Sunbeams, daring and dramatic, filtered down through the forest canopy. They spotlighted the makeshift ping-pong table as if it were the sacred ground of some legendary, world-class tournament. On either side, Roy Gunn and Greg Smith faced off, paddles gripped with an intensity usually reserved for life-or-death spell duels. Around them, a strange fellowship of onlookers, Brask's cynical Rebellion and Roy's own ragtag band of powerhouse allies, formed a loose, expectant ring. Their expressions flickered between raw curiosity and barely contained, incredulous amusement. Kaelor, looking like a confused giant in his human disguise, bounced on the balls of his feet, already radiating an inappropriate level of competitive energy.
Lincoln, Super Elite Presidroid and now, apparently, part-time sports commentator, cleared its throat with a burst of static that somehow conveyed theatrical pomp. "CHALLENGE… COMMENCES!" it announced, its voice modulator cracking hilariously like a carnival barker whose voice had just dropped. "IN THIS CORNER, THE CHALLENGER, THE THUNDER RIDER HIMSELF, CAPTAIN ROY GUNN! AND IN THAT CORNER, THE REIGNING PING-PONG TYRANT, THE UNFLAPPABLE, THE METICULOUS, GREG 'GRANDFATHER'S LEGACY' SMITH! LET THE PADDLE WAR… BEGIN!"
A smattering of confused applause and a single, enthusiastic "WOOO!" from Warrex broke the silence.
Roy bounced the small, white ball once, twice. His gaze, usually a whirlwind of anxiety, was now fixed on Greg's paddle with a laser focus. Okay, Roy, you got this. He's good, ridiculously good, but this isn't some cosmic horror. It's just ping-pong. Annoying, smug, probably-going-to-beat-me-senseless ping-pong. He tossed the ball into the air. The bounce off his serve wasn't just a bounce; it was a statement. A statement of intent. He attempted a wicked topspin, something he'd mentally dubbed the "Cyclone Serve!" The ball darted towards Greg's left side, a white blur of hope and desperation.
Greg's eyes, magnified slightly by his stylish square-framed glasses, flickered with the cold, analytical precision of a supercomputer. He didn't move until the last possible nanosecond. Then, THWIP! His paddle, a blur of motion, swiped low in a swift underhand. A perfect counter. Roy could almost see the invisible, treacherous spin clinging to the ball like a malevolent spirit. He mentally tagged it: "The Smug Underhand of Doom."
The ball zipped back over the net, practically hugging the table with a speed that defied its innocent appearance. Roy sprang sideways, a yelp caught in his throat, paddle extended in a desperate prayer. He barely, barely tapped it back. The onlookers let out a collective, drawn-out "Oooooooh!" like a bewildered choir.
Takara, unable to contain herself, snickered loud enough for the forest squirrels to hear. "He's totally acting like this is the finals of some super intense sports anime," she whispered, nudging Lutrian, who nodded in silent, dignified agreement, though a ghost of a smile played on his lips. Kaelor, however, was already on his feet. "WHAT WAS THAT, GUNN?! ARE YOU TRYING TO LULL HIM INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY?! BRILLIANT!"
On the next serve, Greg stepped into it with an almost contemptuous flair. His body coiled, then unwound like a perfectly calibrated spring. He announced, his voice devoid of emotion but his eyes glinting, "Phantom Edge Serve!" The ball rocketed off his paddle, whirling at an angle so improbable it seemed to defy the very laws of geometry. Roy lurched, paddle flailing like a drowning man's arm. The ball clipped the absolute corner of his side of the table, a cruel kiss of plastic on wood, before bouncing off into the dirt. One point to Greg. A single, almost mocking, puff of dust rose where it landed.
A hush, heavy and profound, fell over the clearing. It was broken only by the sound of Lincoln quietly, methodically, clapping its metal hands. Then Teddy joined in, its optical sensors glowing with something Roy could only interpret as "manly fighting spirit." Roy shook his head, trying not to let the absurdly serious fanfare from his robotic cheerleaders distract him. Focus, Gunn. Focus. Or he'll eat you alive.
