Being the center of attention isn’t always a good thing.

The loudest noise was the incessant pulsing of blood through his ears. No, it was more of a pounding, like huge drums of war, resonating the coming of danger. It was another moment before he realized it was his heartbeat…and he was sorely afraid.

Wendell blinked as the rain drizzled down his face.

The Trench Wars stadium wrapped around him, a monumental gnome creation, where fans stood in front of their seats, watching.

Two million…eerily quiet gnomes.

Wendell, Dax and a bloody, unconscious Alhannah stood atop the champion platform. Moments ago they’d won the greatest extreme sport in the country. A moment after that, the charms they were wearing, hiding their true identities, had failed. The cameras now burned their faces onto screens and into the minds of a billion more viewers at home. A human and an evolu that looked more like a vallen with a vertical growth problem.

“Psst!” Dax grunted nervously. With his shoulder in a sling, it was near impossible to hold up Alhannah. She was drooped over his hip, her hands now scraping the ground. “Wendell!” he grunted again, this time louder. He finally had to let the girl slip out of his grasp. Kneeling down with her, Dax prevented Alhannah from hitting her head. “Hang in there kiddo…” he said softer.

But Wendell wasn’t paying attention to his companions. Instead, the hero watched Dusty Beckworth and Pip Flocker, the Trench Wars announcers, sprinting across the arena floor towards the nearest exit. He had the funny feeling that he wasn’t going to retain the title of Grand Champion for much longer.

Wendell swallowed, gulping air with saliva, which could be heard several feet away. His eyes slowly lowered to locate the microphone at his feet.

What do I do? Say something. Yeah, I need to say something. Reassure the fans? They look…well, stunned. Are they scared? No one’s moving out there—they’re just staring at us. Is…that a good thing? The beat of his heart continued to pound through his head and chest. Why are they all so quiet?

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

“Port us out of here, Dax.”

The elf looked up, confused. “What?”

To the west of the platform, one of the pilot pit door opened and Centurions, clad in their mirrored helmet and black leather riot suits, marched out. Two lines with a dozen gnomes each. In their hands they carried long, blue rods that sparkled at the ends.

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

“I said get us out of here, Dax—port us! Hurry!”

The gigantic ears twitched as the sound of heavy boots stomping in unity, resonated through the stadium. Distant thunder, drifting towards the podium.

“Right,” Dax said, unsure, “get close kid, I don’t know how much strength I got.”

Wendell knelt down, curling his body as close to Alhannah as he could. Clenching his eyes tight, he waited for the loud crack that followed the elf’s teleportation magic.

“Ungh…”

Dax slumped over and collapsed, sliding off Wendell’s back. He hit the platform with a thud. For several moments the elf lay there, blood pumping fiercely from under his bandage across his forehead. The red liquid snuck out and trailed between his oversized brows, across his tiny nose and over his cheekbone onto the ground.

“Dax!”

“I’m alright,” he winced. “Just can’t port. It’s too much.”

“It’s ok, I’ve got you,” Wendell grunted, lifting the elf up and flinging him over a boney shoulder. Reaching down, he scooped Alhannah up in the other arm, cradling her smaller body like an infant to his chest.

Wendell ran.

Help me, he gasped silently, trying not to jar his friends. But he was desperate to put distance between his pursuers, taking four and five steps at a time. The warm tingle of the Ithari’s power coursed through his veins, lending him strength. The Centurions sprinted after him. There was no time to stop. I don’t know what I’m doing, Ithari—so, he almost felt stupid asking—help me get us out of here…

Was it silly to be talking to something that never really seemed to talk back? Wendell ran towards the west wall of the arena. He needed a way out. An exit. Any exit.

Someone in the stands, overhead, screamed.

It was a high pitch shriek, that carried across the bleachers. A sound of sheer and utter terror.

That was all it took. The stadium erupted into an sea of gnome panic.

Starting along the wall where Wendell was closest, fans jumped from their seats and fled. Scrambling up and over one another, gnomes clawed their way towards the nearest exits—stomping, crushing and knocking over anything and anyone in their path.

