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Fandom 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 | 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺
- Thread starter deadly king
- Start date
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
"Hey, chrome dome, over here!"
Those taunting words, thrown just over the pulsing beat of a techno song's breakdown, would have been fighting words from almost anyone else under that roof. From Alvita, though, they were a greeting like any other. A slender arm tipped with blue-green nails poked over the crowd, waving down her chromed-up compatriot from across the room. If the neon green and blue liberty spikes lining the top of her head weren't enough of a giveaway, the goggles around her neck swayed and caught the light as she waved her arms, dazzling the room in arrhythmic flickering somewhere between a strobe light and a distress beacon. Despite her erratic movements and taunting words, the smile she wore was genuine. Almost too genuine.
To balance that unbridled candor, a mutual friend leaned against the wall behind her with a sly, empty smile. With the metal traces crawling over every joint and seam and the cigarette carelessly clasped between two loose fingers, it would've been easy to mistake Tsikavat for a doll. Yet, as Alvita had gotten to know by this point, they were distinctly more business than pleasure, and they were quick to remind their comrade of the business nature of their meeting with a gentle-yet-firm hand on her arm.
"Creative way to introduce yourself, don't you think? Just make sure that creativity doesn't get you shot," they mused, tapping out some ashes before pushing themself off the wall and turning their attention to the solo. "Sentinel, good of you to show up. Not that I thought you'd pass on an opportunity like this, but I was worried the competition may have gotten a jump start on you on your way into Pacifica."
They gestured to Alvita with their cigarette still in hand, a line of smoke seemingly creating an arrow towards the young woman as she glanced between her two teammates. "This is the girl I mentioned on the holo—Alvita. Might know her as J4CKR4BBIT. She's a bit new to Night City, but we ran some ops together while she was still camping out in the Badlands. Kid's a natural when it comes to netrunning though—she's more than capable of keeping your circs cooled through all this," they assured, gesturing to Sentinel next. "Alvita, this 'chrome dome' is Sentinel. Best borg my eds can fetch. He's going to keep you from having to fold your spine for the sake of the mission, so you'd better make a good impression."
"Yeah, yeah, noted. Good thing it's you instead of me, too," Alvita chuckled, tapping a small metal module on the side of her head. "Just got this chipped a few hours ago. It should help me help you and all that good shit, but it also means I'm not in any shape to take a punch to the face. Wish I could just sit outside the ring and see what that chrome can do, but biz is biz. If we make it out of this, maybe I can watch you waste someone at a bar instead. Deal?"
The chatter in the room began to shift. Sparring sessions petered off, murmurs were passed between fighters and their coaches, the subtle whooshing of inhalers formed a veritable wind machine from the Maelstromers' corner, filling the air with the chemical afterglow of black lace. Alvita barely noticed the change, but Tsikavat's smile dropped as his optics lit up, scanning the room for something, but turning up empty. "Seems they're getting ready to start," they murmured, keeping their voice low as they took a drag off their cigarette. "Alright, remember what we discussed. Sentinel, you'll be fighting in Iron Side's corner. You've got his backing, which honestly should be more than enough, but I'll make sure your chrome stays online while you do your thing. Alvita, you'll be providing Sentinel with an extra layer of ICE so he can keep up the carnage while you investigate the subnet. If anyone asks, you're just here as a spectator, and your bets are on Dum Dum. I'm still not sure if these rumors of gangoon netrunners playing foul are legit, but even if you find nothing, I'm sure the big boss will appreciate the extra eyes. Hit me on the holo if you do find someone, though. I'm gonna need to clear their identity with Iron Side before you decide to broil them. Go ahead and scope out the surveillance system, I'll let you know when the fights start."
Alvita gave a nod before hopping up on top of a crate. Her X shaped pupils lit up blue as she scanned the room, then spun in their sockets slightly as she locked onto a camera. Tsikavat kept an eye on her, only breaking his gaze once they were sure she had checked out. They took one final hit off their cigarette before flicking it onto the floor. As the smoke encircled them like fog over a harbor, they stepped forward, putting a hand on Sentinel's shoulder. Optics the color of twin galaxies pierced through the solo as that uncanny calm gave way to something dire.
"Sentinel, I need you to listen carefully," they said, their tone flat and serious. "I know you're here to win, and I don't doubt you'll get to the finals. You've got the sort of chrome that makes MaxTac do a double take when you walk past. I'm telling you now, though: you're going to need to keep a level head and know when to tap out. I've heard there's a merc with ties to the Afterlife who plans on showing up for the finals. Not sure who, I've only got whispers to work off of, but if Iron's letting him into the finals with no prior fights and no gang backing, he's either a complete gonk who he wants to see ripped to shreds for his own amusement, or he knows for a fact that putting him up against anyone below the top level wouldn't even be fun to watch. Depending on who this guy is, you might need to throw in the towel early. This isn't your blaze of glory, choom. This is just one step up the ladder."
That smile returned as Tsikavat leaned back away from Sentinel, taking the hand away from his shoulder and resting it on their hip as the severity left their expression. "Well, that's all you need to know," they noted, gesturing to the ring. "Go on, go find Iron Side and rip up some syn-skin. I'll be ringside if you need me."
Those taunting words, thrown just over the pulsing beat of a techno song's breakdown, would have been fighting words from almost anyone else under that roof. From Alvita, though, they were a greeting like any other. A slender arm tipped with blue-green nails poked over the crowd, waving down her chromed-up compatriot from across the room. If the neon green and blue liberty spikes lining the top of her head weren't enough of a giveaway, the goggles around her neck swayed and caught the light as she waved her arms, dazzling the room in arrhythmic flickering somewhere between a strobe light and a distress beacon. Despite her erratic movements and taunting words, the smile she wore was genuine. Almost too genuine.
To balance that unbridled candor, a mutual friend leaned against the wall behind her with a sly, empty smile. With the metal traces crawling over every joint and seam and the cigarette carelessly clasped between two loose fingers, it would've been easy to mistake Tsikavat for a doll. Yet, as Alvita had gotten to know by this point, they were distinctly more business than pleasure, and they were quick to remind their comrade of the business nature of their meeting with a gentle-yet-firm hand on her arm.
"Creative way to introduce yourself, don't you think? Just make sure that creativity doesn't get you shot," they mused, tapping out some ashes before pushing themself off the wall and turning their attention to the solo. "Sentinel, good of you to show up. Not that I thought you'd pass on an opportunity like this, but I was worried the competition may have gotten a jump start on you on your way into Pacifica."
They gestured to Alvita with their cigarette still in hand, a line of smoke seemingly creating an arrow towards the young woman as she glanced between her two teammates. "This is the girl I mentioned on the holo—Alvita. Might know her as J4CKR4BBIT. She's a bit new to Night City, but we ran some ops together while she was still camping out in the Badlands. Kid's a natural when it comes to netrunning though—she's more than capable of keeping your circs cooled through all this," they assured, gesturing to Sentinel next. "Alvita, this 'chrome dome' is Sentinel. Best borg my eds can fetch. He's going to keep you from having to fold your spine for the sake of the mission, so you'd better make a good impression."
"Yeah, yeah, noted. Good thing it's you instead of me, too," Alvita chuckled, tapping a small metal module on the side of her head. "Just got this chipped a few hours ago. It should help me help you and all that good shit, but it also means I'm not in any shape to take a punch to the face. Wish I could just sit outside the ring and see what that chrome can do, but biz is biz. If we make it out of this, maybe I can watch you waste someone at a bar instead. Deal?"
The chatter in the room began to shift. Sparring sessions petered off, murmurs were passed between fighters and their coaches, the subtle whooshing of inhalers formed a veritable wind machine from the Maelstromers' corner, filling the air with the chemical afterglow of black lace. Alvita barely noticed the change, but Tsikavat's smile dropped as his optics lit up, scanning the room for something, but turning up empty. "Seems they're getting ready to start," they murmured, keeping their voice low as they took a drag off their cigarette. "Alright, remember what we discussed. Sentinel, you'll be fighting in Iron Side's corner. You've got his backing, which honestly should be more than enough, but I'll make sure your chrome stays online while you do your thing. Alvita, you'll be providing Sentinel with an extra layer of ICE so he can keep up the carnage while you investigate the subnet. If anyone asks, you're just here as a spectator, and your bets are on Dum Dum. I'm still not sure if these rumors of gangoon netrunners playing foul are legit, but even if you find nothing, I'm sure the big boss will appreciate the extra eyes. Hit me on the holo if you do find someone, though. I'm gonna need to clear their identity with Iron Side before you decide to broil them. Go ahead and scope out the surveillance system, I'll let you know when the fights start."
Alvita gave a nod before hopping up on top of a crate. Her X shaped pupils lit up blue as she scanned the room, then spun in their sockets slightly as she locked onto a camera. Tsikavat kept an eye on her, only breaking his gaze once they were sure she had checked out. They took one final hit off their cigarette before flicking it onto the floor. As the smoke encircled them like fog over a harbor, they stepped forward, putting a hand on Sentinel's shoulder. Optics the color of twin galaxies pierced through the solo as that uncanny calm gave way to something dire.
"Sentinel, I need you to listen carefully," they said, their tone flat and serious. "I know you're here to win, and I don't doubt you'll get to the finals. You've got the sort of chrome that makes MaxTac do a double take when you walk past. I'm telling you now, though: you're going to need to keep a level head and know when to tap out. I've heard there's a merc with ties to the Afterlife who plans on showing up for the finals. Not sure who, I've only got whispers to work off of, but if Iron's letting him into the finals with no prior fights and no gang backing, he's either a complete gonk who he wants to see ripped to shreds for his own amusement, or he knows for a fact that putting him up against anyone below the top level wouldn't even be fun to watch. Depending on who this guy is, you might need to throw in the towel early. This isn't your blaze of glory, choom. This is just one step up the ladder."
That smile returned as Tsikavat leaned back away from Sentinel, taking the hand away from his shoulder and resting it on their hip as the severity left their expression. "Well, that's all you need to know," they noted, gesturing to the ring. "Go on, go find Iron Side and rip up some syn-skin. I'll be ringside if you need me."
deadly king
never fade away
Sentinel, adorned in gleaming chrome and a confident smirk, effortlessly made his way through the neon-lit chaos of the underground championship venue. Approaching the duo, he took a moment to size up the wild-haired netrunner, and Tsikavat, their mutual contact. Neither of their appearances shocked the man, having grown up in the concrete jungle. However, Tsikavat's distinctive appearance dripped with sex appeal, making him the perfect candidate for the next episode of Watson Whore. Forcibly, Sentinel pried his eyes away from the clean, gleaming chrome, turning to the one that would be keeping him alive during the oncoming onslaught of chrome junkies and syn-skin.
"Good to have another pair of eyes on the grid. Let's make this show unforgettable," he remarked, his attitude undeterred. The mention of recent cyberware enhancements piqued his interest, but the proposition of a chaotic bar night captured his attention, "Deal. After we clean up this mess, I'll buy you a drink and show you how real chrome gets the job done."
As Tsikavat laid out the plan, Sentinel listened attentively, eyes scanning the room for potential threats. The directive to keep an eye out for a mysterious merc with ties to the Afterlife intrigued him. Who could it be? A competitor from a prior year? But, who had enough status to be allowed into The Afterlife, and enough straight wires to not be an asshole? No sane person would willingly throw themselves into the ring -- unless they were extremely confident in their cybernetics -- or if they were getting paid enough.
"Got it, Tsikavat. I'll keep my circuits cool and play it smart. No blaze of glory, just another rung on the ladder," lying through his teeth, and with a final nod, the merc left. Who could play it safe in a place like this? With dense adrenaline-laced air and blood already splattered across the walls, it would be impossible to hold anything back. The pulsating techno beats and the anticipatory hum of the crowd filled the air as the solo embraced the impending mayhem.
In his contractor's corner, stood the solo and their trusted driver, an odd pairing to say the least. Iron Side was a near-hulking beast of a man, standing nearly 8 feet tall with a full set of curly textured hair, shining metallic gold piercings, and a finely tailored suit to their muscular frame. Iron was an Animals' member by name and status only, ditching the gang's athleisure fashion, brash hormone-raged attitude, and disfigurement from steroids. Having previously lived as a monk, they are known to have few implants and a skewed perspective on life. On the other hand, their driver had a striking presence with short purple-dyed hair, framing a face with piercing, dark-colored eyes with a sea of mystery. Standing at an average height, Kaoru Masako's slender frame carried a deceivingly powerful air, dressed in a blend of edgy and high-end streetwear.
Being a seasoned solo with a track record of completing police contracts, taking down cyberpsychos, and overall thriving in the cutthroat streets of Night City, there was no doubt Sentinel would slaughter every single person in his way. Why else would Iron Side, a seasoned veteran in the Pacifica ring, choose him as one of their champions?
"Ready to kick some fuckin' ass?" spoke the driver first, grinning upon his entrance. Her hand rested upon his shoulder, chatting as Sentinel continued to observe his opponents, "How're ya feeling? Like you can take on the world, right?"
"You beat your ass I am, gonna make those chooms regret even looking at me," Sentinel threatened with a chuckle. Despite the chaotic atmosphere surrounding them, his mind began strategizing the best approach to the impending melee.
"That's the spirit! We're here to make some waves!"
