Chapter 1

Keith

“No, no, NOOOO!” I screamed as my robot took a drill to the undercarriage. Frank’s Dai Guren, an orange and red abomination of five drills on four wheels, penetrated my Polyphemus, a purple and green vertical spinner with a hacksaw blade that had been obliterated within the first minute of the match. And that was before Frank had gotten under me with his rotating maw of drills and pinned me against the wall of the arena and started going right on into me. 

“OH MY GOD, CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS! DAI GURREN IS PERFORMING OPEN HEART SURGERY ON POLYPHEMUS! Frank Watanabe is eviscerating Keith Calloway right now! Absolutely destroying him!” Marty Weston, a tall and stocky white guy who was clearly on a lot of cocaine whenever he was on the job, bellowed from behind the plexiglass screen of the announcer’s booth. 

His compatriot, Derek Benes, an absolutely shredded black man in his early thirties with a shaved head and a voice lower and smoother than an old time radio announcer’s, responded in a mildly calmer manner, “I think this is the first time we’ve seen Keith Calloway speechless this whole tournament, Marty!”

I grimaced. I hated my name enough without hearing other people say it. Couldn’t they just say my robot’s name instead? What was so hard about that?

Not that there was much of a robot left at this point. Dai Guren was tearing Polyphemus to shreds. I was gonna have to build an entirely new bot at this point. 

“Well I think this is the first time we’ve seen this much of a reaction from Frank Watanabe, Derek!”

He was referring, of course, to the fact that Frank’s normally steely stoicism had finally cracked at his sheer fucking delight of having beaten me like this. I grinded my teeth and tried my hardest not to swear that top of my lungs as Frank threw his head back and cackled. 

Maybe going into this match bragging about how I was gonna humiliate him and his team had been a bad idea. 

… Look, someone has to play the heel, okay? 

Frank was a short, skinny Japanese-American boy who shared my twenty-two years of age. His shaggy black hair constantly threatened to cover his face. His girlfriend, Olivia Root, a curvy and shapely black girl with a wild mane of nappy hair, flanked him in the copilots section of the blue square, alongside their friend and chief mechanic Zeke Underhill, a tan young man with neatly-trimmed raven hair. A smile had finally appeared on Frank’s normally blank face, all smug and self-satisfied as he finished me off. 

“AND THAT IS IT! DAI GUREN and Frank Watanabe have done it! The twenty-two year old genius from Loyola Marymount University has won his first Robot Fighting championship, during his first year in the pros! Can you believe it?!”

I sure as shit couldn’t. 

I watched as the attendants scooped up the obliterated remains of my crowning glory, my beautiful, beautiful Polyphemus off of the arena floor and began moving it back into the pits. I slinked away with my head held low, my gaze so fixed on my shoes I could barely so I didn’t have to look anyone in the eyes. My chest was an empty cavity of shame and disappointment; part of me wanted to cry, but the tears just wouldn’t come. They hadn’t in a long time- I honestly don’t remember the last time I actually, openly wept. Maybe when I was like… Eleven? When my first dog had died? I guess that’s a more appropriate death to cry over than an inanimate machine, but still, winning this tournament had been my dream since I was at least eleven, so you’d think I’d at least be able to shed an errant tear or two. 

Oh fucking well, I guess. 

My hands jammed in my pockets, I skulked away from the spotlight and the cheering fans… and the jeering ones hurling obscenities at me. Not surprising- I played my part a little too well, and there are few things as satisfying as watching a conceited asshole completely fail to deliver on his own self-imposed hype. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have said, ‘I’m going to make everyone cry for mama’ on camera at the beginning of the tourney. 

I crawled into the pit, a brightly lit room with rows of LED lights hanging overhead. I’d like to think nobody in there was staring at me, but like… I’d just lost. It didn’t seem likely they were staring at the empty doorway behind me.

Nate Haverfield, a portly middle-aged white guy with a big bushy black beard, was on my left tinkering with his ‘bot, a behemoth of an all-black horizontal spinner called Ansible. I’d beaten him in the first round of the tournament, and his eyes lit up with delight when he saw me. 

