The Death-Dome was not a place for people who valued their hearing, their sanity, or their life insurance policies.
It was a coliseum of steel and reinforced glass, located deep underground in Sector 4. The air smelled of stale beer, hydraulic fluid, and fresh blood. Holographic ads for "Budget Prosthetics" flashed overhead, knowing their target audience perfectly.
Ren stood at the VIP entrance, holding his crumpled ticket.
A security drone scanned the barcode.
[BEEP. ACCESS GRANTED. WELCOME, YOUR EXCELLENCY.]
"Excellency?" Ren muttered, tugging at his collar. "I usually get called 'Hey You' or 'Trash-Bag'. Moving up in the world."
He stepped into the private elevator. It whisked him upward, far above the screaming masses of the general admission pit, to the Sky-Boxes.
When the doors opened, Ren hesitated.
This wasn't just a seat. It was a throne room.
The box was encased in bulletproof glass. It had leather armchairs, a private bar, and a view that hovered directly over the center of the arena.
Ren walked in, feeling like an imposter. He sat on the edge of the massive leather chair.
To his left, separated by a glass partition, sat Don Giovanni, the leader of the Red Syndicate. The Don was surrounded by six armed guards. He was smoking a cigar that cost more than Ren's apartment.
To his right, in the other box, sat a mysterious woman in a veil (Sylvia, obviously), surrounded by corporate suits.
Don Giovanni noticed Ren. He squinted.
Ren was alone. He wore a cheap jacket. He was eating a bag of "Spicy Slime-Chips" he had smuggled in from a vending machine.
The Don broke into a cold sweat.
'Who is this kid?' The Don thought frantically. 'He's sitting in the Kingmaker's Box. That box has been empty for ten years. And he has no guards? No armor? He's eating snacks?'
In the underworld, traveling without guards meant one of two things: You were suicidal, or you were so terrifyingly powerful that you were the danger.
The Don leaned toward his lieutenant. "Check his identity," he hissed. "Now."
The lieutenant tapped his scanner. "Boss... nothing. His data is encrypted. It just says 'User: Admin'."
(Courtesy of Nexus, who was currently eating Cheetos in his server room while monitoring the feed).
The Don paled. "Admin? He's a Ghost. A Cipher. Don't look at him. If you make eye contact, he might liquidate our entire organization."
Ren, oblivious to the fact that he had just terrified a Mafia Don by eating chips, leaned back.
"Man," Ren sighed happily. "The legroom here is incredible."
[The Arena Floor]
The lights went down. Spotlights swept across the bloodstained sand.
The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! SCUM AND VILLAINS! WELCOME TO THE MAIN EVENT!"
The crowd roared.
"IN THE BLUE CORNER... WEIGHING IN AT 400 POUNDS OF PURE CHROMIUM RAGE... THE MEAT-GRINDER!"
A gate opened, and a cyborg that looked like a tank with legs stomped out. It had chainsaws for hands and a flamethrower mounted on its shoulder.
"AND IN THE RED CORNER... THE UNDEFEATED! THE UNTAMED! THE WARLORD OF THE WASTES... VAAAARG!"
The other gate exploded off its hinges.
Varg walked out. He wasn't wearing power armor. He wasn't using shields. He was wearing loincloth-shorts and the ripped remains of his mask. He carried a massive battle-axe made from the drive-shaft of a spaceship.
The crowd went feral. "VARG! VARG! VARG!"
Varg didn't look at the opponent. He looked up.
His eyes scanned the Sky-Boxes. He saw the Don. He saw the Corporate box.
Then, he saw Ren.
Ren, feeling the weight of the stare, gave a little awkward wave. He held up his bag of chips. 'Thanks for the ticket,' he mouthed.
Varg's chest swelled with emotion.
'He is watching,' Varg thought, tears mixing with his war-paint. 'My Little Support is watching me. I must show him I am strong. I must show him I am worthy of being his shield.'
Varg turned to the Meat-Grinder.
The Meat-Grinder revved his chainsaws. "I'm gonna turn you into paste, freak!"
Varg didn't roar this time. He went deadly silent.
He entered the Flow State. A technique Ren had taught him in the first timeline to control his rage.
"FIGHT!"
The Meat-Grinder charged, flamethrower spewing liquid fire.
Varg didn't dodge. He walked through the fire.
The flames licked his skin, but Varg ignored the pain. He stepped inside the cyborg's guard.
"For Ren," Varg whispered.
He grabbed the cyborg's chainsaw arm with his bare hand. The metal screeched, sparks flying. Varg squeezed.
CRUNCH.
The chainsaw shattered.
The Meat-Grinder screamed, "What the—!"