With a final impatient nod, heavy footsteps echoed as he descended the steps back towards the arena. However, just before he could fully escape his sponsor's powerful gaze, Kaoru approached from behind, voice barely above a whisper, "Hey, Sentinel . . . just a little heads up," she leaned further in, inches from his helmet, as she stood above him. Dark eyes pierced through his own, a silent warning echoing in their depths, "I need you to understand something. There's more than just your pride on the line here. I've got ten thousand eddies riding on your head, and I won't lose a single dime tonight." After a brief pause, her stern look pulled into a grin, stepping away, "So good luck! . . . You're going to need it."
The pulsating beats returned as Sentinel stepped out to the hallway, heavy footsteps matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts as the anticipation brewed within him. Each step he took echoed with a sense of purpose, his cybernetic limbs moving with rushed grace, afraid the fight would leave him behind. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding against the crowd's excitement and cheers as the area came into view.
Pulling up his holo, the man began to ring the netrunner, quickly establishing their connection to lay out their plan.
"Hey, almost inside -- in position? Dyin' to get all started,"
"Good to have another pair of eyes on the grid. Let's make this show unforgettable," he remarked, his attitude undeterred. The mention of recent cyberware enhancements piqued his interest, but the proposition of a chaotic bar night captured his attention, "Deal. After we clean up this mess, I'll buy you a drink and show you how real chrome gets the job done."
As Tsikavat laid out the plan, Sentinel listened attentively, eyes scanning the room for potential threats. The directive to keep an eye out for a mysterious merc with ties to the Afterlife intrigued him. Who could it be? A competitor from a prior year? But, who had enough status to be allowed into The Afterlife, and enough straight wires to not be an asshole? No sane person would willingly throw themselves into the ring -- unless they were extremely confident in their cybernetics -- or if they were getting paid enough.
"Got it, Tsikavat. I'll keep my circuits cool and play it smart. No blaze of glory, just another rung on the ladder," lying through his teeth, and with a final nod, the merc left. Who could play it safe in a place like this? With dense adrenaline-laced air and blood already splattered across the walls, it would be impossible to hold anything back. The pulsating techno beats and the anticipatory hum of the crowd filled the air as the solo embraced the impending mayhem.
In his contractor's corner, stood the solo and their trusted driver, an odd pairing to say the least. Iron Side was a near-hulking beast of a man, standing nearly 8 feet tall with a full set of curly textured hair, shining metallic gold piercings, and a finely tailored suit to their muscular frame. Iron was an Animals' member by name and status only, ditching the gang's athleisure fashion, brash hormone-raged attitude, and disfigurement from steroids. Having previously lived as a monk, they are known to have few implants and a skewed perspective on life. On the other hand, their driver had a striking presence with short purple-dyed hair, framing a face with piercing, dark-colored eyes with a sea of mystery. Standing at an average height, Kaoru Masako's slender frame carried a deceivingly powerful air, dressed in a blend of edgy and high-end streetwear.
Being a seasoned solo with a track record of completing police contracts, taking down cyberpsychos, and overall thriving in the cutthroat streets of Night City, there was no doubt Sentinel would slaughter every single person in his way. Why else would Iron Side, a seasoned veteran in the Pacifica ring, choose him as one of their champions?
"Ready to kick some fuckin' ass?" spoke the driver first, grinning upon his entrance. Her hand rested upon his shoulder, chatting as Sentinel continued to observe his opponents, "How're ya feeling? Like you can take on the world, right?"
"You beat your ass I am, gonna make those chooms regret even looking at me," Sentinel threatened with a chuckle. Despite the chaotic atmosphere surrounding them, his mind began strategizing the best approach to the impending melee.
"That's the spirit! We're here to make some waves!"
With a final impatient nod, heavy footsteps echoed as he descended the steps back towards the arena. However, just before he could fully escape his sponsor's powerful gaze, Kaoru approached from behind, voice barely above a whisper, "Hey, Sentinel . . . just a little heads up," she leaned further in, inches from his helmet, as she stood above him. Dark eyes pierced through his own, a silent warning echoing in their depths, "I need you to understand something. There's more than just your pride on the line here. I've got ten thousand eddies riding on your head, and I won't lose a single dime tonight." After a brief pause, her stern look pulled into a grin, stepping away, "So good luck! . . . You're going to need it."
The pulsating beats returned as Sentinel stepped out to the hallway, heavy footsteps matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts as the anticipation brewed within him. Each step he took echoed with a sense of purpose, his cybernetic limbs moving with rushed grace, afraid the fight would leave him behind. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding against the crowd's excitement and cheers as the area came into view.
Pulling up his holo, the man began to ring the netrunner, quickly establishing their connection to lay out their plan.
"Hey, almost inside -- in position? Dyin' to get all started,"
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
Tsikavat rolled their eyes the moment Sentinel's back was turned. The up-and-coming solo was a force to be reckoned with, that much was certain. Even with all the gangs that had come to congregate at this arena, they were still confident that their chromed-up connection would take it to the finals. Still, as they slipped through the crowd to get closer to the ring, they knew there was still a very present risk of failure. Oiled-up steel weighed on the air almost as heavily as the liquor and body odor did. A lot of these gangs were putting forward their best goons, and with that their most well-oiled weapons of war. Sentinel was definitely able to take the almost full-borg c-psychos of Maelstrom, the Sandevistan-wired swordsmen of the Tyger Claws, the gold-plated bruisers of the Valentinos, the military veterans of 6th Street, the dirty tactics of the Scavengers, and even the pure brute strength of the Animals. However, each round would wear him down. That was an inevitability faced by both man and machine: wear and tear.
They turned their head to stare at Iron Side and Kaoru for a moment as they passed by, watching as Sentinel interacted with them. It was good they had a getaway driver. This place was a powderkeg. Too many elements in one place. It was a miracle no gang wars had broken out—but then again, eddies were on the line. Perhaps it wasn't a shock, then. Still, they had to return their gaze to the path ahead after a short time. They were getting too many side-eyes. It was practically impossible not to feel red optics burning into their skull. They swore they could hear synthesized voices murmuring their name—and maybe even names they no longer claimed. Swiping an old plastic crate, they sat down and pulled a small roll-up storage case off of their belt and unrolled it to reveal a small array of tools. Nothing professional-grade, but enough to adjust and recalibrate some cyberware in a pinch. Behind an expression calm as the morning bay, their anxiety showed only through their thin fingers which refused to stay still, polishing miniscule amounts of dirt and rust from between the ridges of a drill bit or the threads of a screw. The metal in the air clung to them, too. It clung to everything.
As Tsikavat began inspecting their tools for the rounds ahead, they wondered not if Sentinel could defeat each individual opponent, but if he could last until the end. When that mystery fighter from the Afterlife arrived, would he still have the steam to take them? Would he even care? At what point would it even be their problem? Really, all they had to do was make sure no netrunners crashed the party. Beyond that point, if Sentinel died, it might just be considered substandard work. Not that they wanted the solo dead, but it was a factor they had to consider. A factor they could accurately predict for, unlike the mysterious combatant in the shadows.
Just before they could get completely lost in thought, a bright green holocall icon flickered to life in the corner of their vision. It was a cartoonish depiction of a decapitated Rabbit's head with crossed-out eyes—the telltale calling card of Alvita. Putting on a calm smile, they answered the call, meeting the glowing eyes of the netrunner. "Testing, one-two," she hummed. "Am I coming in clear, Tsikavat?"
"Clear as crystal," they responded, putting their tools away. "I take it you've browsed all the cams on the subnet. How are we looking?"
"Yeah, about that—a millisec, let me patch Sentinel in," she responded, pausing for a moment before opening the line to Sentinel as well. "Hey, hear you loud and clear. Yeah, I'm in position. Clear eyes on the ring right now. Some 6th Streeter's strutting around yelling about how he served four different deployments, like anyone gives a fuck. Guess that'd be your first mark."
Tsikavat squinted through the crowd and initiated a cursory scan of the ring. Sure enough, a 6th Street sarge was pacing around the center of the ring, hyping up his fellow ringside gangoons with some spiel about American might and the strength of a soldier. Maybe it was fortunate that Sentinel was on his way into the ring—the Claws were beginning to look fed up with the rambling veteran. What an interesting position to be in where getting your lights knocked out by a borg was the preferable option. They pondered the predicament of the 6th Streeter as they lit up a cigarette, letting the smoke filter through the flesh and metal in their throat. "There's a lot of interference keeping me from getting a clear feed on cams five and eight," Alvita continued. "Looks like I'm not the only runner who wants to peep the joint. Nothing to worry about though, I'll have that snag taken care of before the bell rings. In fact... There! Cam five is back online! Not much activity on it so far, just a couple of Scavs drinking beer around the side of the building."
"Copy that," Tsikavat affirmed. "Keep us posted. I want to know when you're able to get eyes on eight or if you see any unusual activity over the subnet. Oh, and remember what I said earlier about the entrances and exits."
"Yeah, yeah—anyone in or out, you need to know. Just because I spend a lot of time buzzing wires doesn't mean my brain's been broiled yet."
"I've found it's the best option to leave a little doubt in all things. Now, let's get down to biz."
"Right. Sentinel, I'm requesting access. Let me in and I'll apply the ICE. Once it's installed, you're clear to go."
As Tsikavat and Alvita both muted their ends of the line, he pulled another drag from the cigarette to drown out the other chemicals in the air. Tar and nicotine was much more preferable to the fumes of s-keef and spray paint, though the scowls he received from a few Maelstromers told him this opinion wasn't universal. This close to the ring, other smells could be detected as well, and their optics picked up details in the ring's construction. It wasn't just built for boxing like the one in the GIM. If it were, there might have at least been an attempt at the visage of professional sportsmanship. This arena was little more than a poured concrete slab with the bleach-stained padding of an old ring rivited to its surface and rebar affixed to each corner, caution tape string between each metal post serving as a rope. The scent of bleach was still heavy this close to the ring. It must've soaked through the padding. Stools had been welded to the rebar in two of the corners—and if the weld quality was any indicator, it wasn't the first time this had been done in an attempt to keep the stools from being weaponized. The other two rebar posts seemed slightly eroded. A detailed scan revealed elevated iron oxide levels near the tips. Blood, rust, did it matter? In a place like this, combatants were well-aware of the dangers.
Or, at least, they were aware enough to feel confident.
The 6th Streeter in the ring turned his attention from the crowd to Sentinel as the solo entered the ring, sneering as he flexed his metal arms. As if there were anything to flex in an armature. "Well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a civvie who thinks they can take me on," he laughed, pantomiming cracking his knuckles as he stood ready in his corner. "I'll warn you right now—war couldn't kill me, and it's tried four times already. You think you can outdo that, or do you need to run home and change your thermal paste?"
Tsikavat slipped over to Sentinel's corner of the ring, leaning against the rebar and smiling at Sentinel through a halo of smoke. Though it was hidden beneath layers of leather and glass, they knew that war experience wouldn't have prepared anyone for what was coming. They could remember patching him up in the field on previous missions, clearing dust and blood from between the gaps, feeling the microrotors whir to life as the effects of a MaxDoc kicked in. They had felt that machine inside and out, and it was a sight just to see him operate. Above all, though, there was one thing that the cocky veteran across the ring hadn't factored in. The one missing piece to his plan.
War had rules. War had honor. This wasn't war.
"Armware seems outdated," they mused to Sentinel, tilting their head. "Never understood why 6th Street types got so attached to their prosthetics..."
A small laugh slipped out as they backed away from the rebar, almost melodic in tone. "Well, his loss. Try not to have too much fun with him."
They turned their head to stare at Iron Side and Kaoru for a moment as they passed by, watching as Sentinel interacted with them. It was good they had a getaway driver. This place was a powderkeg. Too many elements in one place. It was a miracle no gang wars had broken out—but then again, eddies were on the line. Perhaps it wasn't a shock, then. Still, they had to return their gaze to the path ahead after a short time. They were getting too many side-eyes. It was practically impossible not to feel red optics burning into their skull. They swore they could hear synthesized voices murmuring their name—and maybe even names they no longer claimed. Swiping an old plastic crate, they sat down and pulled a small roll-up storage case off of their belt and unrolled it to reveal a small array of tools. Nothing professional-grade, but enough to adjust and recalibrate some cyberware in a pinch. Behind an expression calm as the morning bay, their anxiety showed only through their thin fingers which refused to stay still, polishing miniscule amounts of dirt and rust from between the ridges of a drill bit or the threads of a screw. The metal in the air clung to them, too. It clung to everything.
As Tsikavat began inspecting their tools for the rounds ahead, they wondered not if Sentinel could defeat each individual opponent, but if he could last until the end. When that mystery fighter from the Afterlife arrived, would he still have the steam to take them? Would he even care? At what point would it even be their problem? Really, all they had to do was make sure no netrunners crashed the party. Beyond that point, if Sentinel died, it might just be considered substandard work. Not that they wanted the solo dead, but it was a factor they had to consider. A factor they could accurately predict for, unlike the mysterious combatant in the shadows.
Just before they could get completely lost in thought, a bright green holocall icon flickered to life in the corner of their vision. It was a cartoonish depiction of a decapitated Rabbit's head with crossed-out eyes—the telltale calling card of Alvita. Putting on a calm smile, they answered the call, meeting the glowing eyes of the netrunner. "Testing, one-two," she hummed. "Am I coming in clear, Tsikavat?"
"Clear as crystal," they responded, putting their tools away. "I take it you've browsed all the cams on the subnet. How are we looking?"
