Chapter 2 - Sparks Will Fly

The sound of hospital monitors and chatter fills my ears.

“I know it’s a bad time, Derrick, but there’s nothing I can really do. My dad is going to need more care when he gets home and with my sister still in school I can’t make it work. I’m so sorry.”

“Only part-time, though? And from home? Mari, we have so many projects,” my boss whines. “I really need you full-time right now.”

I sniffle dramatically as I turn the knob on the car stereo to make the beeping louder. “I’m sorry, I just—” I let out a choked sob. Derrick sighs. “I already sent the paperwork to HR.”

“Okay, well, if you can come back to full time earlier, please do so.”

“I’ll try,” I say before hanging up as I pull into the parking lot. I turn off the “ambient hospital sounds” playlist that I assume only exists for lying to your employers.

The high-rise hotel looms above as I pull my stiff body out of my car. I’m running late thanks to traffic on the six-hour drive here. My body spent the last few hours molding its unstable joints into the seat, and it protests at the new vertical position. I breathe through the pain as I straighten my spine and align my hips, letting everything fall back in place. My bad knee cracks ominously, and the valet looks ill at the sound.

“Hi, I’m here for Circuit Smack,” I tell him.

He nods, green around the gills, as I reluctantly hand him the keys before grabbing my suitcase, backpack, and cane. The 1968 Chevrolet Chevelle was lovingly restored for me by my father for my eighteenth birthday. Besides my pink leather jacket and my robots, it’s my most prized possession.

“Great. Your car will be in the employee lot so you can access it at any time,” says the valet.

I repeat the same introductory line to the receptionist, who hands me a room key and directs me to my room in the block set aside for Circuit Smack teams. At least the hotel is covered by the show.

I hobble to my room, my cane’s pink glitter sparkling in the glow from the wall sconces, and will my stiff body to loosen up. I don’t need my cane all the time. It’s a newer addition to my life, and one I’m still getting used to being seen with, let alone remembering to use when I need it.

When I was first prescribed my cane, I felt like a failure. Like, somehow, it was my fault my body refused to work the way a non-disabled person’s body works. But the reality is, I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and try as I might, I cannot overcome a connective tissue disorder. I tried everything to fix it. No matter what I did—the physical therapy, medications and supplements, unsustainable (also unwanted and unhelpful) weight loss, careful movements, the desperate bargaining with the universe—none of it matters to the hEDS.

Doctors didn’t help my attitude about acquiring a mobility device. Despite telling me a cane would likely help me, they were also quick to warn about becoming “too reliant” on it. I was too young to “need it too often.” It’s hard to be torn in two like that, to be constantly told, “You need it but try not to.”

The sentiment echoed my dad’s later struggles after his car accident. When doctors determined he could walk again “if he tried hard enough,” they told him to keep pushing even though he couldn’t walk very far and it caused him significant pain the entire time. They insisted that if he used a wheelchair, “he’d never walk again.” After months of trying to heed their advice and eventually realizing he’d never walk meaningfully again anyway, he begged his doctor for a chair. It instantly gave him his life back.

Even with my dad’s example, I still sometimes struggle to accept that maybe my life would be easier if I used my cane more often. I’ve been disabled for most of my life. In a rapidly changing body, my journey down the path of acceptance can’t quite keep up with the downhill decline. The judgment of being a young, fat person with mobility aids is a tough pill to swallow. The layered societal biases stack up, each with more derision and anger layered on.

Not to mention, I’ve never seen another visibly disabled builder on Circuit Smack.

It’s easy to ignore my ring splints, the ring-like braces I wear on each of my finger joints and my thumbs. People think they’re jewelry. I can even explain away sitting during matches by saying it’s for focus, which it technically is. Otherwise, I have to focus on keeping my body from collapsing. Sticking out isn’t a bad thing, but I don’t want to be an oddity. Even so, if I need an accommodation, I need it. I’m not always great at recognizing when I need one, but I know I need them sometimes. Like sitting when I fight.

Lost in thought, I almost walk past my hotel room but notice just in time. I push open the door to the room. It’s the nicest place I’ll probably ever get a chance to stay. The king-sized bed has soft sheets; there’s an absolutely luxurious bathroom with a huge walk-in shower, and a beautiful view. Maybe I could roll around on the bed for a solid forty-five minutes and pretend traffic was terrible?

