Across the wall, Zachariah is in his Sunday best for the pre-game interviews, and he looks up at the heroes of his sport, a parade of proud names. He'd remembered seeing Xell 'Thunder' Doffins beautiful '78 Performance, a rare bird, minimal clinical assistance. He remembered his pre-game interview, the brash confidence combined with a steely determination, and as a child in front of his holoscreen, he thought:

"He will win"

And win he did, and his victory would be remembered in the hearts of millions, it had assuredly inspired one little boy, at the foot of his holoscreen.

A shiny claw rested on Zachariah's shoulder, and patted him. "You're going right there kid," he kindly intoned, pointing to an empty frame at the end of the procession. Zachariah looked into his Coach's dot black eyes. "We're going there," he smiled.

Past the lockers, a huge cheer sounded out, dulled by the concrete and the distance.

"Tough competition this year, huh."

"Eh, I wouldn't worry about it, scrawny guy, they always go crazy for the scrawny guys."

The clock ticked over.

"You ready?"

"Yeah, I think I am." "Jik, I just need you to know, no matter what happens out there, I'd never have gotten here without you, and I don't want to get ahead of ourselves, but I put in a request, if we do win."

Jik's eyes were very poor at communicating anything approximating a raised eyebrow, but sometimes, these things were intuitive. With Jik and Zachariah, they could've read each other through a lead-lined coffin.

"I want you in my Portrait."

Jik wasn't a creature who was amazing at talking, and neither, in truth, was Zachariah. It was part of what helped them work together. Jik embraced him in a brief hug, and held back a small tear of gratitude.

"Now you're gonna get your ass out on that field before I tear up, you hear me?" he said.

Zachariah, as so often, did as his Coach demanded of him. With pride, he walked out of the dugout.

Another wave of cheers erupted from the crowd. Zachariah looked out; a fellow competitor had nominated for the hammer throw as part of their play. He always appreciated it, it was a bit long in the tooth, but he always thought it still had style. It was Jackipoff on the field, good guy, he had a head that stood out, even halfway across the Masterdome.

He donned the sunglasses that had quickly become something of a calling card, and climbed up the Deus. He lit a cigarette. "Sup."

A flurry of pictures, dulled by the glasses. He loved this part; it wasn't him, but it was something greater. The real heads had read interviews previously and knew this was a costume.

But god-damn, what a costume, the press loved it.

"Yeah, you, front row, it's your lucky day."

"Thank you Sir, you've mentioned that your play's to be made with no clinical assistance at all? Now we're closer to game day, how do you feel about that?"

He took a drag. "'Bout the same as I felt when I knew I was gonna do it, it's the Masterdome, you don't get here if you quit."

More pictures, "you," he said, pointing out to a random face in the crowd.

"How're you responding to criticisms of the sport? You're well pegged in projection, and you've made your intentions very clear about your opposition to more rigorous safety changes, do you worry about your legacy if these changes take place?"

He threw the cigarette down, and stamped on it. "Same way I've always responded." He made an obscene gesture. "But seriously, you can't kill the sport. They'll try, but they're never going to actually do it. People take risks, they want to be champions, they don't want to spend their entire life wrapped up in cotton wool and go bowling with the bumpers on. I heard some histrionic asshole calling it 'an affront to life,' and I'd like to respond to that: whoever you were, why don't you try fuckin' livin' a little before writing something that stupid."

More pictures, he'd made a rule, three questions, gave gravitas and consideration to the whole thing. There was exactly one guy who'd taken long at the Deus who went on to be Champion, Dre-Tarvan. He'd watched the whole thing in '92. Followed him with a lot of interest, Zachariah always liked his demeanour, felt like the kind of guy who'd have a statue and presidential palace.

"Alright, one more, you."

"What does your mother think?" the sentence was wielded like a knife.

Zachariah held the persona in high regard. Zack wouldn't be rattled by it, Zachariah absolutely was.

She'd been dead for 12 years now. She'd always supported him, bought him the Almanacs, the gear, little toy guns to practice his shooting, and hand electrifiers for endurance training. He diffused it with a joke: ‘There’s always one, huh folks?’ The press chuckled. Nailed it. "For your information Ma'am, my mother, rest her soul, raised a Champion, and I intended to prove that today."