He took a breath, a long, centering inhale. He tossed the ball, and this time, he poured every ounce of his frustration, his determination, his sheer, unadulterated desire to not look like a complete idiot into the serve. It was a wild, desperate topspin, a prayer launched into the unforgiving arena. He called it, in the private theater of his mind, "The Please-God-Let-This-Work Spin!"
Greg, unperturbed, answered with a short, dismissive flick of his wrist. A shot Roy recognized. Deceptively simple. Lethal. "The Polite Execution." Roy lunged, his sneakers skidding on the forest floor, returning it in a soft, almost apologetic lob. Too high! You idiot, it's too high!
Greg grinned. A predator's grin. Exactly what he wanted. He leaped, his impeccably tailored suit somehow not hindering his movement. He seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, paddle raised overhead like the very gavel of judgment. The world went into slow motion. Leaves drifted lazily. A single bead of sweat traced a dramatic path down Roy's temple.
Then, with a roar that was probably only in Roy's head but felt deafeningly real, Greg bellowed, "INFINITY DRIVE: GRAND METEOR BREAKER SMASH!"
His paddle connected with the ball. The sound wasn't a thwip; it was a CRACK, like a miniature thunderclap. The ball, now a screaming white comet, blazed across the net with enough force to send a flutter of leaves cascading from a nearby, entirely innocent branch. Roy's eyes bulged. His muscles screamed. He flung himself sideways, a desperate, sprawling dive. His paddle, an extension of his very will, connected. A miraculous return, scraped off the absolute edge of the rubber. The ball, now imbued with the "Miracle of the Underdog's Desperation," skimmed the net, defying gravity, kissing the white tape, and nearly colliding with it.
The clearing erupted. Cheers, jeers, gasps, and Kaelor bellowing, "BY THE BARNACLED BEARD OF THE DEEP ONES! HE RETURNED THE UNRETURNABLE! WHAT SORCERY IS THIS?!" even Brask allowed a flicker of something that might have been surprise to cross his usually impassive face.
Eryndra elbowed Warrex, not so lightly. "Did you see that? Is this… is this what Roy calls 'over the top'?" Warrex, ever the stoic, gave a soft snort, but even he had a half-grin etched on his battered face.
Greg's lips twisted in an appreciative, if still slightly condescending, smirk. "Impressive, Roy. Very… spirited." He launched another serve, "The Silent Assassin Slice," aiming for Roy's backhand corner. Roy pivoted, his mind racing. He's testing me, trying to find a weakness. He returned with an unexpected cross-court slice of his own, "The Counter-Intuitive Cut!" The ball whizzed mere millimeters from the net, spinning so sharply that Greg, for the first time, had to genuinely dart to the side, his perfect composure momentarily ruffled.
SMACK! Greg returned it high. Dangerously high. My chance! Roy's mind screamed. He slammed his paddle forward in a backhand smash, pouring all his pent-up energy into the shot. "REVENGE OF THE ANXIOUS AVENGER!" he roared. The ball soared across the net like a vengeful meteor. The onlookers watched in breathless, suspended silence as the ball nailed the far corner, a perfect, unreturnable shot, bouncing decisively out of Greg's reach. Roy scored his first point.
The clearing erupted into an odd, discordant symphony of applause. From Roy's datapad, tuned to the brig feed, Skelly Mom's delighted shriek tore through the audio, a sound of pure, unadulterated chaos. "YES! YES! CRUSH HIM, MY SWEET, PADDLE-WIELDING BOY!" Father Skeleton, not to be outdone, whooped with such enthusiasm that his bones rattled audibly. "SUCH FLAIR! SUCH POWER! MORE! I DEMAND MORE FLAMBOYANT DISPLAYS OF PING-PONG DOMINANCE!" Even some of the Rebellion members on Brask's side gave grudging, almost imperceptible nods of acknowledgment.