Varg didn't stop. He grabbed the cyborg by the ankle and the neck. He lifted the 400-pound machine over his head like it was a cardboard box.
"RETURN TO SENDER!" Varg bellowed.
He threw the cyborg.
He didn't throw it at the ground. He threw it out of the arena. The cyborg sailed through the air, crashing into the announcer's booth fifty meters away.
BOOM.
The stadium went silent. The fight had lasted six seconds.
Varg stood in the center of the ring, bathed in spotlight. He looked up at Ren's box.
He raised his axe in a silent salute. Then, he pointed at Ren.
[The VIP Box]
Ren froze.
"Why is he pointing at me?" Ren panicked. "Is he mad? Did I not wave enthusiastically enough?"
In the box next door, Don Giovanni dropped his cigar.
"He... he dedicated the kill to the kid," the Don whispered, trembling. "The Warlord answers to him? That kid must be the secret owner of the Arena. Maybe even the King of the Wastes."
The Don stood up, straightened his suit, and turned to the glass partition separating him from Ren.
He knocked on the glass.
Ren jumped. He looked over. The scary mob boss was... bowing?
The Don held up a bottle of champagne and gestured to Ren, a look of terrified respect on his face.
Ren blinked. "Is he... offering me a drink?"
Ren shrugged and gave a thumbs up. "Free booze? Sure."
The Don collapsed back into his seat, hyperventilating. "He accepted my tribute. We live another day."
[Sylvia's Box]
Sylvia watched the interaction with a flat expression.
"Varg is showing off," she noted coldly. "Throwing opponents? How barbaric. Ren prefers efficiency, not theatrics."
She tapped her datapad.
"Transfer 50,000 credits to Varg's account as a 'Performance Bonus'. But add a note: 'Next time, finish it in three seconds, or I'm cutting your funding.'"
She looked at Ren through the glass. He was currently trying to open the champagne bottle the Don had sent over, struggling with the cork.
A small smile touched her lips.
"Kael," she spoke into her comms. "You're up. Ren is leaving the Arena soon. The streets will be chaotic after the match. Escort him home. Unseen."
[The Exit]
Ren stumbled out of the VIP elevator, slightly buzzed from the champagne and clutching a wad of cash.
"I can't believe I won that bet," Ren giggled. "Who bets against Varg? That guy is a monster. I put ten credits on him and the payout was huge because of the 'First Round KO' multiplier."
He walked out into the cool night air. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by exhaustion.
"What a day," Ren yawned. "Thugs, gentle landlords, scary knife drops, aggressive customer service, and a giant gladiator bestie. I need to sleep for a week."
He turned the corner toward the subway.
SHING.
A shadow detached itself from the wall.
Three figures blocked his path. They weren't gang members. They were professional hitmen, wearing sleek tactical gear. These were The Cleaners, hired by the Meat-Grinder's salty manager to take out the VIP who "rigged" the fight.
"You're the one in the Kingmaker box," the lead assassin said, his voice modulated. "The Manager sends his regards."
Ren sighed. "Can I just have one normal commute? Just one?"
The assassin raised a silenced pistol.
Ren didn't have anywhere to run.
Click.
The streetlights suddenly went dark. All of them.
Pitch blackness enveloped the alley.
"System failure?" one assassin hissed. "Switch to thermal!"
"I can't!" another voice panicked. "My HUD is glitching! It's showing... thousands of targets!"
(Nexus: You're welcome.)
Then, a sound cut through the darkness. The sound of a blade being drawn from a scabbard. Slow. Deliberate. Terrifying.
"Breath of the Void... First Form..."
A voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere.
Ren stood still, blinking in the dark. "Hello?"
Three distinct thuds echoed. The sound of bodies hitting the floor.
The lights flickered back on.
The three assassins were unconscious, stripped of their weapons and their armor, tied together with their own tactical belts in a neat bundle.
Standing on top of the lamppost above them was a figure in a tattered cloak, back turned to Ren.
Ren squinted. "Is that... the guy who threw the knife earlier?"
Kael didn't turn around. He couldn't. He was blushing too hard under his mask. He had practiced a cool one-liner for three hours, but now that he was here, he was too shy to say it.
'Say something cool, Kael,' he told himself. 'Tell him he is safe.'
"Your..." Kael's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Your shoelace is untied."
Kael vanished in a puff of smoke bomb.
Ren looked down. His shoelace was, indeed, untied.
He looked back up at the empty lamppost.
"Thanks?" Ren called out to the empty air. "You guys are really helpful in this neighborhood!"
Ren tied his shoe, stepped over the pile of unconscious assassins, and walked to the subway station.
"I love this city," Ren decided. "It's full of weirdos, but at least they're polite."