There was complete and total silence in George Dean’s bedroom at the Dean Family Mansion, located in the suburban area of Union Cross called Green County.
George Dean sat in deep contemplation with his elbow resting on the marble desk in his room, letting his cheeks sag in between his fingers. His room wasn’t like the typical room of a fourteen-year old boy, with toys and video games. He was all business. The walls and floors were made of rich brown wood. He had pictures of his many excursions around the world mounted everywhere.
At his desk was a highly-advanced computer with a holographic screen that was programmed to respond only to his voice. Across from his king-sized bed was a 79-inch flat-screen TV buried into the wall. In his dresser drawers were silk pajamas and a small compartment with imported colognes. But George wasn’t thinking about any of that. As he caressed the red scar running down the side of his face, the only thing on his mind was the exhibition match he had won against David Johnson, a victory that he could neither relish nor celebrate. Because had it not been for a strange stroke of fate, he would have been utterly defeated.
He sat there as his desk remembering the match, remembering David Johnson like a horrible dream. David’s movements were the fastest, most fluid of any combatant George had ever dealt with. The attacks came and went like scattered showers of precision and accuracy. It didn’t matter what he did or how advanced his weaponry was. It didn’t matter that he had been through the finest combat training programs money could buy. George Dean couldn’t keep up with him.
He remembered it all, remembered lying on the ground, remembered David Johnson standing over him with that arm cannon made from garbage. He remembered the absolutely horrified expressions on the faces of the ATSD board members, like they had just seen the world end three times. He remembered Principal Nelson’s insipid looking smile.
And he remembered the final seconds of the match, remembered click-click in David’s arm cannon and why it wouldn’t fire its final shot, the one that would have render his severely damaged battlesuit incapable of continuing the match. The cannon had been powered by gasoline. And it had run out just in time. Since David couldn’t continue, George had won the match.
Some victory, George thought.