When the air was thick with chants of xenos, their voices rising in a fever pitch for blood.
When those two primitive fanged swords bit into the crusted ground with the certainty of metal.
When the sky bled gold and crimson in the setting sun, the nearby sea moaned in tides.
When he looked into lapis eyes and saw calm oceans inside them, that's when Bo understood: this was a test.
Not a true duel of Gia: a civilised duel. This was a ritual, ceremony, a rite. Whichever one it was, it was clearly a primal contest meant to prove something.
Dominance, strength, worth.
That's why his opponent had disarmed himself. Why the crowd did not seem or sound like they wanted him dead—they wanted a violent show. A reason to cheer for their champion before him.
The tall xeno warrior spoke in his deep, guttural tongue in a sentence LIRA's software automatically translated seamlessly now.
"May you fight well."
Bo believed him.
He was unarmed and he assumed Bo was too. But what the xenos didn't know—what they guessed was part of his armour—was that Bo wasn't unarmed.
His autopistol was magnetized to his thigh, his rifle to his back, and his SMG on the small of his back.
It must seem apart of him to them.
One smooth motion and a twitch of his fingers and he could end this.
With a bang.
He could shoot them all if he pleased, take everything they have, their food, their knowledge and carry on his mission: Regroup with his fellow Gians. Wipe out the remaining Rising.
After that. That was for the command to decide.
That is what his old self would do.
He knew what parts LIRA would agree on. Prioritize the directive. Avoid risk until they encounter threats and quickly neutralize.
Bo didn't reach for his weapons—it was too unfair for the xeno that knew nothing about a gun. And right now he wasn't a threat true threat.
Instead, he took a stance.
From the crowd, a xeno called out.
"Prepare yourself!"
Bo breathed.
Feet, shoulder-width apart. Knees bent. Core tight. Chin tucked.
He recited the fundamentals of what made his martial arts.
Arms up. One fist close to the ribs. One open palm out in front of you, forward-facing. Eyes locked. Don't blink... never blink.
"Ready!" another voice barked.
Bo's visor tracked Torjin. He could try to use Predictive Analysis, but it'd be in the way.
LIRA subtly fixed his stance an inch tighter, recalibrating weight distribution in real time.
Then the final word roared from the crowd—
"BITE!"
Torjin moved.
He didn't run, he dashed forward in the high grav. A blur of speed in that massive, muscled frame.
Bo was almost surprised if he hadn't anticipated this. A lunge, just like how Heaterin did—but faster, impending.
Bo rolled where Torjin landed in his place. Half a moment later he shifted, twisted, and spun with his forearm out like an axe. He ducked under the arm whistling dangerously overhead.
He took a step in and crashed his star-steel fist up into the bearded face of Torjin. The sound of bone and steel colliding rang and Torjin staggered back, Bo thought. He pulled his fist back for an uppercut and found that he couldn't.
No, instead he found his fist bit in Torjin's mouth, his jaw flexing as it held Bo's fist and his face deepened further to bear a semblance of a smile.
His arms raised again and swung his fist like a hammer onto Bo's shoulder. His knees buckled and he got on one knee, the force shaking through his body despite the shock dampeners.
Before Bo could bring his other arm up and punch again to free himself, Torjin moved. Bo's body followed and he swung him back and forth like a dog toy before slinging him away.
Bo bounced off the wall and recovered back on his feet in one roll. The crowd cheered harder over him—not at Bo, but at Torjin. His cheeks were hot with frustration from being manhandled by a xeno dog in front of an audience.
He glanced up, spotting Heaterin watching him with an expression he couldn't quite tell. He could not lose, show weakness in a den of dogs.
He refocused on his opponent.
Torjin roared suddenly. Bo fought the urge—the reflex—to reach for his autopistol. The crowd cheered louder. Bo dropped into his stance again—more naturally this time.
He circled around Torjin's hungry gaze before he pounced again. Bo stepped away. When Torjin swiped at him, Bo dodged. He couldn't risk striking at something he didn't know or understand.
Torjin's strikes were wild and fast arcs—he didn't punch but used his fists like hammers and forearms wrapped in thick rope like rough wood clubs—but they were not random.
Each arc tried to force Bo into predictable moves, each swing baited Bo into false openings or openings that would punish Bo more than him.
He almost looked like he used his hands like two maces.
Bo was hit with an idea—and with a backfist as he was sent flying to the side when Torjin swung into Bo's guard. He skidded to his feet before sidestepping another charge.
When Torjin swung out again, he was hit again—but instead of being flung like a rock, his boots scraped across the ground, he grabbed Torjin's arm, dug his heel in, and tripped the behemoth to the ground on his back.