"Yeah, about that—a millisec, let me patch Sentinel in," she responded, pausing for a moment before opening the line to Sentinel as well. "Hey, hear you loud and clear. Yeah, I'm in position. Clear eyes on the ring right now. Some 6th Streeter's strutting around yelling about how he served four different deployments, like anyone gives a fuck. Guess that'd be your first mark."
Tsikavat squinted through the crowd and initiated a cursory scan of the ring. Sure enough, a 6th Street sarge was pacing around the center of the ring, hyping up his fellow ringside gangoons with some spiel about American might and the strength of a soldier. Maybe it was fortunate that Sentinel was on his way into the ring—the Claws were beginning to look fed up with the rambling veteran. What an interesting position to be in where getting your lights knocked out by a borg was the preferable option. They pondered the predicament of the 6th Streeter as they lit up a cigarette, letting the smoke filter through the flesh and metal in their throat. "There's a lot of interference keeping me from getting a clear feed on cams five and eight," Alvita continued. "Looks like I'm not the only runner who wants to peep the joint. Nothing to worry about though, I'll have that snag taken care of before the bell rings. In fact... There! Cam five is back online! Not much activity on it so far, just a couple of Scavs drinking beer around the side of the building."
"Copy that," Tsikavat affirmed. "Keep us posted. I want to know when you're able to get eyes on eight or if you see any unusual activity over the subnet. Oh, and remember what I said earlier about the entrances and exits."
"Yeah, yeah—anyone in or out, you need to know. Just because I spend a lot of time buzzing wires doesn't mean my brain's been broiled yet."
"I've found it's the best option to leave a little doubt in all things. Now, let's get down to biz."
"Right. Sentinel, I'm requesting access. Let me in and I'll apply the ICE. Once it's installed, you're clear to go."
As Tsikavat and Alvita both muted their ends of the line, he pulled another drag from the cigarette to drown out the other chemicals in the air. Tar and nicotine was much more preferable to the fumes of s-keef and spray paint, though the scowls he received from a few Maelstromers told him this opinion wasn't universal. This close to the ring, other smells could be detected as well, and their optics picked up details in the ring's construction. It wasn't just built for boxing like the one in the GIM. If it were, there might have at least been an attempt at the visage of professional sportsmanship. This arena was little more than a poured concrete slab with the bleach-stained padding of an old ring rivited to its surface and rebar affixed to each corner, caution tape string between each metal post serving as a rope. The scent of bleach was still heavy this close to the ring. It must've soaked through the padding. Stools had been welded to the rebar in two of the corners—and if the weld quality was any indicator, it wasn't the first time this had been done in an attempt to keep the stools from being weaponized. The other two rebar posts seemed slightly eroded. A detailed scan revealed elevated iron oxide levels near the tips. Blood, rust, did it matter? In a place like this, combatants were well-aware of the dangers.
Or, at least, they were aware enough to feel confident.
The 6th Streeter in the ring turned his attention from the crowd to Sentinel as the solo entered the ring, sneering as he flexed his metal arms. As if there were anything to flex in an armature. "Well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a civvie who thinks they can take me on," he laughed, pantomiming cracking his knuckles as he stood ready in his corner. "I'll warn you right now—war couldn't kill me, and it's tried four times already. You think you can outdo that, or do you need to run home and change your thermal paste?"
Tsikavat slipped over to Sentinel's corner of the ring, leaning against the rebar and smiling at Sentinel through a halo of smoke. Though it was hidden beneath layers of leather and glass, they knew that war experience wouldn't have prepared anyone for what was coming. They could remember patching him up in the field on previous missions, clearing dust and blood from between the gaps, feeling the microrotors whir to life as the effects of a MaxDoc kicked in. They had felt that machine inside and out, and it was a sight just to see him operate. Above all, though, there was one thing that the cocky veteran across the ring hadn't factored in. The one missing piece to his plan.
War had rules. War had honor. This wasn't war.
"Armware seems outdated," they mused to Sentinel, tilting their head. "Never understood why 6th Street types got so attached to their prosthetics..."
A small laugh slipped out as they backed away from the rebar, almost melodic in tone. "Well, his loss. Try not to have too much fun with him."
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deadly king
never fade away
Sure enough, there was something about the veteran's arrogance that set them off as well. The man was a walking scrapyard, more chrome than flesh. He'd already fought to the death several times and been patched up again and again. Was he as tough as he claimed? Or had it simply been his luck so far? As if on cue, the veteran finally decided to make the first move.
With no warning, the man burst out of his corner and lunged across the ring, arms swinging in wide arcs meant to bash Sentinel down, and the solo responded flawlessly, ducking beneath the swings and delivering a swift kick to the veteran's stomach. As the 6th Streeter doubled over, Sentinel's fist flashed forward, catching the veteran right in the jaw and sending him stumbling across the ring.
The sudden burst of speed surprised both Sentinel and Tsikavat. However, the cyborg's reaction time was unmatched as the veteran clumsily backpedaled to dodge. Taking advantage of the veteran's momentum, Sentinel quickly closed the distance and delivered a right hook to the jaw. The solo's enhanced strength sent the bulky man spinning and slamming onto the canvas as Sentinel prepared his follow-up.
The 6th Streeter struggled to regain his feet as Sentinel circled him rapidly, moving like a predator in the hunt, looking for the best angle of attack. As the veteran rose to his full height, his jaw was still reeling and his vision was just beginning to clear. Before he had time to react, Sentinel was on him again, a punch striking the side of his head just above his left eye. The man hit the ground with a thump, rolling a couple of times before lying lifelessly near 6th Street's corner.
The crowd erupted into a mix of boos and cheers as Sentinel's relentless assault continued. They could see he held no mercy and would not stop until the vet was a bloody mess. He stepped over to the veteran and gave him a hard kick to the side of the head before reaching down and grabbing him by the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet quickly, and slamming him down for a brutal backbreaker. He dropped the vet like a bag of rags onto the canvas and began approaching the corner where 6th Street was gathered. However, they quickly scattered away from the rampaging solo in sheer panic, leaving their vet to his fate.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, the solo blinked, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he surveyed the aftermath of his handiwork. The crowd's frenzied reactions, the distant echoes of shouts and cheers, the lingering scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he remained focused, his cybernetic enhancements calculating every move with precision.
"Kick the shit outta one guy then they all go runnin'," he shook his head, further marching. "Spot anythin' interesting yet up there?" he asked, momentarily turning his attention towards the ceiling, hoping to make out the shape of the hired netrunner.
With no warning, the man burst out of his corner and lunged across the ring, arms swinging in wide arcs meant to bash Sentinel down, and the solo responded flawlessly, ducking beneath the swings and delivering a swift kick to the veteran's stomach. As the 6th Streeter doubled over, Sentinel's fist flashed forward, catching the veteran right in the jaw and sending him stumbling across the ring.
The sudden burst of speed surprised both Sentinel and Tsikavat. However, the cyborg's reaction time was unmatched as the veteran clumsily backpedaled to dodge. Taking advantage of the veteran's momentum, Sentinel quickly closed the distance and delivered a right hook to the jaw. The solo's enhanced strength sent the bulky man spinning and slamming onto the canvas as Sentinel prepared his follow-up.
The 6th Streeter struggled to regain his feet as Sentinel circled him rapidly, moving like a predator in the hunt, looking for the best angle of attack. As the veteran rose to his full height, his jaw was still reeling and his vision was just beginning to clear. Before he had time to react, Sentinel was on him again, a punch striking the side of his head just above his left eye. The man hit the ground with a thump, rolling a couple of times before lying lifelessly near 6th Street's corner.
The crowd erupted into a mix of boos and cheers as Sentinel's relentless assault continued. They could see he held no mercy and would not stop until the vet was a bloody mess. He stepped over to the veteran and gave him a hard kick to the side of the head before reaching down and grabbing him by the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet quickly, and slamming him down for a brutal backbreaker. He dropped the vet like a bag of rags onto the canvas and began approaching the corner where 6th Street was gathered. However, they quickly scattered away from the rampaging solo in sheer panic, leaving their vet to his fate.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, the solo blinked, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he surveyed the aftermath of his handiwork. The crowd's frenzied reactions, the distant echoes of shouts and cheers, the lingering scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he remained focused, his cybernetic enhancements calculating every move with precision.
"Kick the shit outta one guy then they all go runnin'," he shook his head, further marching. "Spot anythin' interesting yet up there?" he asked, momentarily turning his attention towards the ceiling, hoping to make out the shape of the hired netrunner.
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
In between hints of clove and vanilla, Tsikavat took in the scent of the violence before them. Chrome against chrome, that piercing, crunching contact made between the two combatants. It filled the air with a metal taste only matched by the blood that poured from the mouth and nose of Sentinel's target, and the techie stepped to the side slightly to avoid the spray that misted the air as the veteran's face took another powerful hook. They could hardly even keep track of the blows being dealt, seeing little more than a pitch black blur at times before the sickening crack of chrome to bone. For a brief moment, they were able to look into the glassy surface of the merc's helmet. Sometimes there would be emoticons displayed on it—silly little pixelated faces to make up for the lack of a visible real face.
At times like these, no such graces were given. There was no light behind that darkened surface, and the only color on display was the red smear of blood. Their calm smile briefly wavered, showing synthetic teeth if only for a moment. The scientists must've been wrong, they figured. Adrenaline was as contagious as any disease.
As the patriot was broken, broken further, and unceremoniously dumped onto the tattered canvas of the ring below, Tsikavat approached the ringside once more, being careful not to lean against the spit and block that now slicked part of their corner. They could hear the heavy breathing of the solo over comms, the subtle whirring of his cyberware making microadjustments. Now that the rest of the gangers had scattered—true-blooded NUSAmericans they were—the techie wondered with a tilted head if that earlier arrogance would be punished any further. Sure, it would be overkill, but what were they there for if not a show?
Alvita's voice over the shared comms line served as a stark reminder: biz. That was their purpose. The nomad's response was accompanied by a subtle halt in the movement of a security camera above the ring—her only giveaway. Surely the girl herself was tucked away near an access point by now, jacked into the subnet completely out of sight. "What, apart from you dumpstering that puffed-up patriot like he was a busted, out-of-date training bot?" she quipped, the camera above performing a quick sweep of the room. "Still working on getting cam eight online. I've almost got a lock on the runner who's blocking access, and I've got a nice little surprise planned for them if they decide they want to stay jacked in. Beyond that? The scavs from cam five left as soon as your fight ended, I can see Iron Side and Kaoru on cam three handling the creds from that absolute wash and 6th Street does not look pleased about the losses, there's a corpo on cam six taking the fattest rip off of an inhaler I've ever seen—swear he looks familiar too. Did I do a gig for him once?"
"Focus," Tsikavat chided, scanning the room around them for any changes. "It's strange that the scavs only moved once the fight ended. I would understand if they came inside once it began, but... Can you check all available cams and relay information about the scavs in the building?"
"Alright, on it. Maybe you could stand to take a hit from that corpo too."
A moment of silence interspersed by thoughtful humming followed. It was a tune unfamiliar to Tsikavat's auditory processors. No song title or artist generated. Maybe it was something more underground that hadn't been logged in their database yet? Or maybe it was an old folk tune from her ex-family? They made a note to ask once the biz was taken care of. It wasn't often they encountered gaps like that, and the stress of the unknown manifested in a thicker cloud of smoke overhead.
"Alright, back," she said, the camera over the ring flicking back into her control. "Scavs are definitely acting strange. There's only one placing bets, and he's clearly on comms with someone else. There's a bunch of them near one of the emergency exits, not even close to the arena. I just saw one sprint towards my blind spot on cam eight—and I'd bet anything the runner blocking my view there is a scav runner. I can't be sure that they've actually done anything yet, but they're definitely acting strange. Sentinel, Maelstrom's getting ready to send up a fighter. Guess your chrome impressed the borg fuckers. Give the crowd a show, keep them occupied. I'll keep you posted."
"Copy that," Tsikavat answered, tapping the ashes off the end of their cigarette as their eyes went to the floor. They didn't want to see or be seen by the aforementioned Borg fuckers. It was unavoidable being in such close quarters, but they really couldn't find any enthusiasm in the concept of being studied by the chromed-out gangoons of Northside—even at a distance. The scav issue was even more cause for alarm. It wasn't necessarily unexpected given the area, but it made them thankful they were on comms and would be easily noticed were they to suddenly vanish.
"Oh, hey, one more thing you should know," Alvita's voice buzzed over the comms again, a slight unsteadiness to the cool optimism she'd displayed thus far. "There's... Someone approaching the building out front. On foot. Alone. Doesn't seem to be in a rush, either. I don't know if he's going to enter or not, but I'm not getting a good vibe from him. He looks way too calm for someone walking the streets of Pacifica by himself at night. I can't get a good bead on him yet since he's too far away and this camera is kind of shit, but I'll let you know if he walks in."
"You can't pick up any details right now?"
"Like I said, not really. It's dark and this camera's covered in scop and ten years out of date, I'm doing my best with this pile of scrap. I can only see broad strokes. He's on the shorter side, stocky, long hair, wearing... A cowboy hat? I can't tell if that's a cowboy hat or a smudge on the lens."
