Foil. Épée. Sabre.
[Scene: A cracked rooftop garden—overgrown, wind-chimed with rusted cans, quiet except for the occasional echo of something collapsing in the distance. Nettle’s just returned from scavenging.]
NETTLE:
So. I just saw a guy in a poncho challenge a tumbleweed to a duel. Swear on every collapsed government, Tarrow—he bowed to it.
TARROW:
(deep in thought, not looking up)
Did the tumbleweed accept?
NETTLE:
Oh, it rolled with it. Literally. Blew right past him. Dramatic exit. Ten out of ten.
TARROW:
That’s commitment. Some people can’t even walk away from conversations with that much clarity.
NETTLE:
That’s what got me thinking. About duels. About rhythm. About the sharp stuff.
(pauses dramatically)
Do you want to play Foil. Épée. Sabre?
TARROW:
(slow blink)
That… is either a children’s game or a warning label.
NETTLE:
(grins)
It’s both. But mostly it’s verbal combat for people who think too much. Like us.
It’s a game—used to play it when I was younger. You pick a “blade,” which is really just a style of speaking. Each one has rules, and you duel with words. One sentence at a time, or not, depending on the blade. Score points by landing hits—clever ones, emotional ones, or just fast ones. It’s like fencing, but instead of swords, you stab people with ideas.
TARROW:
You’re asking me to spar?
NETTLE:
Yes. Verbally. Not physically. I’ve seen your version of a punch—it’s mostly hesitation and regret.
TARROW:
That’s also my parenting style.
NETTLE:
(snickers)
Perfect. Then you’re emotionally qualified. Here’s how it works.
There are three modes of play. Three blades. Foil, Épée, and Sabre. Each one’s a whole philosophy.
Foil is all about elegance and timing. You speak one sentence at a time—clean, witty, no rambling allowed. You only score if your line lands precisely. No interrupting, no muddying the flow. Like verbal haiku with a grudge.
Then there’s Épée—your style, guaranteed. No sentence limits. You can go short or deep. There’s no “right of way”—you just say something meaningful, or piercing, or emotionally honest, and if it visibly hits the other person—like a pause, a smirk, a laugh, even a tiny crack in the façade—you score. But there’s risk. If you try for something profound and it falls flat? You lose a point.
And Sabre? That’s chaos incarnate. Rapid fire. Three seconds to reply or you forfeit the point. You can interrupt—if the interruption’s sharp. Comedy scores. Devastation scores. Hesitation? You die metaphorically and lose dignity. And points.
TARROW:
So you insult each other and call it art?
NETTLE:
Incorrect. You wound each other with elegance and call it sport.
TARROW:
Of course. My mistake. Proceed.
NETTLE:
Okay, warm-up’s over. Choose your blade.
TARROW:
Explain them again. Slowly. As if I’m both skeptical and barely listening.
NETTLE:
Ah. So, normal then. Okay.
Foil: precision, one sentence per turn, style matters.
Épée: depth, open format, score if it lands.
Sabre: speed, chaos, interrupt if you dare.
TARROW:
And if I refuse all three?
NETTLE:
Then the tumbleweed wins.
TARROW:
I pick Épée. Naturally.
NETTLE:
Of course you do. Theme?
TARROW:
Sleep.
NETTLE:
(rubs her hands together)
Excellent. I’ll start.
Sleep is just the body pretending to be a ghost until the mind gives in.
TARROW:
Sleep is the only time my thoughts shut up long enough to dream. And even then, they whisper through the drywall.
NETTLE:
(mutters)
Okay that was… annoyingly good. Point to you.
My turn.
I once stayed awake for three days trying to solve the meaning of dreams. Ended up hallucinating a god who just shrugged and offered me soup.
TARROW:
Did you accept the soup?
NETTLE:
Huh? Oh. Obviously. It tasted like apology.
TARROW:
Then the god won.
NETTLE:
What? No. That wasn’t part of the game!
TARROW:
You never stopped it.
NETTLE:
(staring)
We were in between turns.
TARROW:
Are we?
NETTLE:
(suspicious)
Are you still playing?
TARROW:
You assumed I’d stop. That’s your mistake. Point.
NETTLE:
Dammit. Okay. Two can play this.
The absence of rest is a form of self-sabotage disguised as ambition.
TARROW:
And rest without effort is just a very elegant form of quitting.
NETTLE:
(pointing)
That’s another hit. You’re keeping score, right?
TARROW:
(silence)
NETTLE:
You are keeping score?
TARROW:
(takes a slow sip from her cup)
Memory is unreliable under pressure.
NETTLE:
You’re insufferable.
TARROW:
Is that your next strike?
NETTLE:
(glaring)
TARROW:
Point.
NETTLE:
Fine. Sabre mode. Right now. Theme: chaos. Let’s see how you do when you can’t pause every three seconds to think like a tree.
TARROW:
Three seconds is a luxury.
NETTLE:
Not in Sabre. I start:
You once took forty-five minutes to answer “what’s your favorite color.”
TARROW:
Because it changes depending on how I feel about mortality that day.
NETTLE:
(point)
Dammit! That counted.
Next:
I’ve seen plants wilt faster than your opinions.
TARROW:
At least mine grow roots before they fall over.
NETTLE:
Oof. Okay that one physically hurt.
TARROW:
Good. That’s two points.
NETTLE:
Stop counting.
TARROW:
You told me to keep score.
NETTLE:
You said memory was unreliable!
TARROW:
And yet, here we are.
NETTLE:
Switching to Foil. One sentence per turn. Ready?
TARROW:
I never stopped.
NETTLE:
Okay—
Your stillness isn’t wisdom. It’s just inertia with a scarf.
TARROW:
Better inert than flailing like a philosophy caught in a wind tunnel.
NETTLE:
That’s so specific it might be brilliant.
TARROW:
Then point to me.
NETTLE:
(sighs dramatically)
You’ve weaponized stoicism.
TARROW:
You handed me the sword.
NETTLE:
Fine. Truce. You win. You’re the queen of calm carnage.
TARROW:
Truce accepted. But also—
(pause)
Sometimes silence is just another version of control.
NETTLE:
(stares for a long moment)
Dammit, Tarrow. Are we still playing?
TARROW:
Who said we ever stopped?
NETTLE:
Can I opt out?
TARROW:
Only if the moss downstairs accepts your surrender.
NETTLE:
You’re impossible.
TARROW:
You started it.
NETTLE:
True.
(pause)
Okay, last one.
If we were scoring… I’d say it’s a draw.
TARROW:
If it was a draw…
(beat)
You wouldn’t need to say it out loud.
NETTLE:
(silent… then grins)
Okay. That’s a win. For you.
TARROW:
No. That one was yours.
(leans back)
You grinned. I saw it.