“He’s coming to get us!”

“They’ll eat us for certain!”

“Flee for your lives!”

“It’s another invasion!!”

“Well that’s more like it,” Dax chuckled between grunts, “For a second there, I thought these folks grew a backbone!”

“What’s wrong with them?” Wendell was already breathing hard. Trying to run with Dax was no easy task. For such a small frame, it felt like the elf weighed a ton!

“You kiddin’ me? They’re terrified of big folk. Most of ‘em, anyway. Doesn’t matter how many of them there are—you just gotta be double their size and most think you want ‘em for dinner! Strangest thing I’ve seen.”

Door! Wendell smiled and pushed himself forward. One of the pit doors had been left open. A microphone was lying near the opening. It was the door both Dusty and Pip had fled through.

Almost there! You can do this Wendell…push! Legs burned with exertion, even with Ithari’s help. Wendell was still tired from the Trench fight. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to run faster. Almost there, almost free. Wendell knew he’d have another set of problems on the other side of that door—but he’d deal with that once he had a wall between himself and twenty four armed midgets. It wouldn’t be much, but locking the pit door could buy him time.

Blood trickled down Wendell’s neck. The sensation made him flinch and he almost stumbled forward. Dax and Alhannah’s blood rolled down his chest and jumped from the surface of his mägoweave, but the elf’s own soaked outfit still rubbed against his neck. It was cold and sticky.

Almost there….no, no, no… “NO!” he cried aloud.

The pit door slammed shut.

“Was that?” Dax gulped.

“Yeah.”

Dax’s head went limp. “Fairy farts.”

Now they could both hear the grunting of Centurions marching up from behind. Soldiers fanned out, creating a semi-circle around Wendell and his companions, pinning them against the wall of the arena.

Gasping for air, Wendell gently set Alhannah’s tiny body down. He set Dax next to her. He then set himself between the Centurions and his friends.

Dax’s oversized eyes looked up weakly, “They ain’t gonna be nice to us, ya know.”

Wendell did his best not to be scared and what he knew came next. He produced a weak smile. “Yeah, I know.”

****

The hallways throbbed and pulsed with the pressure of bodies. The smell of fear was only trumped by the sweat of exertion as fans pushed their way towards the closest exits. Heads and shoulders scraped along cement walls, grinding towards escape, while shaving off layers of precious flesh. Höbin watched citizens ignore one another, oblivious to the pleads for help and the desperate cries for mercy. It was the mob. The no mind of the mass—just a wave of emotion that had to be satisfied.

The large and strong waded through the sea of gnomes, able to keep their noses above the waves, shoving back, while the weak and small were not so lucky.

The white halls of the Trench stadium soon turned red.

Höbin grit his teeth, ignoring the blood trickling down his own cheek. Adjusting the slider and magnification dial where his left ear used to be, he cursed himself for being so careless. The connection between his nerves and the cybernetic eye had been damaged. There was no time to worry about it now, so he flipped off the battery pack and kept running.

It became easier to avoid the mob as citizens fled in panic. He wanted to get into the stadium, not out.

The click-clack of his leather covered metallic foot rang out as he hobbled along, trying to find the closest staircase in time. His heart beat faster. Time. There was no time left. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the burning in his thighs and chest.

Coughing and wheezing, he fell against the balcony stairs which led to the center of the stadium. The center stage, known by pilot and fan alike as the ‘Trench.’ An ever-changing environment where S.L.A.G.s (Strong, Lithe, Armored, Giants) battled for the coveted title of Grand Champion. It was the hottest extreme sport in Clockworks City.

But everything had gone wrong.

He whimpered. It was three flights down.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he gasped, gripping the railing to keep from falling over. A group of Centurions were dragging bodies across the arena floor and through the pit doors. Höbin cursed under his breath. Without his mechanical eye, he couldn’t be sure who it was.

“Think, you crusty old…,” he started to say, but frustration turned to a smile.

