Groom Wars

2. Truth Exchange

June 2090,

The participants for 'Groom Wars' would be announced soon; I doubted that I would be selected. My sisters had spent all their time grooming the wrong horse. In the past, among my male classmates, my athletic performance had been slightly above average at best. Dismal at worst. The only reason the show's organizers might select someone like me would be for the comedic value. I was neither breathtakingly handsome nor a great warrior, but I could tell a good joke every now and then.

I would provide an example of my excellent humour, but I'm a busy man.

Forrester and I had decided to take a bus to our private lesson. It stopped for a red light, and somewhat hidden from view by its translucent blue windows, I watched the royal guards, primarily called 'hugons', patrol the street. They wore black uniforms. Black chevron stripes decorated the gold badges on their shoulders. As they were outside of the castle, they wore swords, not guns. Some watched the bus as it went past. Others studied the citizens going about their daily routines.

Only guards at the royal castle had permission to wield guns. The weapons used to be quite widespread, but after a failed assassination on King Victor in 2080 by some anonymous rebel group, all guns were confiscated. Only the king and his loyal supporters could use them. The truth was the majority of the population weren't angry about the attack but disappointed the assassins had failed.

Our king was an old man, almost a century old. He would die soon, but there was little hope the future king, Prince Deidrick, who had been raised under King Victor's love and guidance, would be any better. People were waiting for a successful revolution, but no one knew when it would occur. And most were too afraid of the repercussions to get involved.

To replace guns, young men adopted other hobbies such as sword fighting and wrestling or boxing. I preferred the sword.

I held onto the metal post as the bus navigated a narrow, uneven street. Vibrations travelled through my feet.

Forrester sat in the seat closest to me, holding both of our duffel bags. He watched everyone with suspicion as if they were all ex-murderers. I would have taken a car. But my sisters were using two, and my father used the other for work. That left the bus. We got off on Gladden street and walked a short distance to the martial-arts-studio. It was late evening; a soft orange light shrouded the buildings, and the sun was hidden behind the many apartments that surrounded us. We would likely have its light for an hour or two more.

Inside the studio, a sinewy instructor that smelled of sweat and rubber greeted us. Melvin Grant had black hair and a curtain-like beard that decorated his chin and part of his neck. He dipped his head in brief acknowledgement then disappeared into his office. The floor was made of soft mats that our feet padded as we walked over to a bench.

Melvin gathered the wooden swords ready for practice while Forrester and I changed. Forrester was calm when it was just me. His hesitation faded, and the jitters left his body. I had known him for seven years, but I had never met his family, and he never offered anything about himself. Sometimes, it frustrated me. Sometimes I felt like I didn't know him at all. We would fight, scream, and yell only to make up a few days later. We could never hate each other for long; we were all we had.

He watched me take off my shirt; his eyes lingered for a second on the faded scars on my chests. Faint reminders of the breasts I had left the country for a few weeks to remove when I was sixteen. When we had changed into some athletic wear, we went through some basic warm-ups, then practiced our jabs, swings and slashes under the strict guidance of the inspector. He corrected our stances and shouted out combos. We did our best to follow his orders.

"Step to the right. Slash."

"Pivot. Plant that foot firmly on the floor when you lean forward, Adriel. Good. Jab."