As the figure glided slowly into the ATSD gymnasium, the dome ceiling began to close up. The figure was a young man dressing in a black and silver battlesuit that sparkled brilliantly even after the sun’s illumination was gone.
“Several of our academy’s teachers, students, and top engineers have called George a prodigy,” Principal Nelson said. “In terms of battles, he has the highest ranking of any student here. His training records, as well as his academic transcripts, are flawless.”
“Well whoopdie freakin' doo,” David said.
“The battlesuit he is wearing today is called the DeanMachine 3.0,” Nelson continued. “It's laced with an exoskeleton that increases his speed, strength and agility to fantastic levels. The exterior has been coated with a new kind of liquid titanium.”
“Great,” David said, looking at his arm cannon and shaking his head.
“We'd like to thank you both for coming,” Nelson finished. “This should be an excellent exhibition match.”
George Dean was the son of the city’s wealthiest man, Jonathan Dean, president and CEO of Dean Enterprises, the world leader in high-tech weaponry and transportation. And it was with the help of his father’s company that George’s battlesuit was made possible. Jonathan’s only son was given everything that he desired. He enjoyed life’s finer things – the biggest house in the city; summer trips to European castles and South American vacation homes; the city’s basketball team coming to his birthday party ever year.
George, however, was also a very rude young man, a cunning strategist who would endlessly boast his brilliance as he pummeled his opponents. The helmet on his battlesuit began to retract. George Dean had fine blond hair, the kind that only the best conditioners were worthy of. He was slim, had ocean blue eyes, and sharp, shining white teeth, as if all he had to do was smile to prove that he was better than you.
“Good afternoon,” George said. His voice was pure arrogance. Then he sighed. “Another one of Nelson’s prospective students, I presume?”
“My name is David,” he replied.
George focused his eyes on David’s arm cannon.
“You don’t actually intend to compete in that ridiculous looking object, do you?” George asked frankly as he pointed at the device. “What did you do? Wrap a pile of metal together and glue it around your arm with dog intestines or something?”
With a frustrated huff, George Dean pressed a button on his suit and spoke into a small, unseen microphone wired into the observation room.
“Nelson!?” George demanded. “Nelson, what is this? You really expect me to waste my time on this…this…whatever this is.”
“I expect you to represent this school in an honorable fashion,” Nelson said with a friendly voice. “These people are guest here. Show them some respect.”
“Very well, Nelson,” George pouted. “But you'll be hearing from my father.”
George shifted his attention back to David, giving him a crass, rather insincere smile.
“Listen, Donald –”
“It's David.”
“David, of course,” George said, his every word slithering from his throat. “Listen, why don't you just run along and go home. I don't want to be forced to fight you. You'll just embarrass yourself even more than you already have. So just go back to your Box. Or the sewer. Or wherever it is that you came from and care for your grandfather. My goodness, look at the man. He's so old and tired.”
David almost spat back a vile, profanity-laced response, but his grandfather’s hands gently fell on his shoulders just before he let it loose.
“Don’t worry about him,” Turner said. “I got faith in you, son. But I got mo’ faith in He that’s in you. No weapon form against you shall prosper. Not even his.”
“Alright,” Nelson said. “The rules are simple. You will battle until you are told to stop or until the other person’s device becomes non-functional. Ready…Set….Go!”