The Hotel Sierra was just a quick hop across the river and lateral from where I was now. I parked the car and crossed the scorching hot parking lot quickly. The cool shade of the interior was welcome, and I let the attendant at the desk know that my new car was in the lot, and not to have it towed.
There were signs up all over inside, and I took a look at one. uSoak.com LLC twelve-hour water warfare tournament. Hundred dollar buy in, prize of twenty thousand dollars.
I got the attendant’s attention and gestured at the sign. “What is this?”
“Adults playing with waterguns,” she said derisively.
“Huh?”
“You hear about those underground tournaments that Carver guy is running? Hosted by some company ‘Sig’ or ‘Sigh-ge” that makes those high tech super soakers?” (Reference)
“Can’t say as I have, no. That’s what’s going on here?”
“Nah. Some independent contractor for one of the lesser competing companies is trying to drum up business by doing something similar. If you want to check it out, they’re just on the other side of the building in the convention center. I gotta warn you though, it is DUMB. With a capital ‘dee,’ ‘you,’ ‘emm,’ and ‘dee.’”
“Thanks, I think I’ll pass.”
“Good idea.”
The elevator ride up to my floor was breathtaking as always. The atrium of the hotel featured a fountain surrounded by a miniature fake jungle. The rest of the floor was dotted with tables and chairs. Every floor was open to the atrium, giving it even more of a sense of space, and gigantic fake palm trees – or maybe they were real, I didn’t know – reached towards the skylight above, planted to grow up next to the railings.
I was looking forward to a chance to turn on the air conditioning, turn on the TV, and pass out. It had been a long drive, and I was way too hot.
We’d just gotten to Green Bay this morning, so my room was in pretty much the same state as when I’d arrived, except for the two duffel bags on the bed. I looked around the dimly lit room. It seemed…sterile. Unintended for occupancy. “Well. What do I do now?” I asked of no one in particular.
Of course, no one answered.
I dropped my satchel down on the bed and flopped down beside it, stared at the ceiling, tried not to be bored. Tried not to think. Four days of doing this. Ninety six hours. Five thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes. Chicago – despite its sadistic traffic – was sounding better and better. Here there was one mall and a stadium.
I got up, went into the bathroom and turned on the sink. I let the water cool for a minute then splashed some on my face, drank out of my cupped hands.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror, wished to be like it. Just existing, not thinking, just…there. The same shoulder length brown hair, the same brown eyes, square but soft face, ice-skater’s physique…but hollow instead. Some people have said I’m beautiful. Some, that I look childlike. I sure didn’t feel beautiful or childlike these days.
“So that others may live,” Brett growled at me. “When the hell did you forget that? And why?”
“I just can’t, OK?”
Time to get out of here.
I thought about changing clothes, but the boots, black jeans, long sleeved white T, and black vest looked halfway descent and would offer some protection against the cooling that was sure to follow as the sun started its descent. It’d only be overheating for the next four hours or so. I grabbed the satchel off the bed, slung it, and headed out.
I wanted to walk somewhere, not drive. Driving would mean being alone. So I walked around the level and took the stairs down the side opposite the parking lot. I wanted to find a restaurant, and there was one on the ground level, but it didn’t serve much beyond alcohol and appetizers and I didn’t want to get kicked out for trying to pass off a fake ID. This was the downtown, there had to be a place to eat somewhere.
People were standing in crowds around the entrance to the KI building, and I ducked between the conversing knots. I remembered what the event was as soon as I saw the tables and tables of water guns laid out in the glass atrium hallways that surrounded, presumably, the main convention area.
I hadn’t played with these since I was a kid. Well, that wasn’t entirely correct. Back when I’d had a boyfriend, I’d vacationed with his family at a lake, and we’d chased each other around with them then. That had been…a year ago?
It still seemed weird that they all had to be powder blue. His family had had some old ones that looked more aggressive, a little more marketable. Perhaps it had something to do with Congress…I vaguely remembered a few fuzzy details.
