Teacup

Dart had always found more comfort in the winding, shadowed spaces of the colony’s maintenance tunnels than he ever did in the bright, structured halls of any classroom. There, in the quiet hum of the ship’s inner workings, he could move unseen, swift and sure, his hands instinctively finding purchase on narrow beams or pipes. His small frame fit where others couldn’t, his nimble limbs navigating the labyrinth of the colony ship as if it were his private playground. He wasn’t built for strength or endurance like the athletes who spent hours in the ship’s sprawling gymnasiums. But strength could be misleading. Dart had speed. He had agility. He had cleverness—and perhaps that would be enough.

Today, though, the tunnels were far behind him. He stood at the edge of the massive chamber where the Teacup arena was suspended, a web of alloy and nets spinning in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was a marvel of engineering, fifty feet of crisscrossed bars and cargo netting, freely rotating around the same axis that kept the whole colony spinning, giving the ship’s inhabitants their gravity. But this arena had its own pull, its own challenge: as soon as you entered the spin, gravity shifted. The climb toward the center was the climb upward, defying the force that sought to fling you outward.

The rules of Teacup were deceptively simple: reach the center. But the execution was anything but. Every step toward the middle made the arena spin faster, the pull of centrifugal force increasing, testing your balance, your strength, your very resolve. Worse still, your opponents weren’t just climbing; they were waiting to throw you off balance, to knock you back down to the lowest cargo net. Once there, you were at the mercy of physics. The arena would slow, the pull weakening, making the climb easier for whoever remained.

Dart had spent months watching from the sidelines, studying every move, every misstep, every fight. Most players stuck to the traditional strategies—circling toward their opponent, advancing horizontally before trying to climb higher. It was a dance of anticipation, of reading your enemy’s movements as much as the shifting arena. But Dart had no interest in that. He had a different idea.

When the coach called his name for tryouts, Dart’s heart hammered in his chest. Excitement, dread—it was all tangled together. Opposite him stood Gregor, a towering figure with arms like steel cables and a reputation to match. Gregor didn’t need to think too hard about the game—he won with brute force, overpowering opponents with his size and strength. Dart knew he couldn’t face him that way. But he wouldn’t have to.

They gripped the outer bars, poised on the edges of the spinning arena. The coach’s whistle cut through the air, and they were off. Gregor started his climb with steady, deliberate movements, heading sideways toward Dart, ready to wrestle him down. He followed the time-worn strategy of the stronger players, confident in his size and power. Dart had no intention of meeting him halfway.

Instead, Dart shot upward, feet and hands moving in a blur, his small frame darting between the supports. He wasn’t climbing sideways toward Gregor—he was racing straight for the center. The crowd let out a murmur of surprise, and even Gregor hesitated, his brow furrowing as he watched Dart scramble higher. But hesitation was a costly mistake.

The arena spun faster, the inward shift of weight speeding its rotation. Dart moved with it, each pull toward the center adding to the acceleration, making every step more difficult for Gregor. Dart’s lightness worked to his advantage; he could adjust, move with the shifting gravity, where Gregor’s bulk worked against him.

The higher Dart climbed, the more the arena fought to fling him off, but he moved like he had through the tunnels—quick, sure-footed, unafraid of the space around him. He glanced down. Gregor was struggling now, his powerful arms pulling against the ever-growing force. Every grip on the bars was a battle, each movement a drain on his energy.

But Dart wasn’t done. He smiled—a quick, reckless grin—and made his final move. He leapt.

The crowd gasped as he flew toward the center, his hands gripping the innermost bar. The arena surged in response, spinning even faster, the centrifugal force spiking to a dangerous intensity. Gregor, already at his limit, could barely hold on. His grip slipped. One hand missed the bar.

And then he was falling.

Gregor hit the outer cargo net with a thud, the structure slowing with his descent. Dart, still at the center, felt the spin ease, the pull of gravity lightening. He looked down at Gregor, who lay sprawled on the net, defeated not by any direct confrontation, but by Dart’s manipulation of the game’s very physics.

The whistle blew. The match was over.

Dart dropped down lightly, his heart still pounding with the thrill of the climb. The coach approached him, his expression a mix of disbelief and approval.

“You’re on the team,” the coach said, offering him a hand.

Dart took it, barely hearing the murmurs of surprise from the other hopefuls. His mind was still in the game, still tracing the climb in his head, already thinking about what he could have done better.

As he walked away from the spinning jungle gym, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. This was just the beginning.