The authorities wouldn’t want to expose the prisoners to an open public. Just sight of them had caused this panic in the first place. No. They would want this contained. Hidden from sight.

“Garage,” he grunted, running back along the hall.

His mind tried formulating a plan between the jarring vibration of his prosthetic leg hitting the floor and his old heart that tried desperately to keep up. “I’m too old for this crap,” he complained.

He needed a plan, but he was drawing a blank.

Gnomes were a naturally curious race, always looking to discover something new. It was a matter of habit, inherit in their very culture, but they were also intelligent. This posed some unique problems at the moment. Gnomes identify patterns quickly. He wouldn’t be able to talk them into letting Wendell, Dax and Alhannah go. Höbin was also an exile. Just being in Clockworks was a capital offense.

“I guess we go with shock and awe,” he said with a huff.

He slid up to the elevator and pushed the call button.

“Well, Chuck,” he huffed, pulling a ring from his vest pocket, “I hope this works.”

****

“Please,” Wendell pleaded again, each word spraying blood from the slits in his lips. “I…don’t mean harm…,” he swallowed, “to anyone. If you’d…just listen…”

“I said shut UP!” barked the guard. Using the end of his rifle, the Centurion cracked Wendell across the jaw again, this time knocking him out. The hero’s body slumped forward, chains keeping him from completely falling over.

“Can you believe this guy?” snorted the second guard. He poked Dax’s beaten, bloody and unconscious face with a gloved finger. “I didn’t know vallen came this small, did you?”

“Naw.”

“How in TGII do you think this thing got so far into the Island? I mean, look at it! Never seen something so ugly!!”

The first Centurion scoffed, “The island…are you serious? How stupid are you? They just won Trench Wars! These two and that,” he pointed to Alhannah’s body sprawled out on the ground, “traitor. Who knows how long they’ve been here.”

They both fell silent.

“You…think there’s more? Walking around, pretending to be…you know, like us?

“Us, us? Like gnomes, us? Or, Centurions us?” The question made him pause again. He scratched his helmet where a chin should be, “You ever wonder why every Centurion has mirrored headgear?”

“It’s so I can do my job and still have a normal life, you dolt. Couldn’t very well arrest my mother in law and have my wife find out it’s me, now can I?”

“Huh. Hadn’t thought about it that way, but good point.”

“The Captain’s always been a bit off, though. If you know what I mean?”

Marching up to the wagon in his black and red uniform, the commanding officer snapped, “Bentley! Cadson!”

Both Centurions in black leather spun around and quickly saluted. “SIR!” they shouted in unison.

Reading from a clipboard, “We’ve been given orders to control the general panic out front. Minimize casualties once the prisoners have been secured. We’ve been ordered to break out the gas to subdue the populace, but if you hurry, I’m allowing some of the men to taser a few, just for fun.”

“The aliens are in chains and ready for transport, sir,” said the first.

The officer held out his hand, “Give me the key.”

DING.

All three spun around to face the elevator, hands on their sidearms.

The sliding doors opened,…but no one was inside.

They relaxed.

Kicking Alhannah in the ribs, the officer grunted, “Secure this trash and lock the transport. We need every hand out front, so stay sharp and get this convoy ready.” He pointed aggressively at each of them, “Any sign of problems, you call for backup!”

“SIR-YES SIR!” they shouted again in unison. Both stood at attention until the officer was out of view.

“Put him on the list too,” snorted Bentley, “What a turd.”

“Stop worrying about aliens and help me throw this traitor in the back,” growled Cadson.

Bentley shrugged, “This is so disappointing, you know. I have all the Banshee collectibles from season two.”

“Oh shut up.”

A tin can hit the cement floor only feet from the back of the transport. It bounced and then slid to a stop…right between them.

“Oh cra….” muttered Cadson, his hands raising to press his helmet com-link.

Tiny darts penetrated their uniforms—followed by 50,000 volts. The hair-thin pop-wires crackled with electricity and both Centurions dropped to the ground. They flopped about like fish in a boat, helmets rattling across the cement.