“Well, well, wellllllll, look who it is,” Haverfield said, “If it isn’t big bad Calloway. How you doing, Princess?”

I grinded my teeth as my heart-rate spiked and my fists balled on reflex. He’d taken to calling me that since day one on account of my long, messy brown hair. 

“Hm,” I grunted. Good, that would throw him off- don’t give him anything to work with, he won’t be able to give me any grief.

“What’s the matter, too chickenshit to say anything?” Haverfield said, throwing his head back and laughing. 

Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him-

I stared down at the broken pile of shrapnel my bot had been reduced to. I grabbed a wrench and started loosening the bolts, letting myself get lost in the work. 

A few people talked around me as I disassembled my robot into as many salvageable components as I could muster. By the time I was done, I had maybe enough left to turn into a quarter of a regulation-sized machine for next year. The rest… I could make some money selling it as scrap metal. The cheapskates in the engineering program at my old community college would probably rip me off, but it was worth a shot. 

I put everything on a cart and started hauling it through the now-empty garage. Only one overhead light was on every half-dozen feet, and the silence in the garage was, to use a time-honored cliche, deafening. Everyone had cleared out an hour ago- the crowd, the crew, the announcers, and all the contestants. The season was over, the victor was crowned, everyone was either out partying or at home with their families. 

I sighed. I wasn’t particularly interested in the former, given the amount of mocking I’d probably be subjected to, and it wasn’t like anyone was waiting for me at home with my folks both out of town. I wondered if they’d had the pleasure of watching their son get humiliated on cable television. 

I trailed across the empty garage, where I found, of all the damn people in the whole damn City of Angels, Frank Watanabe leaning in the doorway with a haunted look on his face. Hands jammed in his pockets, shaggy black hair practically covering his face. He was staring at the ceiling like he was looking for something, the orange glow of the exit sign casting a harsh light onto his sallow, acne-marked face. 

I gulped. Oh joy to the freaking world, this freaking guy had been standing there waiting for me to show up so he could gloat without fear of anyone seeing him and judging him for going too far. I was in for it now. He hadn’t even brought the rest of his team- he’d wanted to do this personally. 

What an ass. 

May as well get this over with. Try to retain some miniscule portion of my dignity.

“Hey,” I said. 

Frank just stood there, staring up at nothing. The only sound was the faint buzz of the electric sign. 

“Uh, good fight,” I said. 

Still nothing. 

“You, uh, you really gave me a good beating,” I said. “The best man won.” The word, the ‘m’ word, felt weird. It always did. It had gotten worse in the past five years, since I’d turned eighteen, and it had started applying to me. The ‘b’ word had always been weird as well- I’d never been able to put my finger on why. Just would have rather been called a person, I guess. 

I guess Frank had a complicated relationship with the word too, because that was when he started crying. Not much at first, just a few strings of tears falling down from his eyes, but then one of them hit his forearm, and he started blinking and looking down, as if finally realizing he was crying. 

“Hey, uh, are you alright?” I asked.   

He turned to me, as only then registering who I was, and his normally blank face twisted into the most irate scowl I’d seen since high school. “FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF ALREADY, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! FUCK! OFF!”

I stepped back, gulping. I blinked rapidly, my heart-rate shooting way, way up and echoing inside my ear drums. My hands started shaking, and a tightness went through my chest. I wanted to scream, wanted to hurl obscenities, wanted to step over a line and get very personal and brutal with my insults… But the energy just wasn’t there. 

I wanted to cry too, but the tears were still nowhere to be found. 

“Just let me through, I’ll be out of your way,” I mumbled, not making eye contact. 

“What?!” he sneered. 

“You’re blocking the exit, idiot,” I glared. 

His jaw dropped, but then he did a double-take. “Oh. Um. Right.”

He made way, and I ambled out into the darkened, mostly empty parking lot. 

“Frankie?” a masculine voice trilled behind me. “What’s- oh boy. Hey, hold up a sec!”

I stopped beneath the light of a streetlamp, the Los Angeles air and light pollution blotting out the stars in spite of the otherwise clear night sky offering no obstruction. I turned around and faced Zeke Underhill. 

