In another location, from within the safety of his office, someone is watching the game unfold from the livestream of the match through the footage being taken by the BCC film staff and crew, comprised of the usual Manananggal camerawomen, Aswang production team that follows the entire game in trucks, along with the help of a few Kapres and Ta-awis with the different angles of the fight from the treetops, and up close too with the ground-level angle courtesy of the Duwendes.
Every base is covered and accounted for. So in this huge CCTV control room, a bewitchingly beautiful man in dapper-but-casual cream colored dress shirt and grey pants reviews the show that is being broadcasted through the multiple screens in front of him. This is Crisanto, King of the Enkantos, the founder and organizer of the Bikers Collision Coalition, the genius mind behind Clash Match.
The story of the game's conception varies from person to person. Fans would say it pretty much started seven years ago, the moment the glorious Angel of Undeath, Makanduk's son, Virgil, got into the scene. Sometimes ideas do tend to stick only when it becomes popular. But purists would disagree. It took a hundred years to build this society, and the game made the grounds it was built upon.
And it was the game that determined a species' ranks in the hierarchy. A caste system that sets a civilization's every moving part in its perfect place. Losers at the bottom of the social stratum, and winners at the top. And of course, it takes someone at the top to create a game like this.
The morality of such concept, I leave the judgment up to you. The legality of it, however, is more cut and dry. Because this world we currently bear witness to is an illicit underground society beneath an already established underground society. A monster criminal society, in a world where monster societies don't have a place to exist in the first place.
I can tell you all about it. But first, we must meet the brains behind the operation.
It may not look like it, but Crisanto is well into his hundreds. He's been in the world for a long time, way longer than the varmints on the field he's watching right now.
"Another four-way scuffle..."
His voice trails off. What comes after his initial words would be, "un-fucking-acceptable," but he let himself swallow the curse word for now. What must be his priority is the fact that if Virgil wins this year's match, then it would be another year of his business falling into a decline. Gamblers have already built too much confidence on betting on Virgil because it'd be a sure-fire way to rack up a quick buck. But it would also mean that more and more people would bet on Virgil, more and more people would win, which means just as many people are actually losing by gaining so little, making them lose interest in the game altogether if they keep on being predictable like this. This isn't how the game is supposed to be.
"Call in the priest."
He said into the air. If you weren't paying attention, you'd make the mistake of assuming he was talking to no one in particular. But if you look closer, Crisanto is wearing an intercom in his ear, and on the other side, away from the Enkanto King's hideout, waiting at the other side of the finish line in Balete St., is Mino, the other founder of BCC.
"Looks like we need divine intervention."
Mino flies skyward—he only really needs his wings to do short-distance travels. And besides, a full transformation would mean that he's doing something high-stake, which he isn't. He only has to fetch a priest that had been waiting for him by a train station 30 minutes away from the venue. The rain is starting to subside now. Convenient. Not that it's any hindrance at all for him. The heat he emits is enough to turn any form of moisture that reaches as close as an arm's distance to him instantly into vapor.
"Didn't I tell you a bike is required? Why the hell are you commuting?"
"I didn't know where to get one," says the priest.
"The freaking dealership, Father. Jesus Christ—" Mino pauses, scanning the priest for a reaction.
"Different God," he assures him. "Don't worry."
"Interesting..." Mino replies. "Which God, then?"
"The Divine Order," the priest claims.
"Isn't Divine Order also a belief revolving around God?"
"The Order is the God," explains the priest. "Justice. Retribution. Balance. That is the God we worship in the Church, Mister..."
"Mino."
"Mr. Mino."
"Just Mino's fine, Father."
"Okay. Mino. Can you tell the difference?"
"I guess..."
Mino shrugs. Since the priest doesn't have his damn bike, he'd have to acquire one for him. He already informed someone somewhere out of frame about it, and later a silver motorbike shall greet the priest upon arrival. For now, he has to carry the priest by the torso predator-catching-prey style. The priest didn't protest much, although he did have quite the frightened look on his face. Mino wonders to himself what kind of God Divine Order is...and how does it determine what and who is deserving and undeserving. What kind of teachings does this Church have? What do they believe in exactly?
"I didn't quite catch your name, Father. What is it again?"
"You never asked."
"Oh."
"It's Father Thomas Domingo. You can call me Father Thomas."
"Right. I hope you're doing well down there, Father Thomas. It's just a few minutes away from here. We'd be there in no time."