I let my hand trail along the tables as I wandered through the crowd, heading for the door.
One hundred and seventy five thousand people in this city. A pro sports team, and dozens of minor sports leagues. One major theater, and hundreds of clubs and small performance arts centers. Four movie theaters. Two malls. Probably over a thousand restaurants.
And I had no idea what I was going to do for the next four days.
My hand was on the white plastic locking bar of the glass convention center door, when I said “screw it” and turned around.
I was better than this, but it’d kill time. I’ve held a watergun before, and I was willing to bet the majority of the people here hadn’t spent nearly every weekend of their childhood shooting out in the desert with their brother and former-soldier father. Who knew? Maybe I had some sort of advantage over these people. Dad always said I was the best he’d seen.
A guy in a tux standing next to a table with a cash register took Dad’s plastic, and I skimmed the fine print on sign-up form, and gave both my signature and cell phone number. I wasn’t quite sure why they wanted to take a mug shot as well, but I stood in front of the green board until the flash clicked.
He handed me a folder. “They’ve already started,” he said stiffly pointed to a door down the other hall.
I ran, ducked through the door as quietly as I could, and took an empty folding chair in a rather drab room, just missing the presenter saying his name. He was dressed casually in jeans, Jordans, and an untucked linen shirt. An eye-catchingly bright red cap covered black hair, and I had a feeling that if he took off those sunglasses, you’d see him keeping an eye on everyone in the room. Individually. And simultaneously.
The room was nearly full. Easily a few hundred people, maybe close to a thousand.
“Welcome to the second uSoak.com LLC soaker water warfare tournament. Before I get started, I should tell you a little bit about the history of the contest. While we’re not technically affiliated with any company, though we do have close ties with the leading manufacturer in the industry. Some time ago, one of their competitors – and you know who I’m talking about – decided to start running contests similar to the old SoakerTag tournaments. Their main audience was college students and adults, and their targeted their advertisements and behavior accordingly. Very quickly, in my opinion, things got out of hand. The games became way to militaristic and not focused on good clean fun. The way the prize money was handled was an open – and expected – invitation to tax evasion. The man running the program was obsessed with indoctrinating an army, whether they wanted it or not.”
He paused to take a breath, and then continued. “Fortunately, that’s not the case here. Though we do expect that everyone taking part in this tournament is an adult, we want to return this game to its traditional roots. The water blasters you’ll be using are traditionally styled; with all the same power and limitations that made the waterfights you had growing up such an enjoyable challenge. We expect you to behave appropriately for the game, like honorable grown up adults, not oversized adolescents. The prize is strictly above board: Twenty thousand dollars, presented in check to the winner at the end of the game. And at no point are we going to be preaching politics to you.”
I liked this guy. He was a straight shooter, said it like he meant it. He was probably angering his competitors, but that didn’t seem to bother him.
“The rules are simple. Obey the honor system. If someone lands a solid hit on you, stop fighting and call the One Hit Kill number indicated in your folder. If you land a solid hit on someone and they don’t stop, please call our mediation service. Their card is in the folder you were given when you signed up. Use only clean, clear water. We’ve set up multiple filling stations in each of the areas we expect you’ll be fighting. Please use them, that’s what they’re for. Obviously, obey the laws. Don’t physically assault your fellow contestants, and don’t break traffic regulations. And finally, do you remember that opposing company I was talking about? Their products are not allowed in this fight. If you see anyone using a water gun that’s bright yellow, please call the mediation service. It’s an unfair advantage in this game, and the militarization of the contest is not welcome.”
That was harsh. It was his gig, but it was still harsh.
“Other than those few rules, this contest is relatively unstructured. You may use any traditional method of dispensing water that you choose. Old Super Soakers. New Super Soakers, though you’ll find those don’t really have the capabilities that you’ll need. Storm guns, Water Warriors, X-Streams, there are even some of the old Wild Water Weapons blasters out on the tables. Squirt bottles and buckets are acceptable, though probably not a good choice. You can “run what ya brung,” so long as it’s traditional.