He lit another cigarette and walked back down to the dugout, calm in its silence. He slipped out of the suit and into his gear, that'd come to feel like second skin. Most of his fellow competitors used some form of anaesthetic; it was common to have it worked into your gear. Zachariah looked up at ol' Thunder Doffins again, his portrait proud and stoic.

Zachariah knew that this was the moment that was going to be written about the most, and he knew it said a lot about a person, what they thought was going through their favourites head at this exact moment. This was private. He heard the click of the cameras going dark, and the lights dimmed to nothing. He took off the sunglasses.

What he thought would not be recorded for history to know.

They began again, and he heard the Klaxon.

He breathed out, placed the glasses back on, and began the walk out to the field.

Rapturous applause. He looked out into the crowds and saw giant foam 'Z's, and a chant, to a tune that always changed with the season, a chant he'd been able to sing along to since he was a child.

"Ohhhhhh, weeeee know who number one will beee." He smirked, mentally humming. "Who! Who!" replied the other half of the stadium. "That young blue one, Zaaaaacharyyyy." "Where! Where!" The crescendo now: "He's that one down there, you see, that's who we knowwwwwwwwww." And then, all together now: "Number onnnne will beeeeee."

Then even more cheering, then the silence, mostly silence, occasionally someone gave an impassioned roar of support.

"Good evening folk, tonight we've got a treat, Zachariah Tellum, you know 'im, ya love him', he's gone with a classic triple combo, he's going for sprint, hammer throw, and kinetic, and we're, honestly folks, we're looking at a once in a life-time competitor here. The kid's going no-net, so he's gonna feel everything, and I have never seen such drive in all my years of commentating."

He placed the back of his heel on the raised extension.

The starting gun fired.

"And he's off!" Zachariah dashed down the lane to the soundtrack of captivated yells of support, slight stumble on the backfoot.

The Fear arose.

Everyone got it on game day, but his training took over. Look forward, the flag, Black, White, Black White, checkered squares, you are in danger, you know you are in danger, but remember Chank, don't be Chank, you are not Chank.

On the screen overlooking, the breakdown of his fear response was going haywire, and then, flatline. Perfect performance. He broke the tape.

More cheering now, he continued running.

"A fantastic start! He's made good time on the sprint, and a perfect stabilization of himself, this is a man who knows his way around a track folks." The announcer kept talking, narrating his each action. Zachariah drowned him out with the screaming cacophony in his head.

The Hammer, he grabbed it like a man possessed, forward, forward, don't hit the string, spin, fling.

The second it was out of his hands, he punched himself in the head twice, and grabbed the shotgun he'd placed on the rack next to the hammer, he pre-emptively screamed.

He stood up stiff as a board and fired at his own shoulder, now the screams were backed with thousands of stinging sensations, the blood littered the sand.

He'd prepared for the first blow, decades of taking shots prepared him for the moment. He stumbled back with the blow, but he'd braced for it.

He moved forward, as fast as his rapidly failing body would allow, and grabbed a string with his teeth. He pulled back, and his other shoulder was obliterated. His mind was dead at this point, filled with nothing but the performance, but he looked forward, one more spectacle, blood, blood everywhere, he couldn't fall, a vague chunk of his brain still capable of memory thought the name “Chank”.

The spike was in front of him, he stumbled to his knees, sight rapidly failing, and he flung his skull onto it.

The hammer landed, and the crowd and announcer screamed in ecstasy at the skill involved in achieving his head dropping before it did.

Jik looked proudly at the holoscreen, and heard the beauty of the elated screams for Zachariah, it was the roar of a crowd who'd found their champion.

Silent again, the cameras moved towards the judges, and sequentially:

10,
10,
10,
10.

He cried tears of pure pride.

In a living room, a young boy looked up at the display. He’d seen the cocky attitude, the cigarette, everything. And he thought to himself: "He will win."

And win he did.

34 - Zachariah Tellum, '04 Champion.