"Alright," Roy muttered, a shaky, triumphant grin spreading across his face. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The single point felt like conquering a small nation. "Time to actually pick up the pace."
They traded rallies, each exchange more ludicrous, more reality-bending than the last. Spins that seemed to warp the very fabric of space-time. Arcs so improbable they defied known laws of physics and good taste.
The ball ricocheted off table corners with impossible angles, kissed net edges with taunting slowness, and occasionally bounced off the side of a bewildered Presidroid's metal foot, eliciting a polite, "Apologies, Captain, my trajectory was suboptimal."
Twice the pair had to pause the divine clash because the ball, in its enthusiasm, flew so far astray that Teddy Roosevelt, muttering about "bully for the ball," had to retrieve it from a dense cluster of bushes, emerging with leaves in his mustache.
Greg, however, was a machine. He eventually seized control of the match with a succession of ruthless, soul-crushing serves. "The Thousand Cuts Serve," "The Whispering Death Spin," "The Inevitable Point-Stealer." Each time Roy, with sweat stinging his eyes and muscles burning, thought he'd figured out the spin, Greg changed it up, zigzagging the ball with surgical precision, or slicing it so aggressively that Roy's return wobbled like a drunken sailor. Roy flailed, paddle a desperate blur, managing only to keep the margin tight. He was still trailing, but he was making Greg work for it.
Washington, his faceplate impassive but his internal processors probably running complex probability analyses, nudged Teddy. "Statistical probability of Captain Gunn achieving victory: 3.7 percent, decreasing with each of Greg's successful serves. It's almost as if Greg is… toying with him at this point," he observed quietly.
Teddy gave a grim, metallic nod, crossing his massive arms. "The Captain is giving it his all, nonetheless. If this were a sanctioned Tram Federation Championship match, the sheer display of fighting spirit would be a crowd-pleaser. He embodies the spirit of the Rough Rider, in his own… ping-pong-y way."
A particularly sharp serve from Greg, what could only be the "Needlepoint Precision Flick," grazed the table's absolute edge. Roy lunged, paddle outstretched, a silent scream locked in his chest. The ball, taunting him, barely glanced off the rubber, shooting into the brush with a mocking thwip. Greg straightened, exhaling in quiet satisfaction, not a single hair out of place on his perfectly styled head. Another point.
Now, nearing the final round, Roy found himself at a two-point deficit. Match point for Greg. The air grew thick, the forest silent save for the chirping of an oblivious bird. Roy tossed the ball in the air for his serve, his arm heavy, tension a coiling serpent in his gut. He spun it with a last, desperate surge of determination. "THE LAST STAND SUPER SPIN!"
Greg, calm as a frozen lake, deftly returned the serve with a shot that looked deceptively simple: "The Polite Annihilator." The ball bounced high and fast on Roy's side. Roy's paddle met it, a desperate block, sending it back with a powerful spin that rocked the net's top. Everyone held their breath. The ball seemed to hang there, suspended on the white tape for an impossible, heart-stopping microsecond. Time stretched, taffy-like. Would it fall on Roy's side? Or Greg's?
It tumbled. Onto Greg's side. The crowd gasped.
Only for Greg, with a speed that was frankly insulting, to launch one final, devastating smash down the right side. "EMPEROR'S FINAL JUDGMENT!" he didn't shout, but his eyes certainly did. Roy hurtled across the table's length, a human blur, paddle meeting the ball with a valiant, desperate thwack. It soared back to Greg's side, a beacon of hope in the dimly lit forest clearing…
Just. Barely. Missing the corner. Out of bounds. Match point. Game.
Roy sank to his knees, chest heaving, catching his breath. Defeated. Again. Greg, the picture of composed victory, gave a small, courteous bow, setting his paddle down on the table with a soft click. "That's game," he said simply, a polite, almost gentle smile on his lips. "A fine effort."