As a fighter approached from Maelstrom's corner to challenge Sentinel—arguably more machine than man with a distinct lack of a bottom jaw for the solo to punch—Tsikavat's mind went into overdrive trying to figure out who that lone cowboy could be. A late arrival from 6th Street? An Aldecaldo wandering in from the Biotechnica fields to test their luck? But who would be so cavalier about strutting through any part of Night City after dark like that, especially alone?
"Update me as soon as he gets inside," Tsikavat mused, staring up at the camera. "Primary focus is the scavs, but if you think this man's bad news, trust your instincts. They could save us."
"Gotcha. I'm going to get back to cam eight for a bit—oh that is one ugly motherfucker. Fuck me. Good luck with that, dude. I'll be in touch."
With that, Alvita's comm line fell silent once more and Tsikavat draped their arm over the lower rope as they leaned in to get a better look at Sentinel. He seemed fine apart from the momentary loss of focus from the adrenaline high—barely even warmed up. Still, the thought of that potential Afterlife merc lingered in the back of their mind. If that gladiator showed up, would the fresher-faced solo even stand a chance? People didn't just get into that club based on low-level klep jobs and the occasional busted lip in an underground fight ring. They were there because they had legendary feats under their belts—and the stains of blood both synth and ganic permanently staining their hands to show for it.
Would this demolition derby become an endurance test? A true test of survival skills rather than a show of chrome?
"Your chrome seems fine for now," they mused, their eyes lighting up as they ran a scan on Sentinel. "I'm guessing Alvita's ICE is holding up well, too. Still, I'm not in your body. If you feel something off, let me know. I'll try to fix it up before you get in too deep."
At times like these, no such graces were given. There was no light behind that darkened surface, and the only color on display was the red smear of blood. Their calm smile briefly wavered, showing synthetic teeth if only for a moment. The scientists must've been wrong, they figured. Adrenaline was as contagious as any disease.
As the patriot was broken, broken further, and unceremoniously dumped onto the tattered canvas of the ring below, Tsikavat approached the ringside once more, being careful not to lean against the spit and block that now slicked part of their corner. They could hear the heavy breathing of the solo over comms, the subtle whirring of his cyberware making microadjustments. Now that the rest of the gangers had scattered—true-blooded NUSAmericans they were—the techie wondered with a tilted head if that earlier arrogance would be punished any further. Sure, it would be overkill, but what were they there for if not a show?
Alvita's voice over the shared comms line served as a stark reminder: biz. That was their purpose. The nomad's response was accompanied by a subtle halt in the movement of a security camera above the ring—her only giveaway. Surely the girl herself was tucked away near an access point by now, jacked into the subnet completely out of sight. "What, apart from you dumpstering that puffed-up patriot like he was a busted, out-of-date training bot?" she quipped, the camera above performing a quick sweep of the room. "Still working on getting cam eight online. I've almost got a lock on the runner who's blocking access, and I've got a nice little surprise planned for them if they decide they want to stay jacked in. Beyond that? The scavs from cam five left as soon as your fight ended, I can see Iron Side and Kaoru on cam three handling the creds from that absolute wash and 6th Street does not look pleased about the losses, there's a corpo on cam six taking the fattest rip off of an inhaler I've ever seen—swear he looks familiar too. Did I do a gig for him once?"
"Focus," Tsikavat chided, scanning the room around them for any changes. "It's strange that the scavs only moved once the fight ended. I would understand if they came inside once it began, but... Can you check all available cams and relay information about the scavs in the building?"
"Alright, on it. Maybe you could stand to take a hit from that corpo too."
A moment of silence interspersed by thoughtful humming followed. It was a tune unfamiliar to Tsikavat's auditory processors. No song title or artist generated. Maybe it was something more underground that hadn't been logged in their database yet? Or maybe it was an old folk tune from her ex-family? They made a note to ask once the biz was taken care of. It wasn't often they encountered gaps like that, and the stress of the unknown manifested in a thicker cloud of smoke overhead.
"Alright, back," she said, the camera over the ring flicking back into her control. "Scavs are definitely acting strange. There's only one placing bets, and he's clearly on comms with someone else. There's a bunch of them near one of the emergency exits, not even close to the arena. I just saw one sprint towards my blind spot on cam eight—and I'd bet anything the runner blocking my view there is a scav runner. I can't be sure that they've actually done anything yet, but they're definitely acting strange. Sentinel, Maelstrom's getting ready to send up a fighter. Guess your chrome impressed the borg fuckers. Give the crowd a show, keep them occupied. I'll keep you posted."
"Copy that," Tsikavat answered, tapping the ashes off the end of their cigarette as their eyes went to the floor. They didn't want to see or be seen by the aforementioned Borg fuckers. It was unavoidable being in such close quarters, but they really couldn't find any enthusiasm in the concept of being studied by the chromed-out gangoons of Northside—even at a distance. The scav issue was even more cause for alarm. It wasn't necessarily unexpected given the area, but it made them thankful they were on comms and would be easily noticed were they to suddenly vanish.
"Oh, hey, one more thing you should know," Alvita's voice buzzed over the comms again, a slight unsteadiness to the cool optimism she'd displayed thus far. "There's... Someone approaching the building out front. On foot. Alone. Doesn't seem to be in a rush, either. I don't know if he's going to enter or not, but I'm not getting a good vibe from him. He looks way too calm for someone walking the streets of Pacifica by himself at night. I can't get a good bead on him yet since he's too far away and this camera is kind of shit, but I'll let you know if he walks in."
"You can't pick up any details right now?"
"Like I said, not really. It's dark and this camera's covered in scop and ten years out of date, I'm doing my best with this pile of scrap. I can only see broad strokes. He's on the shorter side, stocky, long hair, wearing... A cowboy hat? I can't tell if that's a cowboy hat or a smudge on the lens."
As a fighter approached from Maelstrom's corner to challenge Sentinel—arguably more machine than man with a distinct lack of a bottom jaw for the solo to punch—Tsikavat's mind went into overdrive trying to figure out who that lone cowboy could be. A late arrival from 6th Street? An Aldecaldo wandering in from the Biotechnica fields to test their luck? But who would be so cavalier about strutting through any part of Night City after dark like that, especially alone?
"Update me as soon as he gets inside," Tsikavat mused, staring up at the camera. "Primary focus is the scavs, but if you think this man's bad news, trust your instincts. They could save us."
"Gotcha. I'm going to get back to cam eight for a bit—oh that is one ugly motherfucker. Fuck me. Good luck with that, dude. I'll be in touch."
With that, Alvita's comm line fell silent once more and Tsikavat draped their arm over the lower rope as they leaned in to get a better look at Sentinel. He seemed fine apart from the momentary loss of focus from the adrenaline high—barely even warmed up. Still, the thought of that potential Afterlife merc lingered in the back of their mind. If that gladiator showed up, would the fresher-faced solo even stand a chance? People didn't just get into that club based on low-level klep jobs and the occasional busted lip in an underground fight ring. They were there because they had legendary feats under their belts—and the stains of blood both synth and ganic permanently staining their hands to show for it.
Would this demolition derby become an endurance test? A true test of survival skills rather than a show of chrome?
"Your chrome seems fine for now," they mused, their eyes lighting up as they ran a scan on Sentinel. "I'm guessing Alvita's ICE is holding up well, too. Still, I'm not in your body. If you feel something off, let me know. I'll try to fix it up before you get in too deep."
deadly king
never fade away
As Sentinel listened to Alvita's report, he kept his stance relaxed but ready, eyes flickering over the arena. All eyes were on him, everyone now wanted a piece of the man who laid waste to a veteran with no hesitation. The scav activity was concerning, and the mention of a lone figure in Pacifica raised his hackles even more. But, for now, his focus was on the immediate threat.
"Copy that," Sentinel repeated the same as Tsikavat, voice steady as the adrenaline began to mellow out. Although he hated the idea of being a sideshow for Maelstorm to pry and prod at, he shoved it aside. It was all part of the job, keeping everyone occupied and the crowd cheering on. The show must go on. Don't stop dancing.
"Let me know the second ya have more on that cowboy, doubt he's got an invite to this thing,"
The Maelstrom fighter was close now, an imposing mix of chrome and flesh, forcibly soldered on, bit by bit replaced by wire and flashy metal. The solo felt the familiar rush of combat readiness flooding his system. He couldn't afford to get distracted, not with this many variables in play. Taking a deep breath he allowed the ICE to rush his altered body once more, cooling down.
As the Maelstrom fighter lunged, Sentinel moved, his body a blur of precision and power. He sidestepped the initial attack, his fist slamming into the borg's ribs with a satisfying crunch. His mind was already calculating the next move, his enhanced reflexes and training kicking into overdrive. The fighter lunged again, swinging a heavy, cybernetic fist that whistled through the air. Sentinel ducked and rolled to the side, feeling the rush of air as the blow missed him by mere inches. Eyes locked between the opponents. Mechanical jaw clacked as it turned to face Sentinel, red eyes glowing with an artificial rage.
As the fight continued, Sentinel began stringing every detail together: the whirring of servos, the faint hiss of hydraulics, the slight delay in the borg's movements indicating older parts. Now there was a perfect exploit.
The borg charged, attempting a brutal tackle, arms flailing wide with a guttural yell. Waiting until the last moment, he twisted aside, delivering a punishing elbow to the Maelstorm's back. The crowd roared as the fighter stumbled forward, crashing into ropes.
"Come on, chrome-dome," an obnoxious nickname ( one frequently used on himself ) slipped through, "Is that all you got?"
The taunt, flawlessly executed forced the opponent back to his feet, closing the distance. A flurry of rapid punches connected to Sentinel's dismay. Although he attempted to block and dodge -- arms moving like lightning to deflect blows -- the sheer brute force began seeping through. Hissing at the burning feeling, Sentinel's teeth sunk into his lip, holding back any grunts.
Spotting an opening, the Maelstrom fighter stepped inside the merc's guard, and delivered a series of quick jabs to his torso, targeting the seams in his metal platting. He followed with a powerful uppercut to the chin, sending Sentinel tumbling backward. The world began to get lower and lower, the crowd disappearing as everything was flipped upside down. Taking in a sharp deep breath, his arms whipped around, gloved hands gripping the floor, using forward momentum to spin around his cybernetic leg before his body collapsed on the floor. Coming in low to deliver a devastating sweeping kick, the Maelstrom was toppled, pieces of outdated tech shattering across the floor.
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck!" the man-half-machine roared, more in frustration than pain, and tried to rise.
The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and whisted, but Sentinel barely heard them. He stepped back, breathing heavily, sweat pooled across his forehead underneath the helmet. His gaze darted, body fidgeting, unable to stay in place as he readied himself for another beatdown. The adrenaline continued making its way through his veins, as his revulsor went into overdrive.
As the stranger attempted to get up, his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. The cybernetic enhancements, a mishmash of parts and upgrades, seemed to be malfunctioning, sparks flying from exposed wiring. As the crowd cheered on, Sentinel approached the man, slowly -- eyes laser-focused as the fighter's stature grew. Now, back on his smashed feet, the fight continued.
Taking the first strike, the merc charged forward. Each punch landed with a resounding thud, denting metal and breaking a bone. Who's bone? Who's chrome? It was difficult to differentiate through all the numbing pain. However, with a final, powerful blow to the chest, Sentinel sent his opponent crashing to the ground. The arena fell silent for a moment, the only sound being the ragged breathing of the fallen fighter. Then the crowd erupted once more, the noise deafening.
Sentinel stood over his opponent, chest heaving. The fight had been brutal -- far more than the veteran -- but he had come out on top. He took a moment to catch his breath, scanning the crowd for Tsikavat. The arena might have been the stage for tonight's battle, but the real fight was just beginning.
"For an outdated toaster, guy had one fuckin' hell of a punch," he finally grunted from the pain as his hands rubbed his arms. "Got any updates?" he checked back in as his mind settled back into reality, stepping towards the corner of the ring. Climbing atop the poll, shooting his arms in the air as he basked in the cheers. A few disgruntled men came onto the arena to collect their fallen ally. At least this one was still conscious.
One of the Maelstrom men, a hulking figure with a face full of chrome, shoved him hard in the chest. Sentinel staggered but held his ground, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the new threat.
"You think you're hot shit, huh?" the Maelstrom ganger snarled, his voice a mechanical rasp. "Taking down one of ours? You got a death wish, choom."
Sentinel's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "Just doing my job," he replied, though his muscles tensed, ready for another fight.
Before things could escalate, Tsikavat's voice crackled over the comms. "Sentinel, focus. We've got bigger problems. The scavs are moving. I see a couple heading towards the back entrance."
The Maelstrom ganger sneered but didn't push the issue further. Instead, he bent down to help his fallen comrade to his feet, muttering curses under his breath. Sentinel took a step back, watching them warily before turning his attention to the rest of the arena. The crowd's energy was still electric, but there was a tension in the air now, an undercurrent of something more dangerous brewing.
"Copy that," Sentinel repeated the same as Tsikavat, voice steady as the adrenaline began to mellow out. Although he hated the idea of being a sideshow for Maelstorm to pry and prod at, he shoved it aside. It was all part of the job, keeping everyone occupied and the crowd cheering on. The show must go on. Don't stop dancing.
"Let me know the second ya have more on that cowboy, doubt he's got an invite to this thing,"
The Maelstrom fighter was close now, an imposing mix of chrome and flesh, forcibly soldered on, bit by bit replaced by wire and flashy metal. The solo felt the familiar rush of combat readiness flooding his system. He couldn't afford to get distracted, not with this many variables in play. Taking a deep breath he allowed the ICE to rush his altered body once more, cooling down.
