Virgil Mata lives for the danger.
We see him ride off on his motorbike. Engines revving. A piece of shadow moving in the darkness. A light drizzle begins to hit the pavement. Now it's wet and belch mixing, petrichor and smoke adjoining in the air that results in that thickness in your throat. A few meters behind the Cynosure trail three riders just like him, reduced to mere neon green, red, and purple streaks to the game spectators. They know it's a trap, but following trouble where it goes is a Clasher's occupational hazard.
Clashers match to win. Virgil matches for the thrill of it.
He waits for the bravest. One of his three vibrant shadows is bound to take the bait. We shall witness the Clash Match in all its gory greatness.
Xun is the first to approach. The Dalakitnon prince. His gracefulness is an obvious contrast to that of Virgil's sheer brute and chaos.
Zooming out of the madness, all we'll hear is the nasty clanking of metal against metal, vehicle parts against vehicle parts, tires against asphalt roads, and the smell of burning rubber, as one of the riders' metal bat hit the other's steel pipe. A battle of swordsmen without swords. The Clashers multitask between landing a strike and evading it.
The rain is starting to pour now. Droplets of it blur the world the Clashers see through their helmets. Xun's bat manages to knock Virgil's pipe out of his hand. The clinking noise of contact resounds. We are in no arena. This is no circuit. In the morning, this is a busy communal highway; at night a quiet avenue. But once a year, it is the open coliseum where all the action takes place.
We are in the middle of that action. Xun pummels Virgil's back, his bike tires, his helmet—anywhere he manages to make contact with while maintaining control of his own vehicle. In the distance, we could all see the two other bikes approach. Both want a piece of that dead meat.
Virgil lives for this. This isn't him backed into a corner, it's him luring all three flies into the web he created.
Xun prepares for another blow, but as he swings an arm mid-air, Virgil slams his whole self—bike and everything—against Xun and his vehicle, causing them to swerve uncontrollably to the side, only stopping after they've tumbled over three times and crashed into a tree.
The rain helps with the heat but not with the road's slipperiness. Thanks to the rules of the game, using magical powers for offense are off-limits, otherwise the Santelmo would have set his opponents on fire just to win. Speak of which, he arrives a moment later, bike skidding to a halt near the scene. He opens the visor of his helmet so the rest can hear him speak.
"You really are a son of a bitch."
Helmar, the Santelmo, watches as the two entangled creatures got up from where they were sandwiched by neon green and black motorbikes and a barely damaged acacia tree.
The last vehicle, the purple shadow from earlier, also arrives. Since the racing part of the match is virtually over, the Clashers can now get down and dirty with a good old-fashioned brawl to settle the score.
"Is this three against one?" Virgil muses, already on his feet and dusting himself off.
"Don't flatter yourself," Xun rebuts, struggling to stand as he carefully leans on one good arm to hoist himself up. "This is Royal Rumble."
"May the best prince win," Keres in the purple bike, the Palesekan, signals ominously.
With that, he procures a wooden bat with nails sticking out at the end, and starts charging towards the arrogant War God's son.
Virgil can't help but smile. Keres is facing him head on. What an honor.
To Keres. But to him, it is a death wish Virgil is more than ecstatic to grant.
It's a sight, truly. Four princes, different races, but monsters all the same.
Virgil Mata stands huge as the indomitable acacia tree, unbothered, undaunted. Blood of war and death course through his veins. Seasoned by battles after battles fought and won—all in the name of carnage and brutality, his birthright, his destiny. Everywhere is grounds for combat, and everyone is an enemy fighting for the opposite side. Because this is his reason for living. Quite literally. As Makanduk's halfling son, half of his DNA is predisposed to fight and wage war, to live.
Virgil poses to receive Keres' attack, his body already anticipating the pain. Nothing that will cause real damage, however, because he has the ability to heal instantly so he can continue to fight nonstop until he is the last scion standing. He can't help it. He's built this way.
Helmar is just as tall as he is light, quite the opposite of Virgil whose stomps could be heard as thunderclaps on the pavement. Fire is the element of the Santelmo's, his specifically is a really dark red flame that almost does the opposite of bringing light. Tonight, in accordance with the game rules, he cannot use it, but his inhuman strength should be enough. He focuses his attention on the Dalakitnon who immediately catches his eyes. This is Royal Rumble, as the other prince had said, and so, determined to eliminate all distractions to get to the coveted top rank, Helmar charges forward, straight into Xun.
Xun is a tornado dancing around his opponent, prioritizing strategy over relentless violence. This way he is saving more energy to last until the final round. He masterfully evades every heavy punch and kick Helmar throws at him, and he does fine for the most part, until a fist comes in contact with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. The Dalakitnons are known mostly for sky voyages, merchandising, and knowledge and adventure-seeking-known for their peacefulness and benevolence more than anything, and not necessarily barbarity and disorder. But Xun is still a privileged prince, a curious one at that, and fun-seeking and thrill goes hand-in-hand with dangerous underground sports just like Clash Match. He laughs despite the pain that shot through his jaw bone, eyeing Helmar, intending to return the favor. The Dalakitnon jumps in a swift motion, as if a giant hawk taking flight, and lands a knee in Helmar's chest.
But the battlefield is too busy. Movements come from all four sides nonstop. Attention falls onto Keres wielding the wooden nail-covered bat. He aims it overhead, ready to smack it onto the halfling who had just removed his helmet. You'd think it's a bad idea, but Virgil just used the protective gear as a weapon, immediately whacking it against Keres' unprotected obliques, causing the Palesekan to holler in pain upon contact.
Only, that didn't happen. Because as I've said, they are prohibited from using their abilities for the offensive, but as a defense, Keres' ability has allowed him to see into the near future, predicting Virgil's move, which had helped him avoid it completely by redirecting his bat's position from targeting Virgil's head to obstructing the helmet's trajectory.
A Palesekan player, much like a Dalakitnon, is surprising to see in these types of brutal underground sports. Their race is known for being free-spirited, music lovers, known for their playful and curious nature—a total contrast to the very essence of Clash Match. But for Keres, this is about playing to keep himself and his people in the ranks, because out there is a dog-eat-dog-or rather, monster-eat-monster world, and Keres is not about to let himself and his kind be devoured.
Folks can probably prophesy who's most likely to win. If we're going to have our own educated guesses, we can always bet on the one that is born to be violent. And we wouldn't be wrong. Virgil has been a Clasher for six years, and for all those years he'd been the victor. Xun, having played for the past four years, had always been the contender to have gotten the closest to the finish line, due to some of the game's elements being about speed. If it's not a brawl like this, then the next best thing is to get to the Clasher's base first, but even then, he could only finish second, because it's rarely just a race. Coming in third is the other four-year Clasher Keres, leaving Helmar, the rookie player with only two years of Clash Match experience under his belt in the fourth place outside the podium.
Tonight's game isn't as different as the many games that came before. It's almost deja vu, which doesn't come as a shock, but it does come as a disappointment. Match Nights are slowly turning into a repeat of a repeat of a repeat, and it doesn't make for great entertainment.