Nolan, the disc fighter

Nolan stands in his box, breathing deeply with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched. His feet rest on a small levitating platform. His assistants put the finishing touches to his gear, fastening the straps around his feet and securing them firmly to the disc. The soft hum of their small levitators soothes Nolan. He can hear the background noise from outside, coming from the largest airfight arena this planet has ever seen. It seethes like a storm. This noise is pure fuel for the adrenaline racing through Nolan's veins, making him willing to risk everything.

A disc fighter who crashes is finished. No one cares about them anymore. But that usually doesn't matter much, because anyone who survives wishes they hadn't woken up if they still have their wits about them. Here, in the continental metropolis, the height of the fighters is limited only by technology, unlike in smaller provincial arenas, where it's more about fun. However, the stakes aren't as high there as they are here, where someone can easily lose their entire fortune. It's an adrenaline rush, not just for the fighters. Anyone exposed to the arena atmosphere for too long can't just shake it off. This collective tension and screaming, this immense mass of noise, speed and people gets into your blood.

Nolan looks into the mirror held up to him by an assistant. He has chosen his grey and white leathers carefully. Unlike many other riders, he doesn't rely on colour for effect. He wants people to seek him out with their eyes. He is the favourite of the day. His ice-grey helmet has a glossy finish, except for the black visor embedded in the material. The suit itself is made of a highly elastic material that feels more like skin than clothing. It is so dense that it looks like lacquer. Like all fighters, Nolan makes the most of anything that reduces air resistance.

His assistants have now left him on their tiny hovercrafts, leaving his pit empty except for him. In a few seconds, the metal barrier will swing aside to let him through, as it will simultaneously in all thirty pits. His sponsor has placed an enormous bet on Nolan, even by the standards of this arena. This has meant that many spectators have had to be turned away, as the gigantic venue is hopelessly overcrowded.

But Nolan is thinking of something else: the title. Because that is all that matters today. If he emerges victorious, he will be crowned champion. This applies to Earth as well as the neighbouring colonies. A mighty bell sounds and Nolan steers his disc out of the box and into the arena's oval with barely perceptible shifts of his shoulders and hips. Tens of thousands of people cheer as the thirty fighters slowly float towards the centre in a line. Pretty girls rise onto heart-shaped platforms and fly towards each of the men, holding their combat staffs outstretched. The continental anthem rings out and each fighter solemnly takes up their tournament weapon. The staffs are standardised in terms of length and weight. The colours usually match the jersey, as is the case with Nolan. Compared to those of some of the other fighters, whose staffs are adorned with unnecessary gimmicks such as lights or sparks, his white-grey weapon is unremarkable.

An oval ring of coloured laser light, only a few feet smaller in diameter than the floor area itself, moves up to the correct height. Anyone whose disc passes through this optical barrier towards the floor must leave the combat zone. In this battle, there will be only one winner, no second and no third. The fight continues until one man dominates the airspace. Then, suddenly, all goes silent – so silent that it feels as though one were hovering over a calm lake. But Nolan knows that, after the signal, there will be a roar like twenty tsunamis breaking. Everyone will be shouting and cheering on their favourite. He won't notice, because in his hundreds of battles, he has learnt to ignore the noise of a thousand voices. He has won the vast majority of his battles, and he is the oldest and most experienced fighter of them all. He knows that many of the young pilots will target him today, hoping to defeat the ice-grey legend or at least see him fail. They will attack him in a pack, only to then turn on each other and fight as fiercely as they fought him.

Nolan smiles slightly behind his helmet. This is not the first time, but today is the day. Although he does not consciously hear the signal that opens the tournament, his body reacts immediately as if it were a highly sensitive relay. His disc has risen high and he has already turned towards the pack while they are still ascending. Just as he expected, they attack him as a group. This is actually forbidden, but the constant two-on-two skirmishes prevent the collective attack from becoming too obvious. These are his last thoughts before he focuses entirely on the fight. He is now one with his disc, whirling the heavy rod around as though it were a toy.

One of the others is spinning. He has been knocked off course by a hit in the middle of a daring manoeuvre. The fighter tries to raise his platform, but the lower edge is above the laser. He's out. The tournament didn't last long for him. Meanwhile, Nolan's body reacts like a precision microsurgical instrument. He is impossible to catch. Two flyers collide violently where he had been a moment earlier; one of them wobbling alarmingly as it flies erratically. There is no referee to remove the injured player from the competition. The fighter must decide for himself whether to continue. Nolan senses that the fighter is badly shaken and circles him elegantly. Shortly afterwards, the injured man falls to the floor, unable to hold onto his disc any longer. Paramedics dash towards him on their red, arrow-shaped boards, carrying a medical platform between them. Nolan is fighting. He cannot see the colours of the jerseys – yellow, red and iridescent – nor the bodies. His body functions like a machine, interacting with other machines to bring about their destruction.

They have now abandoned the swarm attack, with some targeting those showing weakness in order to reduce the number of fighters. The champion can be dealt with later, once everyone else has been eliminated. Nolan is almost grateful for this, although his adrenaline-fuelled body vibrates with power. Two or three fall under the mark and drop out, while another lands on the floor and stays down. He doesn't know how much time has passed, nor does he care. The hurricane of voices, the whistling of the discs during daring manoeuvres, and the dull clunk of the combat staffs form a melody to which Nolan's heart beats – and always will. That is what he feels and wants. There is nothing else here and now.

Five remain in the air, performing a fluid ballet, a transfigured dance of combat. Each one is fighting every other one, looking for gaps in their defences. 'Whoosh!' A scream. Two platforms are wedged together. The discs are damaged and losing altitude – and that's the end. The last two briefly join forces against Nolan, who breaks free, lets himself drop, and performs a breathtaking loop to attack a fighter from behind. The second fighter spins around, forgetting the third, and lies almost horizontally in the air due to the staff's strike. Nolan strikes and the disc hurtles towards the ground like a spinning top. The second fighter catches himself at the last possible moment, but he is too low and loses.

Nolan's final opponent is inexperienced and stares after the falling fighter for a split second too long. The champion's staff hits the foot straps with full force, causing the fighter to somersault strangely. Nolan hooks his staff between the opponent's metal feet and pushes downwards with all his might, shoving the disc. The other player is helpless, unable to manoeuvre any longer. Then the laser marker is reached. It's over. Nolan knows it; he can feel it. Releasing his opponent from the hook, he raises his staff with both hands and launches his disc upwards.

The arena erupts like a volcano. It's hellish. That's what he needs. Once the crowd has finally calmed down, the victory ceremony begins. Platforms rush into the arena and Nolan's patron embraces his champion again and again. It's a frenzy of sound and colour. Then he is escorted to the fighters' quarters, the gate closing behind him. The doctor performs a check with a body scanner and nods, but administers a mild sedative injection. He then waves everyone out except the waiting assistant. The helper circles gently around Nolan on his small platform and unfastens the foot restraints. He deftly switches to Nolan's standard platform and supports his body until he can secure his feet in the restraints.

Nolan has his eyes closed and lets it happen, but a strange thought occurs to him, as it often does: What might their competitions have looked like back when people still had legs and managed without platforms?

© 'Nolan, the disc fighter': A fantasy tale from the arena's oval by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati), 05/2026. Illustration: Thomas Alwin Müller, littleART.