As the Maelstrom fighter lunged, Sentinel moved, his body a blur of precision and power. He sidestepped the initial attack, his fist slamming into the borg's ribs with a satisfying crunch. His mind was already calculating the next move, his enhanced reflexes and training kicking into overdrive. The fighter lunged again, swinging a heavy, cybernetic fist that whistled through the air. Sentinel ducked and rolled to the side, feeling the rush of air as the blow missed him by mere inches. Eyes locked between the opponents. Mechanical jaw clacked as it turned to face Sentinel, red eyes glowing with an artificial rage.
As the fight continued, Sentinel began stringing every detail together: the whirring of servos, the faint hiss of hydraulics, the slight delay in the borg's movements indicating older parts. Now there was a perfect exploit.
The borg charged, attempting a brutal tackle, arms flailing wide with a guttural yell. Waiting until the last moment, he twisted aside, delivering a punishing elbow to the Maelstorm's back. The crowd roared as the fighter stumbled forward, crashing into ropes.
"Come on, chrome-dome," an obnoxious nickname ( one frequently used on himself ) slipped through, "Is that all you got?"
The taunt, flawlessly executed forced the opponent back to his feet, closing the distance. A flurry of rapid punches connected to Sentinel's dismay. Although he attempted to block and dodge -- arms moving like lightning to deflect blows -- the sheer brute force began seeping through. Hissing at the burning feeling, Sentinel's teeth sunk into his lip, holding back any grunts.
Spotting an opening, the Maelstrom fighter stepped inside the merc's guard, and delivered a series of quick jabs to his torso, targeting the seams in his metal platting. He followed with a powerful uppercut to the chin, sending Sentinel tumbling backward. The world began to get lower and lower, the crowd disappearing as everything was flipped upside down. Taking in a sharp deep breath, his arms whipped around, gloved hands gripping the floor, using forward momentum to spin around his cybernetic leg before his body collapsed on the floor. Coming in low to deliver a devastating sweeping kick, the Maelstrom was toppled, pieces of outdated tech shattering across the floor.
"Fuck! Fuck, fuck!" the man-half-machine roared, more in frustration than pain, and tried to rise.
The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers and whisted, but Sentinel barely heard them. He stepped back, breathing heavily, sweat pooled across his forehead underneath the helmet. His gaze darted, body fidgeting, unable to stay in place as he readied himself for another beatdown. The adrenaline continued making its way through his veins, as his revulsor went into overdrive.
As the stranger attempted to get up, his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. The cybernetic enhancements, a mishmash of parts and upgrades, seemed to be malfunctioning, sparks flying from exposed wiring. As the crowd cheered on, Sentinel approached the man, slowly -- eyes laser-focused as the fighter's stature grew. Now, back on his smashed feet, the fight continued.
Taking the first strike, the merc charged forward. Each punch landed with a resounding thud, denting metal and breaking a bone. Who's bone? Who's chrome? It was difficult to differentiate through all the numbing pain. However, with a final, powerful blow to the chest, Sentinel sent his opponent crashing to the ground. The arena fell silent for a moment, the only sound being the ragged breathing of the fallen fighter. Then the crowd erupted once more, the noise deafening.
Sentinel stood over his opponent, chest heaving. The fight had been brutal -- far more than the veteran -- but he had come out on top. He took a moment to catch his breath, scanning the crowd for Tsikavat. The arena might have been the stage for tonight's battle, but the real fight was just beginning.
"For an outdated toaster, guy had one fuckin' hell of a punch," he finally grunted from the pain as his hands rubbed his arms. "Got any updates?" he checked back in as his mind settled back into reality, stepping towards the corner of the ring. Climbing atop the poll, shooting his arms in the air as he basked in the cheers. A few disgruntled men came onto the arena to collect their fallen ally. At least this one was still conscious.
One of the Maelstrom men, a hulking figure with a face full of chrome, shoved him hard in the chest. Sentinel staggered but held his ground, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the new threat.
"You think you're hot shit, huh?" the Maelstrom ganger snarled, his voice a mechanical rasp. "Taking down one of ours? You got a death wish, choom."
Sentinel's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "Just doing my job," he replied, though his muscles tensed, ready for another fight.
Before things could escalate, Tsikavat's voice crackled over the comms. "Sentinel, focus. We've got bigger problems. The scavs are moving. I see a couple heading towards the back entrance."
The Maelstrom ganger sneered but didn't push the issue further. Instead, he bent down to help his fallen comrade to his feet, muttering curses under his breath. Sentinel took a step back, watching them warily before turning his attention to the rest of the arena. The crowd's energy was still electric, but there was a tension in the air now, an undercurrent of something more dangerous brewing.
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
Tsikavat slipped back into the crowd somewhat as Sentinel came to blows with the Maelstromer, hiding their presence in clouds of smoke and a sea of bodies. Those blaze-red optics burnt ghosts into his field of view—ghosts he had spent far too long and far too much to get rid of just to allow them back into his mind. They were unrecognizable to the borged-up boostergangers, there wasn't any more danger to be had here than there was with the Scavs or 6th Street. Still, better to stay behind the veil, especially with the carnage the gang was capable of. The punches being landed were bending the metal beneath them in audible screeches and grinding wails. Were they not accustomed to it, it might have elicited a wince.
As metal was bent and sparks were shot, a buzz shot through the comms to the field tech. Alvita's face flickered into the corner of their vision on a holocall. Her eyes were shut and what could be seen of her body was awkwardly slumped against an unseen wall. Her sights were on cyberspace, not the physical reality. Good. So why was her face scrunched and sweating? Why did she look as though in a waking nightmare? "Hey, I've caught something," she rushed out, optics shifting left and right beneath closed optics. "There's been a spike in traffic on the network and some of the Scavs are taking point by your corner. Sentinel's ICE is also losing integrity—someone's trying to hit it with a breaker. 47% and dropping. Fuck, they're going to town on it. Gonna... Shit, gonna need a minute to reinforce it, then I'll trace the runner."
Tsikavat blinked and put out his cigarette, straightening his back to put his head on a swivel. Sure enough, the flickering holo-masks of the Scavs could be seen slipping through the crowd in ever-increasing numbers. Flies, all of them. Maybe the attendant netrunner hadn't mentioned it outright, but he caught the unspoken implications with a narrowed gaze. Sentinel wasn't patched into the call anymore—for his own good, no doubt. He didn't need to know he was being hunted while trying to avoid the relentless assault of metal fists in front of him. "Confirming your visual," he said, his voice low. "47% already? I thought you said your ICE was good."
"It is," she hissed, twitching as a jolt of interference nearly fried both of their auditory chips—a sonic shock stopped short. "Oh no you fucking don't! This runner's good. It's like they just spend all day coding ICEbreakers or something."
Of course. Scavs. These guys hunted borgs like Sentinel like they were game animals, this should have been expected. He rubbed his ear with a sigh. He hadn't meant to haze this poor green nomad, but she seemed to be holding together well enough at least. Her breathing was heavy, her muscles tight. Shit, she had to be burning up. She wasn't wearing a runner suit—probably wasn't expecting to have to fight off another runner on the subnet. Still, Sentinel kept fighting. He wasn't feeling whatever daemons were ripping at his ICE. Through muttered hisses and curses, she was doing her job.
Then, the Maelstromer went down and couldn't get back up. His synthetic muscles seized up and his cyberware shot sparks, the smell of burnt-out silicon and overheated syn-blood filling the air. The Scavs dispersed, slipping out of Tsikavat's periphery. Through something between a sigh and a groan, Alvita confirmed the techie's suspicions. "Alright, I think I managed to convince them to give up," she said, jacking out and opening her eyes just enough to navigate an energy drink from her pocket to her lips. "I think they decided to go after the other borg instead. I need to lay low a millisec, reinforce my own shit, can you confirm?"
Through crunching bone, screeching chrome, and ragged groans, he didn't need to get any closer for an answer. If Sentinel didn't let up, the Scavs wouldn't have anything to salvage. That Maelstromer would be rendered nothing but scrap.
Not his problem.
"Yeah, they went for the Maelstromer," they confirmed, optics lighting up as he ran a quick scan on Sentinel. "Sentinel's... Well, he's got a few dents in him, but he's not fried. Good work."
"I do my best, boss-man."
He rolled his eyes over the chugging of lukewarm Chromanticore on the other end of the line, a chirp announcing Sentinel's re-entry into the call. At the toaster remark, Alvita nearly choked on her drink, but bit back the laughter long enough to finish the can and crush it, tossing it to the side with a smirk as she jacked back in. "Yeah, I've got an update or two," she chuckled. "Guess the other guy wishes he had those right about now, huh?"
Before she could relay anything actually useful, Sentinel nearly found himself in an unexpected round three. For a bunch of unhinged gangers, their loyalty to each other was dangerously strong. He remembered hearing them refer to each other like family. Brother, sister. For as much as 6th Street and the Tinos talked about brotherhood, there was something about the shared cyberpsychosis of the Maelstromers that connected them on a level imperceptible to most. This overkill wouldn't go forgotten. Still, he couldn't afford to be getting himself—and his party by extension—into any deeper trouble with NC's most dangerous gang than they already were. His eyes flicked across the room, looking for a distraction, any distraction. And he found one. The Scavs hadn't just moved to Maelstrom's corner—they were headed for the same exit the boostergangers would take. The techie hissed the warning of Scav activity to the solo, drawing his attention away before he could get himself in any deeper. As soon as the danger had left the ring, he slinked back over to their corner, waving Sentinel over for repairs. "Thank you," he huffed, climbing into the ring to get a better look at the dents in the solo's plating. "Those borged up freaks will turn this ring into a free-for-all faster than your microrotors can fire up. Remember what I said about picking your fights wisely? Goddammit, hold still, I'm going to need to remove this plate before it causes a lock-up."
"Done flirting over there? No?" Alvita quipped, raising an eyebrow as Tsikavat worked a small pry bar underneath a badly-dented plate. "Anyways, your opponent wasn't as last-gen as you think. A bit makeshift, maybe, but not total scraps. I think you owe some thanks to the Scavs for knocking him on his ass early. Got visual confirmation on them headed for the back exit. They've got a runner on the subnet targeting you guys, and if I had the eds to bet, I'd bet that your brave little toaster's about to get jumped as soon as he leaves."
With some force and manipulation, the plate popped out of its socket, revealing the cables and tubing beneath. The field tech paused a moment to admire the sight. One patch of pure cybernetic craftmanship surrounded by the dark plates of RealSkinn that once covered it near-seamlessly. Sentinel's body could truly become a masterpiece of performance art when he got to work like this, and Tsikavat wasn't sure if he was tracing the edges of the gap to take a measurement or to get a more tactile appreciation of the warrior's damage. Breaking from their trance, they took a spare piece of metal and a dremel from their tool pouch, shaping it down to meet the specs of the removed panel. It wouldn't be perfect—the replacement metal was much lower quality and would be more prone to dislodging—but it was better than simply leaving the gap in the armor. "They're probably looking for an easy harvest," they mused, holding the panel up to the hole for a moment before resuming their shaping. "Each group here is going to be putting their strongest fighter into the ring. Wear them down, and the rest of the group will be easier to neutralize by default. It'd be hard to notice considering the crowd's expecting knockouts and malfunctioning chrome anyways. Not to mention the chrome they could get off of anyone a gang would be confident enough to throw in the ring. I don't even want to know how many eddies you've spent on yourself. Likely more than the net worth of every Scav here combined."
"What, like that's some kind of achievement?"
"Touché."
Tsikavat lifted their head up from their work to scan the crowd for Sentinel's round three, and what they saw gave them pause. The crowd was visibly more mobile than it had been, yet somehow also quieter. Shouts to the bookie to double a bet and half-blackout accusations of the fights being rigged had vanished from the air, and all heads were either intentionally down or on a swivel. It was like something had entered the room that was activating everyone's fight or flight instincts, and no one seemed to be willing to humor a fight. If Tsikavat still had hair on their arms, it would be on end. Besides that, they kept their composure. They had to. "Download the cam feeds and a log of the net traffic from the start of round one to the end of round three," they ordered, clicking the replacement panel into place. "Did you ever get cam eight online?"
"On it," she confirmed, a faint glow piercing through the skin of her eyelids as the data transfer was initiated. "Oh yeah, let me check on that... Yep, got it! Ha, Scav runner must've let that slip while they were trying to fry your borg wonder. I can see them jacked into an access point on the roof, two guards posted by the door. Net traffic spikes are going straight back to that port too. No doubt there's your culprit."
"Great, grab those feeds too. I think that should be proof enough for Iron Side... And what about the cowboy?"
The silence was deafening.
"Alvita," they repeated, this time with more urgency. "What about the cowboy?"
"I—I lost track of him while I was playing defense on that last fight," she stammered, shut eyes flicking back and forth as she frantically skimmed the cam feeds. "Shit, shit, where'd he go? He isn't out front anymore, but I never saw him enter the building. Two, three..."
"Can you try checking the cams near us? The crowd's on edge. Either he's close or it's something else, but we need to know what it is."
"Alright, let me try cam four again. Crowd's moving strangely northeast of you, let me zoom in and... Nova, found him! He's circling the outer edge of the crowd right now, just staring at the ring. You're probably not going to be able to see him, he seems to be keeping a low profile... Damn, he really is wearing a cowboy hat. Go figure."