“What?” I demanded. 

“What did you say to h… Him?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just… It was a good fight. The better bot won. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Zeke said. “You didn’t say anything else? Nothing needlessly hostile? No grandstanding or attempts at dick-measuring?”

“What? No, why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you’ve been a complete dick most of the season. I wouldn’t put it past you to be a sore loser,” Zeke said. 

I opened my mouth, and a dull sort of grunt came out, but I stopped short of actually offering a rebuttal. He wasn’t wrong. Still… He wasn’t quite right either. I had to defend myself. And I was officially sick of being pegged as something I’m not. “I play to the crowd. The audience loves a heel, so I give them one! That’s it! Why does everyone always think I’m like that when the cameras aren’t rolling?” I said.

“Because you don’t really give us much else to work with, dude,” Zeke said. 

I flinched. There was another epithet I hated. “You know what? Fine You’ve got me. That’s who I am, I guess! Clearly you all know me better than I know myself! Fine. I’m the asshole. Tell your little buddy that he can rest easy knowing he killed the big bad jerk and his ugly fucking robot.”

Zeke hesitated, then said, “Okay, look, why don’t you just tell me what happened then-”

“You don’t care,” I said. “None of you do. And I don’t need you to. I’m a one-person band, and that’s how I like it. I’ll see you next year, and your stupid friend and his stupid girlfriend too.”

“Hey, um, maybe I was a little rash here. I’m sorry for-”

“Save it,” I said, hauling my wagon over to my beat-up blue pick-up truck. I loaded everything into my trunk then climbed into the front and drove myself home. 

My parents and I lived in Venice Beach, and before you say anything, no, we’re not rich. Quite the opposite, in fact. We owned a small clothing shop a handful of blocks from the water and lived in the cramped apartment above it. 

With the folks out of town for a small business owners convention, it was just me. 

I thought about getting drunk by myself off of my parents’ liquor cabinet; thought about turning on some heavy metal and letting the shower pelt me with water so long it turned cold; thought about ordering an extra large pineapple, bacon, and jalapeno pizza and eating the entire damn thing myself in one night. 

Instead, I decided to get to work. 

But not before a bit of balm on my wounded vanity: I went into my room and dug out the bra and panties I had stashed away in the back of my closet. I stripped, slid them on, and then redressed, and, save for the slight bump in my chest afforded to me by the empty bra, nobody would be the wiser even if they saw me. 

Not that they ever would. This was a part of me that didn’t leave my house, didn’t leave my room unless my parents were both gone. It started at my twelfth birthday party. We’d been playing truth or dare, of all things, and my then-friend dared me to go into my parents’ shop and try on a pair of panties. I don’t think he’d actually expected me to do it, and the look on his face was the funniest thing I’d ever seen (granted I was twelve, so the bar was lower back then). What was less funny was the way it had made me feel: good. Nice and warm. Comfy. Cute, even. 

So cute it gave me a… Reaction. 

Pretty perverted, right? There were real, actual trans people out there in the world, struggling every day to be the people they wanted to be, and then there were sick little freaks like me who appropriated that struggle for some weird fetish. Unfortunately, one taste and I was hooked, and I managed to acquire an underwear set for myself a couple years later through a place in Santa Monica I knew would be nice enough not to tell anyone. 

Warm and fuzzy in my undergarments like the dumb little pervert I was, I went down into my garage and got to work. I had eleven months to prepare for the next tournament, and by God, I was gonna show those Team Dai Gurren assholes what for. They thought I was a heel now, they ain’t seen nothing yet. 

Eleven Months Later

The small but passionate crowd cheered in the stands as the first fight of the season ended. I was up next, and it was the match I’d been hoping for, praying for, begging for. Team Dai Gurren. 

Assuming they weren’t gonna miss the match through their damn tardiness!