He didn't have to remind Father Thomas. Regardless of his warning, it looks like the priest isn't having a good time being flown away like that. Still, it was the faster and more efficient way of travelling. When they got to the venue, nothing much has happened since Mino left. The four princes are still going at it. The silver bike is there, indeed. Mino could only pray to whatever kind of God Father Thomas believes in that the priest at least knows how to operate one.
"So, you know the game?"
Father Thomas nods.
"Zero kills."
Mino nods back in approval.
"That's right. Zero kills."
Father Thomas boards the silver bike. He presses the ignition. The engine roars awake. The fifth contender enters the arena. He has a few laps to make to catch up to where the action is currently taking place. Mino wonders to himself what kind of lunatic brings a priest, of all people, into a game like this, and what that lunatic thinks a priest can do to tip the scales back in favor of him. But he doesn't let himself wonder for too long. All he has to know is that Crisanto is behind the decision, and that's already telling enough.
A new figure appears in one of Crisanto's screens. A silver bike carrying the berobed priest to the center of the action. He catches up sooner than Crisanto had bet on, which means that the actual bets going on among the spectators are slowly shifting. They had no idea a fifth player would show up. A dark horse could mean the loss of everything, especially to those who have put everything on the line for Virgil to win. He can already imagine the way they'll curse at him and call the match rigged.
"They should have known..."
"That you're gonna fuck them up?"
Crisanto failed to realize he was talking out loud. He isn't expecting Mino to respond through the intercom. Regardless, he doesn't retract his statement. It's true.
Mino continues.
"You really think a priest can beat them?"
"It wasn't my idea. It was his."
"His? And you let him?"
"We've got nothing to lose and everything to gain, Mino."
"And what clan did he enter in the ranks?"
"Well, what else? His Church, of course."
"Why would he need to put his Church in the ranks?"
"Beats me."
The two watches on from different sides of the city, as one of the screens in Crisanto's control room shows Virgil lifting Keres up and throwing him at the other two players; the Palesekan landing squarely on Helmar's back, catching the Santelmo unaware, causing the both of them to fall on top of Xun. It's almost cartoonish how much Virgil enjoys tormenting the other players. What a bully, Crisanto thinks to himself. Big and stupid.
To the Enkanto King's left is a screen that shows the fast approaching priest. Soon he will have arrived to the crime scene. Crisanto isn't paying attention just yet. Father Thomas Domingo still hasn't proven himself worthy of it. The King doesn't expect a lot from a priest, but he just needs to throw Virgil off, whatever—or whoever it takes.
The wind is still damp against Father Thomas' face, making the last remnants of the rain felt. In the far distance, he can already see the giant acacia tree. Rounding that corner leads him to where Virgil menacingly towers over three limp bodies on the ground. Helmar is already picking himself up; Keres is like a useless sack of rice discarded on the floor; while Xun continues to struggle against the weight of the other players as well as his own.
Virgil hears the resonance of a motorbike engine a few meters away. Right on cue, as he turns to his left, a silver bike emerges. He got curious, but not alarmed. Maybe it's just a random motorist travelling at night. That happened sometimes. He expects the bike to ride past them, but when the rider comes to an abrupt stop in front of him, Virgil's demeanor shifts.
"Who are you?" he asks the newcomer.
When the rider doesn't answer, he presses on, straining to see past the tinted visor and into the rider's eyes.
He hates talking. He hates it even more that the person who just got off the silver bike simply stands there, wasting his damn time. If you must know anything about Virgil, it's that he doesn't do second warnings. Completely diverting his attention from the men he had been torturing, he turns to fully face the newcomer and sizes them up. Such unassuming, irrelevant person, whoever that is behind the helmet. Small in stature, made even smaller by the floor-length, long-sleeved black robe they wore. He could break them like a twig, Virgil thinks to himself. Besides, if the rider's just here to take the piss, he could just easily put them away.
Virgil takes a step closer. The rider doesn't move an inch. He takes another step, but the rider remains unyielding. Someone standing up to the challenge. Virgil is flattered. But he doesn't have time for this. He poses to take long, quick strides towards the person in the black robe, and in an instant, comes face to face with them. His hand reaches for the rider's neck.
"...igupo ang demonyo. Amen."
Virgil's eyes widen. He was a split second late to realize the person had been chanting something the whole time. The only thing his mind was able to register was that he heard a man's voice, and all he felt after that was a pain that burned like no other.