"Any other details you're able to make out now that he's closer?"
"Yeah, millisec, I'll try to get a scan on him... He doesn't seem very chromed out. I can see some smaller pieces of chrome on his arms, some sort of handware, and his jaw's got spikes sticking out of it. Besides that, I'm seeing a lot of meat. Red hair, pale-looking, covered in scars, twitching like he's skezzed out on something. He's got this vest on that's got an animal's head painted on the front... Some sort of dog, maybe? Kinda looks like—"
"A coyote."
Tsikavat's body temperature was fine. His biomonitor hadn't started sounding off alarms, and he knew what hypothermia felt like. He would have known if he were freezing to death. That didn't stop his blood from being convinced that it had frozen solid inside of his synthetic heart. Of course he was here. This was Pacifica. The walls of Dogtown were only a stone's throw away. Of course he'd smell the blood in the water. His eyes shot up to look at Sentinel's mask. There was no way he was going to bow out, was there? His adrenaline levels were still way too high. His confidence had to be soaring from that last fight. He must've thought he could crush Night City in his hand. Yet surely, surely he knew what was coming. He had to. Right?
No sooner had the words "we need to leave" left his mouth that Alvita's voice came ringing back over comms. This time, it wavered.
"Guys? I think he felt me scan him. He's staring straight at the camera and... And... Fuck, he's gotta be way more chromed up than he looks. Who is this guy? Tsikavat?"
Suddenly, the crowd scrambled to part on the other side of the ring. Gasps and curses were interspersed with quick footsteps. Before he could even consciously register his own movements, Tsikavat had vaulted over the ropes and escaped the ring.
And just as he landed safely on the outside...
"Shit, look out!"
The next combatant launched himself over the edge of the ring and landed in the center with a resounding slam. As he stood to his full height, he tilted his head up to look his opponent in the face with a thin, deranged grin from ear-to-ear. The spikes protruding from his metal jawline twitched and clinked together in anticipation as he sized up the masked solo in the corner, a low growl reverberating through the air. He hadn't brought a weapon with him, meaning he intended to play fair. Unfortunately, this meant he had definitely come to play, and this was almost certainly worse. "Sentinel, right?" he mused, his singsong Appalachian accent not quite enough to keep the bloodlust behind his sharpened metal fangs. "Think I've heard of you here 'n there... Street's been saying some mighty interesting things 'bout some upstart solo chroming up quicker than a new-blood Maelstromer and taking it all ten times better. They've been saying folks are lucky to last more than two minutes in the ring with you. Well, you got my attention, young'n."
Tsikavat shot a look up at Sentinel, silently asking what the hell he had done to earn the attention of the Afterlife's resident nuclear option. They weren't about to speak over him though. They valued their life more than that. Straightening his back, the lone merc held his hands out to his sides, tilting his head as he left his stance completely open. "What'cha say we put that chrome to work? One round, one chance, just like the others. See what that fancy new chrome can do to me. See what I can do to it. How's that sound?"
As metal was bent and sparks were shot, a buzz shot through the comms to the field tech. Alvita's face flickered into the corner of their vision on a holocall. Her eyes were shut and what could be seen of her body was awkwardly slumped against an unseen wall. Her sights were on cyberspace, not the physical reality. Good. So why was her face scrunched and sweating? Why did she look as though in a waking nightmare? "Hey, I've caught something," she rushed out, optics shifting left and right beneath closed optics. "There's been a spike in traffic on the network and some of the Scavs are taking point by your corner. Sentinel's ICE is also losing integrity—someone's trying to hit it with a breaker. 47% and dropping. Fuck, they're going to town on it. Gonna... Shit, gonna need a minute to reinforce it, then I'll trace the runner."
Tsikavat blinked and put out his cigarette, straightening his back to put his head on a swivel. Sure enough, the flickering holo-masks of the Scavs could be seen slipping through the crowd in ever-increasing numbers. Flies, all of them. Maybe the attendant netrunner hadn't mentioned it outright, but he caught the unspoken implications with a narrowed gaze. Sentinel wasn't patched into the call anymore—for his own good, no doubt. He didn't need to know he was being hunted while trying to avoid the relentless assault of metal fists in front of him. "Confirming your visual," he said, his voice low. "47% already? I thought you said your ICE was good."
"It is," she hissed, twitching as a jolt of interference nearly fried both of their auditory chips—a sonic shock stopped short. "Oh no you fucking don't! This runner's good. It's like they just spend all day coding ICEbreakers or something."
Of course. Scavs. These guys hunted borgs like Sentinel like they were game animals, this should have been expected. He rubbed his ear with a sigh. He hadn't meant to haze this poor green nomad, but she seemed to be holding together well enough at least. Her breathing was heavy, her muscles tight. Shit, she had to be burning up. She wasn't wearing a runner suit—probably wasn't expecting to have to fight off another runner on the subnet. Still, Sentinel kept fighting. He wasn't feeling whatever daemons were ripping at his ICE. Through muttered hisses and curses, she was doing her job.
Then, the Maelstromer went down and couldn't get back up. His synthetic muscles seized up and his cyberware shot sparks, the smell of burnt-out silicon and overheated syn-blood filling the air. The Scavs dispersed, slipping out of Tsikavat's periphery. Through something between a sigh and a groan, Alvita confirmed the techie's suspicions. "Alright, I think I managed to convince them to give up," she said, jacking out and opening her eyes just enough to navigate an energy drink from her pocket to her lips. "I think they decided to go after the other borg instead. I need to lay low a millisec, reinforce my own shit, can you confirm?"
Through crunching bone, screeching chrome, and ragged groans, he didn't need to get any closer for an answer. If Sentinel didn't let up, the Scavs wouldn't have anything to salvage. That Maelstromer would be rendered nothing but scrap.
Not his problem.
"Yeah, they went for the Maelstromer," they confirmed, optics lighting up as he ran a quick scan on Sentinel. "Sentinel's... Well, he's got a few dents in him, but he's not fried. Good work."
"I do my best, boss-man."
He rolled his eyes over the chugging of lukewarm Chromanticore on the other end of the line, a chirp announcing Sentinel's re-entry into the call. At the toaster remark, Alvita nearly choked on her drink, but bit back the laughter long enough to finish the can and crush it, tossing it to the side with a smirk as she jacked back in. "Yeah, I've got an update or two," she chuckled. "Guess the other guy wishes he had those right about now, huh?"
Before she could relay anything actually useful, Sentinel nearly found himself in an unexpected round three. For a bunch of unhinged gangers, their loyalty to each other was dangerously strong. He remembered hearing them refer to each other like family. Brother, sister. For as much as 6th Street and the Tinos talked about brotherhood, there was something about the shared cyberpsychosis of the Maelstromers that connected them on a level imperceptible to most. This overkill wouldn't go forgotten. Still, he couldn't afford to be getting himself—and his party by extension—into any deeper trouble with NC's most dangerous gang than they already were. His eyes flicked across the room, looking for a distraction, any distraction. And he found one. The Scavs hadn't just moved to Maelstrom's corner—they were headed for the same exit the boostergangers would take. The techie hissed the warning of Scav activity to the solo, drawing his attention away before he could get himself in any deeper. As soon as the danger had left the ring, he slinked back over to their corner, waving Sentinel over for repairs. "Thank you," he huffed, climbing into the ring to get a better look at the dents in the solo's plating. "Those borged up freaks will turn this ring into a free-for-all faster than your microrotors can fire up. Remember what I said about picking your fights wisely? Goddammit, hold still, I'm going to need to remove this plate before it causes a lock-up."
"Done flirting over there? No?" Alvita quipped, raising an eyebrow as Tsikavat worked a small pry bar underneath a badly-dented plate. "Anyways, your opponent wasn't as last-gen as you think. A bit makeshift, maybe, but not total scraps. I think you owe some thanks to the Scavs for knocking him on his ass early. Got visual confirmation on them headed for the back exit. They've got a runner on the subnet targeting you guys, and if I had the eds to bet, I'd bet that your brave little toaster's about to get jumped as soon as he leaves."
With some force and manipulation, the plate popped out of its socket, revealing the cables and tubing beneath. The field tech paused a moment to admire the sight. One patch of pure cybernetic craftmanship surrounded by the dark plates of RealSkinn that once covered it near-seamlessly. Sentinel's body could truly become a masterpiece of performance art when he got to work like this, and Tsikavat wasn't sure if he was tracing the edges of the gap to take a measurement or to get a more tactile appreciation of the warrior's damage. Breaking from their trance, they took a spare piece of metal and a dremel from their tool pouch, shaping it down to meet the specs of the removed panel. It wouldn't be perfect—the replacement metal was much lower quality and would be more prone to dislodging—but it was better than simply leaving the gap in the armor. "They're probably looking for an easy harvest," they mused, holding the panel up to the hole for a moment before resuming their shaping. "Each group here is going to be putting their strongest fighter into the ring. Wear them down, and the rest of the group will be easier to neutralize by default. It'd be hard to notice considering the crowd's expecting knockouts and malfunctioning chrome anyways. Not to mention the chrome they could get off of anyone a gang would be confident enough to throw in the ring. I don't even want to know how many eddies you've spent on yourself. Likely more than the net worth of every Scav here combined."
"What, like that's some kind of achievement?"
"Touché."
Tsikavat lifted their head up from their work to scan the crowd for Sentinel's round three, and what they saw gave them pause. The crowd was visibly more mobile than it had been, yet somehow also quieter. Shouts to the bookie to double a bet and half-blackout accusations of the fights being rigged had vanished from the air, and all heads were either intentionally down or on a swivel. It was like something had entered the room that was activating everyone's fight or flight instincts, and no one seemed to be willing to humor a fight. If Tsikavat still had hair on their arms, it would be on end. Besides that, they kept their composure. They had to. "Download the cam feeds and a log of the net traffic from the start of round one to the end of round three," they ordered, clicking the replacement panel into place. "Did you ever get cam eight online?"
"On it," she confirmed, a faint glow piercing through the skin of her eyelids as the data transfer was initiated. "Oh yeah, let me check on that... Yep, got it! Ha, Scav runner must've let that slip while they were trying to fry your borg wonder. I can see them jacked into an access point on the roof, two guards posted by the door. Net traffic spikes are going straight back to that port too. No doubt there's your culprit."
"Great, grab those feeds too. I think that should be proof enough for Iron Side... And what about the cowboy?"
The silence was deafening.
"Alvita," they repeated, this time with more urgency. "What about the cowboy?"
"I—I lost track of him while I was playing defense on that last fight," she stammered, shut eyes flicking back and forth as she frantically skimmed the cam feeds. "Shit, shit, where'd he go? He isn't out front anymore, but I never saw him enter the building. Two, three..."
"Can you try checking the cams near us? The crowd's on edge. Either he's close or it's something else, but we need to know what it is."
"Alright, let me try cam four again. Crowd's moving strangely northeast of you, let me zoom in and... Nova, found him! He's circling the outer edge of the crowd right now, just staring at the ring. You're probably not going to be able to see him, he seems to be keeping a low profile... Damn, he really is wearing a cowboy hat. Go figure."
"Any other details you're able to make out now that he's closer?"
"Yeah, millisec, I'll try to get a scan on him... He doesn't seem very chromed out. I can see some smaller pieces of chrome on his arms, some sort of handware, and his jaw's got spikes sticking out of it. Besides that, I'm seeing a lot of meat. Red hair, pale-looking, covered in scars, twitching like he's skezzed out on something. He's got this vest on that's got an animal's head painted on the front... Some sort of dog, maybe? Kinda looks like—"
"A coyote."
Tsikavat's body temperature was fine. His biomonitor hadn't started sounding off alarms, and he knew what hypothermia felt like. He would have known if he were freezing to death. That didn't stop his blood from being convinced that it had frozen solid inside of his synthetic heart. Of course he was here. This was Pacifica. The walls of Dogtown were only a stone's throw away. Of course he'd smell the blood in the water. His eyes shot up to look at Sentinel's mask. There was no way he was going to bow out, was there? His adrenaline levels were still way too high. His confidence had to be soaring from that last fight. He must've thought he could crush Night City in his hand. Yet surely, surely he knew what was coming. He had to. Right?
No sooner had the words "we need to leave" left his mouth that Alvita's voice came ringing back over comms. This time, it wavered.
"Guys? I think he felt me scan him. He's staring straight at the camera and... And... Fuck, he's gotta be way more chromed up than he looks. Who is this guy? Tsikavat?"
Suddenly, the crowd scrambled to part on the other side of the ring. Gasps and curses were interspersed with quick footsteps. Before he could even consciously register his own movements, Tsikavat had vaulted over the ropes and escaped the ring.
And just as he landed safely on the outside...
"Shit, look out!"
The next combatant launched himself over the edge of the ring and landed in the center with a resounding slam. As he stood to his full height, he tilted his head up to look his opponent in the face with a thin, deranged grin from ear-to-ear. The spikes protruding from his metal jawline twitched and clinked together in anticipation as he sized up the masked solo in the corner, a low growl reverberating through the air. He hadn't brought a weapon with him, meaning he intended to play fair. Unfortunately, this meant he had definitely come to play, and this was almost certainly worse. "Sentinel, right?" he mused, his singsong Appalachian accent not quite enough to keep the bloodlust behind his sharpened metal fangs. "Think I've heard of you here 'n there... Street's been saying some mighty interesting things 'bout some upstart solo chroming up quicker than a new-blood Maelstromer and taking it all ten times better. They've been saying folks are lucky to last more than two minutes in the ring with you. Well, you got my attention, young'n."
