver trim, blue leg armor with silver piping, and silver helmets decorated with a blue-trimmed white star.
Johanson stared at Quentin. “What’s with the number change, boy?”
Quentin just stared back. Johanson had played three seasons of Tier One ball with the Earthlings, before their fall from grace last season down into Tier Two.
“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to wear a dead man’s number?” Johanson asked, his face twisted into a half-smile/half-sneer.
“Keep talking, douche bag,” Tweedy growled. “You’re wearing a dead man’s number, you just don’t know it yet.”
JOHANSON THROWS LIKE A GIRL scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.
Johanson’s sneer faded, briefly, but it faded nonetheless. The hotshot quarterback’s attentions turned from Quentin to John Tweedy, who just stared and grinned his I’m-not-quite-sane grin. Johanson didn’t say anything else.
“Krakens are the visiting team,” the zebe said, his voice amplified by the stadium loudspeakers so that it cracked like the sound of the High One himself. “Who will call the toss for the Krakens?”
“She will,” Quentin said, pointing at Hawick. She had been given that duty, and she shook with a intense fervor. Quentin didn’t understand how the coin toss factored into the Sklorno’s strange religion, but apparently it was an honor that surpassed even the cathartic thrill of catching a long touchdown pass.
“This is heads,” the zebe said, showing a metal coin with a picture of a Creterakian head. “This is tails.” He flipped the coin to show stylized planet — Creterak.
“Call it in the air,” the zebe said, and he tossed the coin.
“Heads!” Hawick screamed, more rapture than excitement. The coin bounced on the grass, flipped three times, then landed flat.
Heads.
Hawick collapsed and lay on the ground, quivering.
“Krakens win the toss,” said the zebe, echoed by the loudspeakers. “Do you wish to receive or defer?”
“We want the ball,” Quentin said.
“A stay of execution,” Tweedy said, staring straight at Johanson, who no longer looked as cocky.
Quentin and Tweedy picked up Hawick and carried her to the sidelines. Quentin let out a slow, controlled breath. He wouldn’t have long to wait — one quick kickoff, and he’d be on the field, squaring off against Chok-Oh-Thilit and the other Earthlings defenders.
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” the crowd started the low, tribal, pre-kickoff chant. Adrenaline poured through Quentin’s veins, so thick it might have spilled out of his pores and dripped onto the green grass at his feet. He tried to breath slow, but found it difficult — his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He blinked rapidly, gritting his teeth, waiting for the coming battle.
“OHHHHHHHHH…”
A hand on his shoulder. Donald Pine.
“Relax, kid,” Pine said, his smile easy and genuine. “We’re going to do this together. Once you get that first hit, you’ll be fine.”
Quentin nodded, then turned back to the field.
“AHHHHHHH-AH!”
The ball sailed through the air. Richfield jogged back past the goal line, her eyes fixed on the tiny brown dot in the sky.