I looked at my new bot: Polyphemus 2.0 had a few new tricks up her sleeve, not the least of which being the katana protruding from her front. Okay, more like a short-sword, but you get the idea. The point was, I now had a melee weapon that wouldn’t break as easily, wouldn’t short out, would be just fine. And that was in addition to the flamethrowers strapped to both sides, modified super-soakers filled with gasoline and with a flint attached to the front that would spark whenever I squeezed the trigger. 

I waited in the wings, controller in hand, bot at the ready. I made sure for the millionth time that my black Gundam t-shirt was tucked into my baggy blue jeans. I didn’t need anyone seeing my panties. I’d taken to wearing them outside occasionally, just as a mild stress-ventilator that went with me wherever I went. And stress-relief was something my stomach ache had been demanding that day, so I decided to take a risk. 

Honestly, it felt pretty great wearing them outside the house: like I was getting away with something, putting one over on everybody. There was a weirdo with a cringey, offensive, culturally-appropriative fetish walking amongst them, and nobody had any idea. Hah. Idiots. 

Finally, I got the go-ahead, and stepped out into the crowd. The cheers turned to boos and laughter within seconds. I winced as I piloted Polyphemus towards the battle box. Whatever, I deserved this. May as well have fun with it. 

I found a bubble of maniacal laughter in the chaos of my aching stomach, and let it rise to the surface. I cackled like the maniacal supervillain my enemies demanded I be, plastering a fake smile to my face as I drank in the rush of it all. 

  I took my place in the red square as my name was called and my introduction delivered. 

I looked over towards the blue square, and found the familiar face of Zeke Underhill. He’d grown out his hair a few inches, traded the shaggy beard in for a light smattering of stubble that showed off his tan face. His skin had cleared up, and he was wearing a tuxedo, of all freaking things, along with a top-hat and carrying a damn cane! You’ve gotta be kidding me with this hammy weirdo! 

I mean, it was a good look for him, though. Objectively, he looked good. Really good, in fact. His face was honestly quite handsome. Objectively speaking. Said as a fellow male capable of recognizing what looks good as far as male faces go (ie, not mine, but apparently his).

Was I jealous?

Didn’t feel green. 

What was it, then? 

But where was-

“And look at that, Derek, looks like there’s been a few more changes to team Dai Gurren’s lineup,” Marty Weston said in the announcer’s booth on the opposite side of the battle box. 

“No, Marty, I think that’s just a picture of personal growth going on here. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the new and improved Faith Watanabe!”

I’m sorry, what?

Towards the battle box marched a very, very cute girl. She had long black hair worn in a French Braid trailing down her back, was clad in a red sequin mini-skirt and a blue sequin halter top middled by a solid white belt and punctuated by high-heeled white boots. She had golden stud earrings and wore a golden chain necklace, and her gorgeous face was accented perfectly by immaculate, natural-looking makeup. 

I almost, ALMOST, let the single syllable deadname fall out of my mouth, but I caught myself and stammered, “Faith?” instead. She gracefully stepped up to the blue square across from me, shaking her braid and giving it a light tug. 

“Yes, that’s right, Marty, the captain of team Dai Gurren came out as transgender and started her transition between seasons,” Derek said. 

“Good for her!” Marty said. 

I couldn’t stop staring. She was like… Really freaking pretty, okay? It was mesmerizing. 

Fr… Faith looked over at me and gave me a positively EVIL smirk, and then a wink so condescending it may as well have come from a third-rate attorney on a winning streak. 

“LET THE BOT BATTLE BEGIN!” Marty bellowed. 

Faith slammed her hand on her button. 

I yelped and did the same. 

I grabbed a hold of my controller and had Polyphemus charge full-speed ahead for Dai Gurren. The battle box was a perfectly square arena, a floor of concrete with occasional slits within for the rising kill-saws. A rotating set of screws resided on the wall of the left-hand side, while on the right side was a giant metal mallet designed to smash unsuspecting bots from above. 

I dove right in, making it to DG within seconds. Perfect- rebuilding with a lighter shell had given me an edge in terms of speed- DG wasn’t able to dodge in time to completely avoid the first blow from my katana. It cut across DG’s side as the bigger bot swerved out of the way, conjuring a burst of sparks and a harsh scraping sound as a line of metal was carved out of DG. 