Tsikavat shot a look up at Sentinel, silently asking what the hell he had done to earn the attention of the Afterlife's resident nuclear option. They weren't about to speak over him though. They valued their life more than that. Straightening his back, the lone merc held his hands out to his sides, tilting his head as he left his stance completely open. "What'cha say we put that chrome to work? One round, one chance, just like the others. See what that fancy new chrome can do to me. See what I can do to it. How's that sound?"
deadly king
never fade away
After the departure of the Maelstrom members, the merc sluggishly returned to his corner of the ring, eyes unable to focus on anything. Suddenly, the pumping music was overpowering, flooding his senses, the flashing rave lights became blinding, and the horrible concoction of musk, sweat, and spilled blood in the air overpowered all his senses. Sentinel was beginning to come down from his high, reflex turner coming into full swing to force his body to cool down. The man's wide frame crashed down onto the stool, body draped over the rubber ropes, chest slowly moving with his breaths. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale -- one breath at a time or his insides would end up on the floor.
Head leaned backward, legs spread across, Sentinel's fingers twitched at the other's touch. Every time the techie's wrench clicked against his socket, his muscles spasmed from the overfollowing pain. Despite the twitches and low grunts when the plate was pulled off, he allowed the field tech to do his job, even to get a little handsy between the wires and platting. Maroon eyes swirled down, eyeing the smaller man as he spoke, having entirely tuned out Alvita's comment and status report. None of that mattered, he was on break. Underneath the armor, there was a build-up of sweat, and he could feel the blood underneath his skin pooling, bruising atop -- what a night it's been. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
"You don't wanna know the answer to that," he blurted back, followed by a sharp pain to his side. Sentinel painfully groaned, clutching at his ribs, shaking his head, "Trust me -- I don't even wanna think 'bout that. My sister's have my head on a stick," he attempted to laugh through the pain, sharply inhaling, chest expanding as he leaned back against the steel beam. Tensions began rising in the air once more. The crowd chatter slowly faded, attempting to keep to themselves, the music started to fade, and spectators drew back from the ring. Sentinel's brows furrowed, lurching forward in his seat as his eyes honed in on the crowd. Piercings, red hair against white skin, on some type of dope -- fuck, that described nearly everywhere guy in Maelstrom.
His teammates' anxieties and fear fell on deaf ears, bolting up from his seat with urgency. Rolling his shoulders and neck, Sentinel paced around the ring, eager to see the man the two were blabbing on about. This guy couldn't be that scary -- god, had they not seen Iron Side? They were nearly a staggering seven and a half feet tall, could chase down a car, and punched holes through concrete walls like nothing. What the hell did this stranger have? Before he could turn, the air blew through the room, dust rising as the redhead crashed onto the ring.
Staring over the man, Sentinel paused, furrowing his brows underneath the helmet as he took in all the details. The metal piercings were intentional, giving him false animalistic fangs. He was older from the stray grey hairs along his head and beard, and the forming crow lines. There was metal plating across his fingers, hands, and upper arms and he didn't care who saw it. And, his 'singsong Appalachian' accent was the giant cherry atop the sundae.
"I like your chops," he spoke, completely brushing off whatever the other man said. Tonight, everyone in Night City wanted a piece of Sentinel. What harm was there in one more? Three knockout fights would be enough to earn his keep and impress his employers, why not keep it going? This coyote didn't look like a worthy threat, but he was asking for a taste. Why deny him a taste of premium chrome?
He straightened up, his joints whirring softly as his systems adjusted for the upcoming fight. Sentinel had no intention of backing down; he thrived on challenges like this. "One round, one chance," he repeated, stance shifting into a combat-ready position. "Let's see if you can keep up."
Head leaned backward, legs spread across, Sentinel's fingers twitched at the other's touch. Every time the techie's wrench clicked against his socket, his muscles spasmed from the overfollowing pain. Despite the twitches and low grunts when the plate was pulled off, he allowed the field tech to do his job, even to get a little handsy between the wires and platting. Maroon eyes swirled down, eyeing the smaller man as he spoke, having entirely tuned out Alvita's comment and status report. None of that mattered, he was on break. Underneath the armor, there was a build-up of sweat, and he could feel the blood underneath his skin pooling, bruising atop -- what a night it's been. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
"You don't wanna know the answer to that," he blurted back, followed by a sharp pain to his side. Sentinel painfully groaned, clutching at his ribs, shaking his head, "Trust me -- I don't even wanna think 'bout that. My sister's have my head on a stick," he attempted to laugh through the pain, sharply inhaling, chest expanding as he leaned back against the steel beam. Tensions began rising in the air once more. The crowd chatter slowly faded, attempting to keep to themselves, the music started to fade, and spectators drew back from the ring. Sentinel's brows furrowed, lurching forward in his seat as his eyes honed in on the crowd. Piercings, red hair against white skin, on some type of dope -- fuck, that described nearly everywhere guy in Maelstrom.
His teammates' anxieties and fear fell on deaf ears, bolting up from his seat with urgency. Rolling his shoulders and neck, Sentinel paced around the ring, eager to see the man the two were blabbing on about. This guy couldn't be that scary -- god, had they not seen Iron Side? They were nearly a staggering seven and a half feet tall, could chase down a car, and punched holes through concrete walls like nothing. What the hell did this stranger have? Before he could turn, the air blew through the room, dust rising as the redhead crashed onto the ring.
Staring over the man, Sentinel paused, furrowing his brows underneath the helmet as he took in all the details. The metal piercings were intentional, giving him false animalistic fangs. He was older from the stray grey hairs along his head and beard, and the forming crow lines. There was metal plating across his fingers, hands, and upper arms and he didn't care who saw it. And, his 'singsong Appalachian' accent was the giant cherry atop the sundae.
"I like your chops," he spoke, completely brushing off whatever the other man said. Tonight, everyone in Night City wanted a piece of Sentinel. What harm was there in one more? Three knockout fights would be enough to earn his keep and impress his employers, why not keep it going? This coyote didn't look like a worthy threat, but he was asking for a taste. Why deny him a taste of premium chrome?
He straightened up, his joints whirring softly as his systems adjusted for the upcoming fight. Sentinel had no intention of backing down; he thrived on challenges like this. "One round, one chance," he repeated, stance shifting into a combat-ready position. "Let's see if you can keep up."
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
Of course. Of course he took the bait.
Tsikavat reached out to grab Sentinel's coat, futilely attempting to stop the edgerunner before he took up the death trap of an offer from his opponent, but the syn-leather barely grazed their fingers and his words outsped any remnants of sense left floating between those synapses. All they could do was hiss the name of their teammate through gritted teeth, as if it would even make a difference. This was out of their hands now. They took a step back, and then another, hands shaking as they assessed the situation. Maybe they could find someone. Maybe Iron Side would step in—wouldn't want to lose one of their most promising prospects, would they? Plus, if anyone here could step to the wild animal on the other side of the ring...
No. Tsikavat knew they had to stay by the ring. With Alvita preoccupied with keeping the scav runners at bay, they'd need to stay near the ring and be prepared to intervene. They had a mission to uphold, and coyote or not they had to see it through. Besides, there's no way Iron Side didn't already know. It's not like the opponent had a knack for subtlety. Taking a deep breath, they stepped back up to the ringside. "Alvita," they said, resting their hand on the corner post. "I need you to focus on the scavs. Sentinel's made his bed, you just finish your job."
"What?" she asked, dumbfounded by the sudden chill in her leader's voice. "Wait, wait, look, I can still see the ring! Give me a millisec, I could deploy a quickhack! Look, I don't know who this gonk is, but-"
"Exactly, you don't know who he is. I do. That's why I'm telling you not to engage and focus on your assignment. I can't afford two fatalities tonight."
As Tsikavat hissed out their orders, the opponent in the middle of the ring began to laugh, metal teeth gleaming beneath smog-stained fluorescents. He rolled his shoulders and slipped into a slightly more closed stance, bringing his arms down by his sides and squaring up his legs. Beneath the brim of his hat, something red glinted on his fang. Blood? It didn't quite look like it, but it felt correct to assume. "Cocky little shit, I like you already," he chuckled, raising one hand up and beckoning Sentinel in. "Let's see if you got the grit to back it up, city boy."
Sentinel was fast, sure. Boosted reflexes and high-grade chrome let him close the gap faster than most people could process the motions. They also allowed him to barely dodge the expertly-executed parry from his opponent, barely escaping the trap laid for him. As Sentinel went in for the first strike, his mysterious opponent grabbed his arm, stalling it in place despite the sheer force behind the chrome. Sharp climbing-grade claws deployed, piercing the syn-leather sleeve of his coat and digging into the syn-skin beneath. A deadly punch was thrown. Yet, with the ripping of fabric and the screeching of claws through plating, Sentinel was still able to pull away and barely outmaneuver the strike that was aimed directly at his liver, getting out with only scratches.
But the beast was far from finished. As the edgerunner was reeling from the stopping power of his opponent's grip, he didn't respond to his follow-up strike until it was too late. His fist slammed into Sentinel like a wrecking ball, making direct contact with the plate of armor that Tsikavat had just repaired. Against most opponents, the plate would've held. It would've been a sore spot, weaker than the rest of the armor, but it would've held. Against this rouge merc, it cracked in two and and pierced the flesh beneath, displacing blood and air in equal amounts. In one motion, the older man had turned the borg's own chrome against him, stabbing it into his gut like a crude dagger. The hot blood that ran over the shorter man's hand only made him more merciless, only fueled the wild bloodlust behind those bloodshot eyes. He grabbed Sentinel by the neck with his free hand and slammed him to the ground as he ripped more of the plates away from his skin, peeling the young merc apart like an exotic fruit. He wasn't aiming for a quick kill. He was aiming to cause pain. He was aiming to dig his way into Sentinel's guts and disembowel him. A slow, bloody death typically only reserved for altercations between predator and prey, levied against another man for the whole crowd to see.
But if Sentinel were one to go down that quickly, he wouldn't have made it in front of that crowd to begin with.
Through the pain and lack of breath, he managed to land a punch on his opponent's head. That did nothing—nothing apart from making that ripping more fervent. However, the shove did give him enough leg room to get his foot up under his opponent and kick him off with the strength of a mule, sending him staggering up and back as coolant and blood sprayed over the floor. Then, with a rush of adrenaline, Sentinel bolted to his feet and landed a series of blows on his older opponent. One to the chest. One to the gut. One more to the head. Like lightning, he struck and struck with an inhuman quickness, and the amount of hits in such a short time was enough to break the cowboy's focus. Then, while he was staggered, the edgerunner delivered one final strike to the chest, sending the smaller man staggering back into a coughing fit.
That coughing fit, however, was quickly followed up with raspy laughter. While Sentinel was in debilitating pain, monitors wailing in his ears at the forced degradation of his armor, his opponent was laughing. "I'll be damned," he mused, wiping blood from under his nose and smearing it across his face to mingle with Sentinel's. "You actually managed to get yourself outta that. I'm impressed."
Then, his chrome lit up. Red, red like hellfire burning across his body, and his muscles tensed as though it burned him too. As he tilted his head back up, the glow could be seen in his eyes and in traces across his face. His breathing became more fervent, his pupils obscured by whatever had just been activated. Traces of blood and froth hit the floor.
"Shame it won't save you."
It was enough of a warning for Sentinel to dodge the initial strike that ripped through the air with the force of a boxcar. It was enough of a warning for him to deliver an elbow strike to the back of his head capable of denting chrome. None of it was enough to put a dent in the opponent's resolve. No sooner had that strike been delivered that the wild merc whipped around and clamped down on Sentinel's arm with his teeth, using his weight to twist it into a lock. Microrotors, metal teeth, titanium bones, and the sheer thrill of the fight began to work in unison. The metal ripped under the pressure, horrid screeching sounds sounding off like the cries of the damned over the battlefield.
Groaning.
Tearing.
Wailing.
Then, a shower of sparks erupted from the side of his head and he backed off with a pained growl, picking up a plate of Sentinel's armor and flinging it into the camera over the ring with enough force to shatter it. The red traces flickered and dimmed before firing back up to full brightness again as he raised his head, revealing a face full of rage and dripping with blood. "Netrunnin' piece 'o shit!" he snarled, whipping around in search of the unseen assailant. "Get out here! Damned coward, I'll rip that deck right outta your brain!"
Tsikavat could only stand and stare with a cottonmouthed silence. They had heard the rumors about this particular merc—that he was a sadistic solo who earned his stripes by surviving in Dogtown's underbelly before breaching containment and making himself Night City's problem. That he had a tendency to leave nothing but twisted metal and torn flesh in his wake. That he was the nuclear option of the Afterlife. They had heard it all. Hearing was one thing. Seeing Kenneth Kaminsky in action was another entirely.
And he knew they weren't the only one watching.
"... He's going to kill you the moment he finds you, you know."
"I think the words you're looking for are 'you're welcome', boss."
"Maybe they are."
Regardless of Alvita now being marked for death, Tsikavat couldn't deny that they were grateful for the netrunner buying Sentinel a few more seconds on the clock. Now it was just up to him to use them wisely.