No, I should get to the Bay and meet the team.

I hesitate. I’m less stiff now that I’ve had a chance to stretch. I could leave my cane here, and I doubt anyone would know the difference. I don’t know how many people know me from my reputation. Leaving it here gives me one less thing for people to judge.

No. There’s no way I can handle the next month without using it. Well, two weeks if we don’t make it past the qualifying competition. A month if we make it to the championship. God, I hope we make it. I’ll have to decide if I want my cane to be seen on camera. Behind the scenes is one thing; even if there are a couple hundred people, it’s different from the millions of people watching on TV.

I grab the Circuit Smack handbook left on a table for me and leave the cool comfort of my room.

I leaf through the book one-handed on the elevator ride, the other resting on my cane. Three minutes to fight. Judging on aggression, defense, and damage if it goes to the judges instead of a tap out or knockout. If you win by knockout or tap out, you earn the full amount of points. Ten-second pin maximum. Typical rules and regulations for robots and battles—something I brushed up on before coming.

However, the list of teams is something I couldn’t prepare for. Thirty-five combat robotics teams from across the globe will compete in the qualifying competition. I recognize twenty-six of the robots and their teams, and the others are new this year. My team and robot, ZetaMax, are among the newcomers.

One name sticks out to me, and I groan, slumping against the elevator wall.

Of course.

Of fucking course, he would be here.

I’m foolish for not even considering it beforehand. He might be twenty-eighth on the list, but he’s always a favorite to win. Jacob Moore and his bot, Kilowatt.

I have meticulously avoided Jacob Fucking Moore for years. It’s been made easier by his move to Columbus, Ohio, about six years ago. But before he left, I rarely entered the same events as him, even when it meant missing out on tournaments and championships. I’ve only seen him a few times since then, and every time sets me on edge. After what he did to me, I dread being in the same room as him, let alone post-match interviews.

I can’t believe I used to have a crush on that guy. Sure, he’s hot as sin and one of the smartest people around, but he turned into such an asshole.

My only saving grace is that Jacob is in a different competitor group to start. The teams are split into seven groups of five teams, with the teams in each group fighting four other teams during the qualifying competition. The two top-ranked competitors in each group move on to the sixteen-contestant Circuit Smack World Championship. One spot in the championship goes to last year’s winner—this year, that happens to be Jacob’s team. The final spot in the championship goes to the winner of the Last Shot Bot Trot, an optional tournament for people who didn’t perform well enough for automatic entry into the championship. Unless ZetaMax makes it to the championship, I won’t have to fight Jacob at Circuit Smack. Until we make it, that is. We will make the championship. We have to.

Maybe Jacob will have such an embarrassing loss and be so disgraced he’ll drop out of the championship, then never come back to Circuit Smack or any other combat robotics event, and I'll never have to see him again.

Okay, so maybe that isn’t the kindest fantasy. But to be fair, Jacob hasn’t been the kindest to me either. With a couple hundred people here, maybe I’ll be able to avoid him entirely. Here’s hoping.

As soon as I make it through the hotel’s event center to the Builder Bay, the hangar-sized warehouse that holds the workstations for every competing team, I hear an approximation of my name called.

“Marit!” Joel’s too-loud voice calls. I try not to cringe as most of the builders in their rows of workstations look my way, their heads popping up from their cubicle clusters of workstations like prairie dogs in the grass.

Despite the bright purple-and-pink hair, pink glitter cane, and wardrobe in varied shades of the rainbow across my unapologetically fat body, I try not to draw a ton of attention to myself. People take me less seriously when they take a moment to examine me. If I keep my temper in check and my head down, I can usually get away with doing what I want and need. I’m not toning myself down for the approval of others, but sometimes I think it would be easier to do so. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be at Circuit Smack almost a decade later than I’d planned.

I force a smile and wave as I walk over. Luckily, many people go back to their work when they realize the shouting isn’t interesting. Several still stare, however, so I keep my focus locked straight ahead.

“It’s Mari,” a familiar face corrects. Fatimah Zamani stands beside Joel and four other vaguely familiar-looking people.

“Right, Mari. Meet the crew! Sounds like you know Fatimah,” he says.