“Sorry boys,” Höbin whispered, pulling the Shade ring from his hand. He kissed it and plopped it back into his pocket.

Kneeling beside his daughter, he examined Alhannah’s face. Blood was caked everywhere. There weren’t any serious cuts, though she had dozens of bruises across her cheeks and neck. Problem was, he couldn’t tell if it was from her illness, the Trench fight or abuse at the hands of the authorities.

He kissed her gently on the forehead, “I’ll be right back.”

Climbing into the back of the vehicle, the historian had to choke back his anger. Both Dax and Wendell were chained firmly to the reinforced steel walls, their faces swollen and broken. The elf was curled up on the floor. He’d flopped forward, his arms now behind him, chains taut. His only bandage, wrapped loosely around his head, showed gradient splotches of red, mixed with dirt. Both his eyes were swollen shut and both lips were split. Small fragments of bone protruded through the upper ridge of his nose. Höbin ran his finger across Dax’s cheek, lightly inspecting unusual bumps poking up from under the skin.

“Those…bastards,” he choked, gritting his teeth. Dax’s jaw had been broken in at least two places.

Worried, Höbin shifted over in front of Wendell. The smiley face on his shirt was frozen. He knew that meant the hero was unconscious. Carefully lifting Wendell’s face, he gasped so hard, he couldn’t breathe.

The Centurions had treated Dax kindly.

Pulling back the end of his artificial pinky finger, Höbin revealed his custom lock pick tool and quickly started working.

“Come on, blast you,” he cursed, but it was no use. He could hear the Centurions stirring. His pick was created and used for when Höbin traveled the world. To use against the silly and archaic creations of men, dwarves and elves—not against the advanced creative intellect of the gnomes.

Höbin tenderly pressed his forehead against Wendell’s shackles. “I’m so sorry, Wendell,” he choked.

“Höbin…”

The voice was faint. Just above a whisper, and almost carried away by the background noise of the mob out front. But the sensitive earbud in the historians head picked it up loud and clear.

“Höbin,” Dax wheezed again, his voice crackled and strained.

Kneeling over the elf and careful not to move or bump him, the gnome wasn’t sure what to say. Watching his friends labored breathing, muscles twitching, he wanted to say something positive. Something reassuring. He wanted to give his old friend hope.

“I…can’t get the shackles off,” he finally admitted, his voice cracking in a near panic. He swallowed dryly and tried to compose himself, but it didn’t work. He was out of ideas. “I have to get you both free of the vehicle to use the port key, but…” Snapping the tip back on his pick tools, he growled…as if they were the culprit responsible for his failure. “I can’t pick the locks!”

Broken fingers reached out and brushed against the gnomes knee.

“Go…”

Pulling the port key from his shirt, the gnome hesitated. “Dax, I…,”

Höbin knew the elf couldn’t see him, but eyes shifted under the puffy lids, trying to fix on the sound his his voice.

“Take her,” he breathed, “…and go.” Fingers reached. Searched.

Höbin placed his flesh hand within reach. He then leaned close to touch foreheads. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, then sniffed, “I’m so sorry.”

Dax squeezed his hand once, then let it slip to the floor.

Höbin slid from the back of the wagon, defeated. There was nothing he could do.

For a moment he stared at the two armored guards. Hands of a system that stole his life, ruined his family and tortured his closest friends. He wanted so badly to crush those hands, to wound them so they would never work again…but he knew better. They would seek revenge.

He looked back at Wendell and Dax.

It would make it worse for those he cared about.

Carrying Alhannah a safe distance from the vehicle, he knelt down on an open patch of cement. Holding her tenderly in his lap, he looked back. For long moments he stared, until he saw the Centurions stir. They had no idea who they had captured and placed in the back of that government vehicle. They had no clue about who they were about to hurt and violate.

He grit his teeth as fear burned into his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, this time letting his emotions run free. “So very sorry.”

Holding the port key in the palm of his hand, Höbin whispered the magical words and vanished.