Tsikavat reached out to grab Sentinel's coat, futilely attempting to stop the edgerunner before he took up the death trap of an offer from his opponent, but the syn-leather barely grazed their fingers and his words outsped any remnants of sense left floating between those synapses. All they could do was hiss the name of their teammate through gritted teeth, as if it would even make a difference. This was out of their hands now. They took a step back, and then another, hands shaking as they assessed the situation. Maybe they could find someone. Maybe Iron Side would step in—wouldn't want to lose one of their most promising prospects, would they? Plus, if anyone here could step to the wild animal on the other side of the ring...
No. Tsikavat knew they had to stay by the ring. With Alvita preoccupied with keeping the scav runners at bay, they'd need to stay near the ring and be prepared to intervene. They had a mission to uphold, and coyote or not they had to see it through. Besides, there's no way Iron Side didn't already know. It's not like the opponent had a knack for subtlety. Taking a deep breath, they stepped back up to the ringside. "Alvita," they said, resting their hand on the corner post. "I need you to focus on the scavs. Sentinel's made his bed, you just finish your job."
"What?" she asked, dumbfounded by the sudden chill in her leader's voice. "Wait, wait, look, I can still see the ring! Give me a millisec, I could deploy a quickhack! Look, I don't know who this gonk is, but-"
"Exactly, you don't know who he is. I do. That's why I'm telling you not to engage and focus on your assignment. I can't afford two fatalities tonight."
As Tsikavat hissed out their orders, the opponent in the middle of the ring began to laugh, metal teeth gleaming beneath smog-stained fluorescents. He rolled his shoulders and slipped into a slightly more closed stance, bringing his arms down by his sides and squaring up his legs. Beneath the brim of his hat, something red glinted on his fang. Blood? It didn't quite look like it, but it felt correct to assume. "Cocky little shit, I like you already," he chuckled, raising one hand up and beckoning Sentinel in. "Let's see if you got the grit to back it up, city boy."
Sentinel was fast, sure. Boosted reflexes and high-grade chrome let him close the gap faster than most people could process the motions. They also allowed him to barely dodge the expertly-executed parry from his opponent, barely escaping the trap laid for him. As Sentinel went in for the first strike, his mysterious opponent grabbed his arm, stalling it in place despite the sheer force behind the chrome. Sharp climbing-grade claws deployed, piercing the syn-leather sleeve of his coat and digging into the syn-skin beneath. A deadly punch was thrown. Yet, with the ripping of fabric and the screeching of claws through plating, Sentinel was still able to pull away and barely outmaneuver the strike that was aimed directly at his liver, getting out with only scratches.
But the beast was far from finished. As the edgerunner was reeling from the stopping power of his opponent's grip, he didn't respond to his follow-up strike until it was too late. His fist slammed into Sentinel like a wrecking ball, making direct contact with the plate of armor that Tsikavat had just repaired. Against most opponents, the plate would've held. It would've been a sore spot, weaker than the rest of the armor, but it would've held. Against this rouge merc, it cracked in two and and pierced the flesh beneath, displacing blood and air in equal amounts. In one motion, the older man had turned the borg's own chrome against him, stabbing it into his gut like a crude dagger. The hot blood that ran over the shorter man's hand only made him more merciless, only fueled the wild bloodlust behind those bloodshot eyes. He grabbed Sentinel by the neck with his free hand and slammed him to the ground as he ripped more of the plates away from his skin, peeling the young merc apart like an exotic fruit. He wasn't aiming for a quick kill. He was aiming to cause pain. He was aiming to dig his way into Sentinel's guts and disembowel him. A slow, bloody death typically only reserved for altercations between predator and prey, levied against another man for the whole crowd to see.
But if Sentinel were one to go down that quickly, he wouldn't have made it in front of that crowd to begin with.
Through the pain and lack of breath, he managed to land a punch on his opponent's head. That did nothing—nothing apart from making that ripping more fervent. However, the shove did give him enough leg room to get his foot up under his opponent and kick him off with the strength of a mule, sending him staggering up and back as coolant and blood sprayed over the floor. Then, with a rush of adrenaline, Sentinel bolted to his feet and landed a series of blows on his older opponent. One to the chest. One to the gut. One more to the head. Like lightning, he struck and struck with an inhuman quickness, and the amount of hits in such a short time was enough to break the cowboy's focus. Then, while he was staggered, the edgerunner delivered one final strike to the chest, sending the smaller man staggering back into a coughing fit.
That coughing fit, however, was quickly followed up with raspy laughter. While Sentinel was in debilitating pain, monitors wailing in his ears at the forced degradation of his armor, his opponent was laughing. "I'll be damned," he mused, wiping blood from under his nose and smearing it across his face to mingle with Sentinel's. "You actually managed to get yourself outta that. I'm impressed."
Then, his chrome lit up. Red, red like hellfire burning across his body, and his muscles tensed as though it burned him too. As he tilted his head back up, the glow could be seen in his eyes and in traces across his face. His breathing became more fervent, his pupils obscured by whatever had just been activated. Traces of blood and froth hit the floor.
"Shame it won't save you."
It was enough of a warning for Sentinel to dodge the initial strike that ripped through the air with the force of a boxcar. It was enough of a warning for him to deliver an elbow strike to the back of his head capable of denting chrome. None of it was enough to put a dent in the opponent's resolve. No sooner had that strike been delivered that the wild merc whipped around and clamped down on Sentinel's arm with his teeth, using his weight to twist it into a lock. Microrotors, metal teeth, titanium bones, and the sheer thrill of the fight began to work in unison. The metal ripped under the pressure, horrid screeching sounds sounding off like the cries of the damned over the battlefield.
Groaning.
Tearing.
Wailing.
Then, a shower of sparks erupted from the side of his head and he backed off with a pained growl, picking up a plate of Sentinel's armor and flinging it into the camera over the ring with enough force to shatter it. The red traces flickered and dimmed before firing back up to full brightness again as he raised his head, revealing a face full of rage and dripping with blood. "Netrunnin' piece 'o shit!" he snarled, whipping around in search of the unseen assailant. "Get out here! Damned coward, I'll rip that deck right outta your brain!"
Tsikavat could only stand and stare with a cottonmouthed silence. They had heard the rumors about this particular merc—that he was a sadistic solo who earned his stripes by surviving in Dogtown's underbelly before breaching containment and making himself Night City's problem. That he had a tendency to leave nothing but twisted metal and torn flesh in his wake. That he was the nuclear option of the Afterlife. They had heard it all. Hearing was one thing. Seeing Kenneth Kaminsky in action was another entirely.
And he knew they weren't the only one watching.
"... He's going to kill you the moment he finds you, you know."
"I think the words you're looking for are 'you're welcome', boss."
"Maybe they are."
Regardless of Alvita now being marked for death, Tsikavat couldn't deny that they were grateful for the netrunner buying Sentinel a few more seconds on the clock. Now it was just up to him to use them wisely.
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deadly king
never fade away
Hot blood trickled down Sentinel's core, moving through every dent and crack in his armor, running over his muscles, coating him in a stinging layer of pain. One wrong calculation, one delayed reaction and it all came crashing down. Pieces of his armor punctured into his skin, creating a hole through the plating and small openings in his skin. As oxygen flooded the wound, his eyes shot wide open underneath the helmet, gasping for air.
Everything burns.
Every movement sent fresh jolts of agony through his nerves, as though he were being torn apart from the inside out. The 'WARNING' signs flashing on his HUD felt like distant screams, and his hands trembled with the struggle to stay steady. Significant damage to armor plating, coolant leak, Rara Avis bent, critical blood loss, and the Revulsor refused to start -- all his systems were starting to crash. Despite being on his feet, the solo barely held himself together, sight blurring as he stared at the stranger.
Everything burns.
Breathing came in short, ragged bursts as he tried to will himself upright, but his body barely responded. His vision blurred in and out, colors smearing together until only the outline of his opponent remained in focus. Forcing his teeth to clamp shut, he choked down the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Stay up. Don't go down. He could barely hold his head up, but his opponent’s shadowed form stood before him—a reminder that surrender wasn’t an option.
The agony radiated from his core, searing its way through his body. His vision blinked in and out, each time hazier than the last. Sentinel could almost see that twisted grin beneath the shadows, taunting him, daring him to break. The ground swayed beneath him, but he forced his knees to lock, anchoring himself against the threat of collapse.
Move! But he was pinned in place, breath rasping and pulse deafening in his ears. It was as if his very blood had turned to molten steel, dragging him down as each heartbeat pumped more pain through his veins. The realization gnawed at him, a bitter thought barely surfacing through the haze: for all his strength, enhancements, and reputation, he was on the verge of losing this fight.
Everything burns.
"That chrome's got some fight in it, sure... but I think it’s about time we test what’s left under all that fancy tech. Don't you agree?"
Before he could move, a voice echoed from above, cold and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade. Their figure loomed high above in the viewing area, arms crossed, displeased with how their event had been rudely hijacked.
"That's enough."
“Been waiting for you to step in,” Kaoru quipped, pulling her gaze from the ring to Iron Side. “Thought you’d let him get turned to scrap first.”
Iron Side didn’t dignify the comment with a reply. Their focus was locked on the ring below, eyes glowing with barely contained rage. He shifted his gaze to Sentinel, battered and barely standing, and his jaw tightened. The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Iron Side vaulted over the edge of the viewing platform. They landed with a deafening thud, the reinforced floor cracking beneath their derby boots. Dust kicked up in a halo around them as they rose to their full height, nearly three feet above the coyote.
Sentinel coughed, staggering as they tried to argue, "I can still—" another cough. "I’m not out yet," he rasped, his voice strained through the pain. He met Iron Side's gaze, defiance burning in his eyes despite the blood trickling down his face. "I can finish this."
Iron Side merely laughed at the beaten man's words, "You can barely stand, Sentinel. If you die I'm who knows how many eddies,"
The edge runner clenched his fists, refusing to back down. "I can handle it," he insisted, taking an unsteady step forward. "I don’t need a fucking rescue. This is my fight."
Iron Side didn’t waver, meeting him with the same unyielding resolve. "It was. Now it's mine. Don't make me drag you out of here myself."
Before the other could respond, they turned their attention to the bloodthirsty coyote, stepping forward with deliberate, heavy strides. The crowd fell silent, sensing the shift in the air as Iron Side squared up to him, immediately getting into a forward stance.
"You better be ready to bleed."
Everything burns.
Every movement sent fresh jolts of agony through his nerves, as though he were being torn apart from the inside out. The 'WARNING' signs flashing on his HUD felt like distant screams, and his hands trembled with the struggle to stay steady. Significant damage to armor plating, coolant leak, Rara Avis bent, critical blood loss, and the Revulsor refused to start -- all his systems were starting to crash. Despite being on his feet, the solo barely held himself together, sight blurring as he stared at the stranger.
Everything burns.
Breathing came in short, ragged bursts as he tried to will himself upright, but his body barely responded. His vision blurred in and out, colors smearing together until only the outline of his opponent remained in focus. Forcing his teeth to clamp shut, he choked down the bitter, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Stay up. Don't go down. He could barely hold his head up, but his opponent’s shadowed form stood before him—a reminder that surrender wasn’t an option.
The agony radiated from his core, searing its way through his body. His vision blinked in and out, each time hazier than the last. Sentinel could almost see that twisted grin beneath the shadows, taunting him, daring him to break. The ground swayed beneath him, but he forced his knees to lock, anchoring himself against the threat of collapse.
Move! But he was pinned in place, breath rasping and pulse deafening in his ears. It was as if his very blood had turned to molten steel, dragging him down as each heartbeat pumped more pain through his veins. The realization gnawed at him, a bitter thought barely surfacing through the haze: for all his strength, enhancements, and reputation, he was on the verge of losing this fight.
Everything burns.
"That chrome's got some fight in it, sure... but I think it’s about time we test what’s left under all that fancy tech. Don't you agree?"
Before he could move, a voice echoed from above, cold and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade. Their figure loomed high above in the viewing area, arms crossed, displeased with how their event had been rudely hijacked.
"That's enough."
“Been waiting for you to step in,” Kaoru quipped, pulling her gaze from the ring to Iron Side. “Thought you’d let him get turned to scrap first.”
Iron Side didn’t dignify the comment with a reply. Their focus was locked on the ring below, eyes glowing with barely contained rage. He shifted his gaze to Sentinel, battered and barely standing, and his jaw tightened. The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Iron Side vaulted over the edge of the viewing platform. They landed with a deafening thud, the reinforced floor cracking beneath their derby boots. Dust kicked up in a halo around them as they rose to their full height, nearly three feet above the coyote.
Sentinel coughed, staggering as they tried to argue, "I can still—" another cough. "I’m not out yet," he rasped, his voice strained through the pain. He met Iron Side's gaze, defiance burning in his eyes despite the blood trickling down his face. "I can finish this."
Iron Side merely laughed at the beaten man's words, "You can barely stand, Sentinel. If you die I'm who knows how many eddies,"
The edge runner clenched his fists, refusing to back down. "I can handle it," he insisted, taking an unsteady step forward. "I don’t need a fucking rescue. This is my fight."
Iron Side didn’t waver, meeting him with the same unyielding resolve. "It was. Now it's mine. Don't make me drag you out of here myself."
Before the other could respond, they turned their attention to the bloodthirsty coyote, stepping forward with deliberate, heavy strides. The crowd fell silent, sensing the shift in the air as Iron Side squared up to him, immediately getting into a forward stance.
"You better be ready to bleed."
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