A smattering of applause, hesitant at first, then growing a little more robust, rose from the onlookers. Some genuine, some halfhearted, some probably just glad for the entertainment. Roy shook his head, a grin, weary but genuine, spreading across his face despite his frustration. He'd come so close. Within inches of a comeback.
Greg's ring, the one nullifying his stat boosts, glimmered faintly in the dappled sunlight. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he removed it and placed it back into a small, ornate pouch he carried.
He glanced at Roy, a spark of something that might have been grudging respect in his green eyes. "You've improved, Roy," he said, his voice even. "Significantly. But still not quite enough to take me down in the sacred arena of ping-pong."
Roy huffed a small laugh, pushing himself to his feet. His face was flushed from exertion, and from the lingering embarrassment of losing yet another high-stakes, at least in his mind, match to Greg Smith. "Guess I'll just have to keep practicing," he managed, trying to sound nonchalant. "Maybe for the next century or two."
Lutrian, ever the diplomat, made his way over, carefully patting Roy's shoulder. His eyes darted from Greg, who was now calmly sipping water, to Roy, then back again. "That was…" he paused, searching for the most polite, least condescending word, "remarkably… energetic. A good match, indeed. You almost had him sweating. I think. Maybe. It was weird to be honest..."
From the brig feed crackling on Roy's datapad, a fresh wave of unhinged cheering erupted. Skelly Mom's shriek tore through the audio, a chaotic babble about "the passion in his paddle-work" and "such nimble footwork for a boy so clearly burdened by existential dread and weak muscles!"
Father Skeleton demanded more flamboyant displays, rattling his bones with such delight that Riven could be heard in the background silently weeping.
Brask lingered to one side, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. Though no one caught him smiling outright, there was a discernible glimmer of something akin to amusement in his eyes as he watched Roy dust himself off and accept a towel from a hovering Presidroid.
Teddy, Lincoln, and the other Super Elites gave Roy a synchronized, respectful nod. "Captain…" Teddy murmured, its voice modulator imbued with a surprising amount of gravitas, "Your efforts were… admirable. You fought with the heart of a slightly asthmatic lion."
Roy let out a sigh that was half exhaustion, half exasperation, pushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. "Thanks, Teddy. High praise. At least it was… considerably less bloody than the last few fights we've had."
He exchanged a final glance with Greg, who, with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, turned and strolled back toward Brask's assembled group. The battered clearing seemed to slump in collective relief. No more savage beatdowns or gory knockouts for the moment. Just the faint, lingering echo of ping-pong serves dissipating into the forest air.
As the Presidroids began packing up the table with their usual unsettling efficiency, Roy caught himself half-laughing, completely drained.
Even in defeat, Roy felt a twinge of pride. He'd given his absolute best, pushed himself to his limits. And for a glorious, sweat-drenched half hour, the world had shrunk to nothing more than a bouncing plastic ball, the satisfying thwack of paddle on sphere, and the pure, unadulterated thrill of a desperately close match. Nothing more, nothing less.
Now, though, the ping-pong match was done, and the heavy cloak of impending confrontation settled back over the clearing. Roy wiped the remaining sweat from his brow, his gaze drifting to the spot in the clearing where Warrex and Belaris had fought their brutal war of attrition, then to the scorched patch of earth where Rozhen had collapsed under the Presidroids' cold, calculated wrath.
There were still two duels unaccounted for: the unsettling Korrvein versus the powerhouse Eryndra, and the main event, Brask, the self-proclaimed Otherworld King, versus the newly freed and enigmatic Zehrina. The tension, briefly dispelled by the ludicrous spectacle of their game, coiled again in the pit of his stomach, ready to spring.
Roy shut his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the cool forest breeze wash over his face, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and steel himself for what was to come.
The mental scoreboard in his head, however, was painfully clear:
Team Roy: 1 (Presidroids def. Rozhen)
Team Brask: 2 (Morileth def. Lutrian, Greg Smith def. Roy Gunn)
The next matches were critical.