“At five, you’ll be given an assignment that should take about an hour to complete. Upon completing that assignment, you’ll find a telephone number. Call it and receive your next assignment. There’s no direct penalty for not completing an assignment on time, but it will set you back.
“Now for the fun stuff. This game runs twelve hours. That means that at or around five tomorrow morning I will hand one of you a check for twenty thousand dollars. uSoak.com LLC’s credit is good, you can deposit it or cash it immediately. Are you that person? Are you and I going to be shaking hands half a day from now? Are you going to be twenty thousand dollars richer?
“I’m done unless anyone has any questions for me. Remember, have fun and soak on!”
I didn’t have any questions so I rose and quietly slipped out the door I’d come in. If I wanted to compete, I’d have to drop some money. Right then and there, I decided Dad wasn’t footing the bill for this little venture.
The tables racked with water guns in the hallways were actually vendor tables where contestants could buy arms for the coming fight. Flipping open my cell, I saw that the hour was approaching. I’d have to buy quickly.
The nearest set of tables all belonged to Mr. Cortez, according to the signs, and he had the bright blue soakers all laid out with laminated statistic cards. Each one bore the fine print “Reproduced with permission from iSoaker.com.”
Huh. It briefly crossed my mind that name sounded awfully similar to uSoak. Same company, maybe?
I didn’t even bother looking at the statistic cards. I simply told Cortez “New. Medium size, best range. I don’t like get close to people. A pistol that’s the same.” He thought for a minute and grabbed an angularly styled pistol off a nearby table. “Super Soaker Triple Shot. Set it to the large nozzle and you’ll get twenty, twenty-five feet horizontal. Not a lot of shots, but it should get you out of a tight space.”
I picked it up and pointed it at the door. Already people were filing out of the convention room, filling the halls. Didn’t these things ever have usable sights?
“Here you go,” Cortez said. “Just what you ordered.” He laid down another soaker on the table. It looked like a big, big rifle-sized pistol. Water Warriors Pulse Master. Keep it set on the two highest settings. Twenty-seven and thirty feet respectively. Pump often, it’s got a small pressure chamber.”
I put the pistol down on the table and picked up the Pulse Master. How was I going to use this? It had no stock. Aiming would be a joke. Maybe like a cruiser-style shotgun?”
Mr. Cortez must’ve noticed my confusion over how to hold it. “In case you’re wondering, most traditional water guns are like the submachine guns the cops use: Relatively inaccurate at all but close range. You don’t aim these things; you point them. You’ll probably hit what you’re pointing at.”
“Best I’m gonna do?”
“New to newer? Yeah. I can sell you vintage models that do a little better, but those cost an arm and a leg. Like a hundred to two hundred dollars.”
“For a water gun?” I couldn’t believe that.
“People take this sport really seriously some times.”
I had cash in my wallet so I gave him the sixty bucks he wanted for the two guns, and he broke a twenty into ones for me. Felt a little steep for a couple of plastic blasters, but then again, that’s what you get for buying at the door. I slung the Pulse gun, shoved the pistol into my satchel, and bought fifteen bottles of water and five candy bars at vending machines on my way back to my Mazda.
The front desk attendant looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I shrugged. “I was bored, OK?”
It was still burning hot out, and the sun was still high in the sky. I figured there were probably four, four and a half hours of daylight left. Most of the fight would be at night. That was weird.
The interior of the RX-7 was stifling. Absolutely no air movement, and every surface was painful to touch. I rolled down the windows, and was very glad the long-sleeved shirt kept my skin off the leather seats.
One by one I opened the bottles and filled each of the water guns. I felt like an idiot. But also…kind of excited. I had a goal now. I had something to occupy my time. I had a reason, finally, such as it was.
The phone rang.