“YES!” I screamed without thinking. I pivoted my Poly, letting the blade slice across the front of DG while unleashing a massive burst of fire from my dual flamethrowers. I missed the drills, but carved another scar across DG’s beautiful, perfect face. “HA! SUCK IT!” 

“HAPPILY!” Faith screamed back at me. 

I balked. She didn’t used to chirp back. This was all gonna take a lot of getting used to.

“Keep it together, Faithy,” Zeke said. 

Faithy? What was that- a pet name? Were they dating? Was she taken? 

“CAN’T TAKE THE HEAT, HUH, GIRLY?!” I said, the ugliest smile possible no doubt sprouting on my face like unwanted back hair (aka, back hair). 

I poured on the fire, while DG backtracked and revved up the drills. I was on them like a bulldog with my fangs sunk in, loosing fire and charging with my katana, but DG kept just out of range of my melee weapon. 

I pivoted left around the kill-saws as they plunged up out of the ground, spinning, serrated wheels erupting from slits in the floor, while DG backed directly into them and took a massive buffeting and nearly flipped over. “HA!”

“I swear to God, Calloway, I am gonna make you eat your words!” Faith shouted, her voice dropping to a lower octave that caught me off guard. 

Just long enough for the drills to start running at full speed and for DG to charge straight at me. I charged back, screaming as loud as I possibly could.

Sword met drill. 

Sword won. 

The drill shattered and fell apart after getting hit by the sword. I pushed forward, and this time it was me penetrating her. 

Unfortunately, Zeke pushed further forward while Faith fired up the remaining rotating drills, and suddenly we’d both penetrated each other. 

“OH LOOK AT THAT, DEREK! WE’VE GOT A MURDER-SUICIDE GOING ON HERE! BOTH TEAMS HAVE STABBED THE CRAP OUT OF EACH OTHER AND ARE NOT LETTING UP!” Marty said. 

“Murder-suicide my ass!” I said, laying on more fire and back up. I wriggled free of DG’s hold, then circled around and charged from the side. My katana plunged into the left hand side of DG and pinned it against the wall just under the horizontal hammer as it started whacking from above. It slammed onto DG as I backed out of the way. 

Back up, back up, get some distance, then go for one final charge. Deliver the killing blow, gloat in front of the camera like crazy. “YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT! I’m coming for your crown! I’ll steal it right off your freaking head!”

That was when the kill saws erupted from the ground and took out both my tires on the right hand side of Poly. The rubber around the wheels was eviscerated, and the wheels themselves weren’t in much better shape.  

I gasped. I hit my wheels’ controls, rounding myself out of the way of another blow from the saws, but DG was already charging at me by that point. I went in circles once again, narrowly avoiding the drills while spewing more and more fire. 

And then I stopped moving. 

I blinked. Then I noticed one of my remaining wheel axes caught in the gap in the ground that the kill-saw was supposed to emerge from. 

I spun, and I spun, and I spun. 

“LOOK AT THAT, MARTY! POLYPHEMUS IS STUCK! That insane mobility that Keith Calloway boasts about has worked against it! OH, AND DAI GURREN going in for the killing blow!” Derek said. 

DG rammed into me with its remaining drills and punctured the side of Poly and sent gasoline pouring out onto the arena floor. The drills struck through the canister and against metal, and the spark caused my bot to go up in flames. 

DG pulled back out of the way. When the flames cleared, I was back down to a charred husk of a bot sitting immobile on the arena floor. 

I swore. Loudly. I’m not proud of it. The editors would no doubt bleep it. But still. Not a great look when you’ve just gotten beat up by a girl. 

Why do I say things? I thought. 

Then I looked over at the blue square and saw Faith and Zeke doing a freaking waltz! Are you kidding me!? They had a victory dance now! They dressed like they were going to a party and they danced together to celebrate!?

Dammit! That looked so fun. That was definitely green- I could feel the tinge of jealousy in my mind. I groaned as I slunk away and put the remains of my bot onto a chassis, then slowly hauled it back to the pit while the winners got their interview.