The next day, Dart found himself walking into the practice chamber with a spring in his step, a quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Yesterday’s win still echoed in his mind. He’d done it—outsmarted the bigger, stronger Gregor and taken the match. It wasn’t pride exactly, but something close. Confidence, maybe. It felt good. His stomach still fluttered at the memory of leaping into the center of the spinning Teacup, the rush of the wind, the way his hands found the bar as if they’d always belonged there.

He arrived a little early, eager to climb, eager to show the others that yesterday was no fluke. The jungle of supports and nets spun lazily above him, waiting for its next bout. Dart’s eyes traced the familiar lines, already mapping his path toward the center, where the victory lay waiting for the boldest to claim it.

But today, the others were waiting for him.

Gregor wasn’t the only strong player on the team. A few others gave him knowing glances as he stepped into the practice arena. Yesterday, they had treated him like a curiosity. Today, they took him seriously. And that changed everything.

The whistle blew, and Dart took off, racing upward just as he had before, his hands and feet moving fast, finding their familiar rhythm. But this time, something was different. His opponent didn’t hang back, didn’t circle or hesitate like Gregor had. He scrambled up the supports just as fast, his heavier frames propelling the arena into a much quicker spin than before.

Dart felt the shift immediately. The jungle gym accelerated beneath him, faster than he expected, the growing centrifugal force already pulling at his body with more strength than it had the day before. His muscles tensed against it, but still, he moved—climbing higher, heading inward.

But his opponent was closing in.

They weren’t playing by the usual tactics anymore. He didn’t waste time traversing horizontally, waiting for him to make a mistake. He climbed straight for the center, like predators scenting blood. The circular structure grew smaller with every rung, every bar, tightening with each level as they neared the core. And as it shrank, so did Dart’s chances of escape.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Yorin, a broad-shouldered player with a fierce look in his eye—closing in on him, his hands moving steadily, his eyes locked on Dart’s every move. There was no time to think, only to act. Dart lunged for the next bar, but the increased spin was already dragging him back, each move more difficult than the last.

The arena spun faster, pulling harder, and now, for the first time, Dart felt trapped. The freedom of movement he’d taken for granted yesterday was gone. Every bar was a struggle, every hold threatened to slip out of his grasp. And Yorin was there, closing the gap with a grim determination that chilled Dart to his core.

Before he knew it, Yorin was upon him. There was no escape this time. Yorin’s hand caught him by the arm, and before Dart could react, he was flung sideways, his grip broken by the force of the throw. His body slammed into the outer cargo net with a jarring impact, the breath knocked from his lungs.

The arena slowed, the centrifugal force easing as his weight dropped. Dart lay sprawled on the net, the spinning structure gradually coming to rest above him. The whistle blew, signaling the end of the match.

For the first time, Dart had lost.

He climbed down from the net, the sting of failure still fresh in his mind, though no one said anything. The team was quiet as they practiced, but he could feel their unspoken message: You’re clever, but you’ve got a lot to learn.

Over the next few weeks, Dart threw himself into practice. He spent every spare moment on the Teacup, climbing, grappling, falling, and climbing again. The others had strength on their side, but Dart had something better. He had passion. And he used every bit of it. Each fall taught him something new. Each throw sharpened his instincts.

He studied the way his teammates moved, not just with their bodies, but with their minds. They weren’t just climbing—they were watching, planning, waiting for the right moment to strike. Dart learned to anticipate their movements, to feint and dodge in ways he hadn’t thought possible. He began to move more efficiently, using the momentum of the spinning arena to his advantage rather than fighting against it. He learned how to read the shifts in gravity, how to time his movements with the acceleration of the spin.

And slowly, day by day, match by match, he grew stronger. Not in the way of Gregor or Yorin, with bulging muscles and raw power. But in his own way—lean, quick, and strategic. Dart became a master of finding the small, unnoticed advantages. He knew which bars would twist faster under pressure, where the supports were weakest, and how to throw his weight at just the right moment to shift the momentum in his favor.

When the team competitions began, Dart wasn’t just the underdog anymore. He was a force to be reckoned with.

In those early matches, he found his place within the team—using his agility and quick thinking to outmaneuver opponents, distracting them, forcing them into mistakes. While his teammates grappled and wrestled, Dart would climb, always thinking one step ahead, looking for the opportunity to strike or shift the balance of the game.

In the heart of every match, in the spinning chaos of bars and nets, Dart felt at home. His mind worked in the way the Teacup did—always moving, always calculating, always finding the center of the spin.