“Yes, we know each other from the Twin Cities robotics scene,” Fatimah says. We’re not exactly close friends, but we get along well. The stunning woman lives in Manitoba but often attends events in the Twin Cities. She looks more like a plus-size model you’d see on a red carpet than someone you'd regularly find in a warehouse full of geeks with soldering irons. We’ve fought beetleweight bots a few times. We follow each other on social media. Her dog, Roger, is super cute. We send each other sales we see at our favorite plus-size clothing stores. That’s about the extent of our friendship, but it’s more than I have with most people.

“Great! Look at that, team spirit already. We also have Chris Hopkins.” A thin, sandy-blond man with thick glasses waves at me. “Sonny.” Joel points to an attractive man with deep olive skin and delightfully unruly curls threaded with gray but pauses, clearly searching the archives of his mind for Sonny’s last name.

“Sonny Ayala,” Sonny says, holding out a warm hand for me to shake.

“Yeah, Ayala,” Joel says, waving his hand. “And my man, Travis Blair,” he finishes and high-fives a redheaded man with a beard and a smarmy expression. “Team Jaxon, yeah!” he cheers too loudly. Once again, the other builders are staring. Our team gives a half-hearted clap.

For the first time, I see our bot. While most people disassemble their robots for transport, they have already built them, tested them, and have a completed design. Unease settles in my gut. ZetaMax lies in pieces on one table, and its weapons lie in a row on another. This robot is a pile of random parts, nowhere near a completed bot, waiting to be put together. They sent me very little information outside of the knowledge that it’s a modular bot—we’ll be able to swap our weapons out between vertical and horizontal spinners, giving us more versatility.

“We’re familiarizing ourselves with the robot,” says Sonny. “We’re at a bit of a disadvantage since Joel just finished acquiring all the pieces.” That’s the nice way of putting it. The correct way is: we’re fucked.

Joel doesn’t notice Sonny’s annoyance. “Cool, right?” he says. “Travis works in my Electrical Engineering Department. He suggested we—what was the term you used, Travis?”

“Kit bash,” Travis says with rapt attention to Joel, like a dog waiting for the treat in his master’s pocket.

“Kit bash two bots together. I bought some decommissioned bots cheaply. Travis and some of my research and development guys ordered the extra parts. Say hello to ZetaMax! Some assembly required,” he says with a self-satisfied laugh.

Great. The start is in two and a half days, and all we have is a pile of parts. Kit bashing plastic models and putting together a robot are two very different things. While there are plenty of pre-made, plug-and-play robot kits, this doesn’t seem to be any of them. The parts are cheap and outdated, and there’s a wide mix of materials. While Circuit Smack is unique in letting contestants upgrade and make major changes to their bots during competition, I don’t think they ever imagined anyone building one mostly from scratch days before the qualifiers start.

I put my hands in my pockets to stop from massaging my temples.

“You should get started on the build right away,” Joel says. “We only have a couple days! I’ll check in on progress later.” He strolls out of our workspace before anyone has a chance to ask questions.

We collectively examine the pile of parts laid out next to the chassis. Sonny sighs as he picks up the batteries. Fatimah finds an errant clipboard and starts writing a checklist. I go to check out the weapons.

“Mari?” Chris says, hushed.

“Hi,” I say, and hold my hand out to shake.

“Hi! It’s nice to meet you in person. I’m Christotron239 on the US Bot Builder message boards!” His wire-frame glasses shift with his huge smile as he shakes my hand. My rings pinch against each other with the pressure of his excitement.

The recognition hits me. We’ve interacted online more than a few times. He’s always nice. He reminds me of Dave with his silly but sincere bots. “Oh! Hey!”

It’s nice to have friendly faces between him and Fatimah. While I hardly know Chris, and Fatimah and I are casual friends at best, knowing I’m not alone with total strangers soothes a part of me I didn’t realize was quivering like a Chihuahua in a blizzard.

Fatimah clicks her pen. “I’ve created a list of to-dos for each of us. We should be able to familiarize ourselves today, maybe do some of the electronics work, and get into building properly tomorrow.”

Chris and I review the clipboard before handing it to Sonny and Travis. Over Travis’s shoulder, I see Jacob Moore at his station, one column over and three workstations down, glaring at me like I took a baseball bat to one of his computers. All of my nerves are suddenly replaced with simmering anger.

“Let’s get to work,” I mutter as I turn back to the pile of scraps.