A perfect throw.
Using his momentum against him—and he needed to capitalize on it fast.
Bo, still holding Torjin's arm, wrapped it around his own shoulders like a python around its prey.
Torjin was helpless. Despite his strength, despite his strange fighting techniques, he was now at Bo's mercy.
Splayed out as if crucified.
Bo raised his free fist and slammed his star-steel knuckles on flesh. Torjin's forehead, nose, cheekbones—avoiding the mouth. Anything he could slam his fist against the writhing beast in its death throes.
The beast flexed his arm prying his arm free but Bo pulled it back in again. His grip tigher and his fist re-doubled his effort.
The cheers died down like a massacre through the xenos and the ringing metal smashed against an echoing skull.
Bo wasn't sure when he was supposed to stop, so he was going to make sure his opponent either got a concussion or gave up.
Torjin writhed and roared, his struggles were desperate—like a helpless beast caught in a trap.
The volume from him distorted Bo's audio and display. With one sharp motion, he punched Torjin's throat, then another, and Torjin choked on his voice.
Bo immediately started beating the beast's face with a barrage of fists and elbows until he stopped moving—until Bo stopped him. When he felt Torjin's muscles relax and the struggles fade, Bo's fist still fell on him.
He had to be sure he wouldn't get back up.
The xeno announcer in the quiet crowd finally boomed, "Stop! Stoooop! Stooop! Please! Stop!" desperately pleading.
Bo almost didn't hear him—almost didn't see him—but LIRA pinged him, and he looked up to the xeno with a white silk cape draped on his shoulders trying to enter the ring but two men held him back.
Bo paused mid-strike, his fist drenched in the dark red.
When the alerts of heat under him spiked dangerously, the arm bubbled at the surface—growing. The rope wrist brace groaned taut as the flesh grew under it.
The temperature rose high and the alert in Bo's HUD went to 280°C and climbing before his eyes—arm growing. Not instantly combusting into flames or charring, but simply burning hot, bubbling.
The heat started to sink into his suit slowly, but his grip still held. Though it didn't matter—he was pulled further from Torjin's body as the arm extended out.
He disengaged from the limb and rolled back. Torjin narrowly gripped his leg, actually scraping a deep scar in Bo's armor, and with the same arm now covered in fur and claws, he stood back up and flung Bo away into the wall.
Torjin's blue eyes were like a raging stormy ocean peeking through the angry red of his own blood. Deep cuts bled slowly through a pulverized nose. He cracked his neck and shrugged the mutated hairy black arm and thick claws.
He growled harshly, almost wheezing, when he got low—mutated arm gripping into the ground—ready to pounce again. Bo wasn't going to play this game anymore.
This xeno—this thing—was dangerous.
He reached for his autopistol at his side. He had to use four bullets on it to make sure it was dead. He couldn't waste any more than that.
"Stop!" It wasn't from the xenos of this tribe but from Heaterin above Bo. "Stop, he took your blood! He brought you down! He will take your life next!"
Torjin paused and looked up, then back at Bo, calmer now. Closing his eyes to breathe through his mouth, he spat a mouthful of red to the ground and sneezed a glob of darkened red and sighed.
"Really...? It's over... hmmm..." Torjin grumbled thoughtfully.
He dropped to one knee awkwardly, his mutated arm shriveled back in a slow, hot steam.
"You win... I... I... I submit to you." He bowed his head.
Torjin's eyes slowly opened, looking at Bo with a different gaze now he couldn't quite describe. "You're truly strong. You're a true predator, Titanborne."
He lowered his head again to Bo, his tail wrapping a muscular leg. Bo gazed up to the xenos above, their faces painted with what looked to be shock, anger—the children were especially angry, sad.
Bo did not understand what it meant for Torjin to submit to him, for him to bow, to have all these xenos be so emotional.
In Sol, if you had lost a duel it meant that whatever agreement between two parties had to be—be it ownership of a few Ripwing Cruisers, money, honor—earned through victory in first cut or submissions. A system made to end all small conflicts under Lune dominion of Gia, and fast.
Bo was not going to bother with their primitive ritual. What he had to do was guess—and look stupid. No, Bo was not. He was a Praetor of an entire fleet, he was a Captain of a squad. He was those things.
He was... now he is a combat engineer.
A part of him hated that fact. He was meant to solve Sol's problems through his flesh, his soul.
No. Bo was a soldier. He lived and breathed battle, his bones and flesh were made to fuel the gears of war—the vanguard of Gia.
He stomped to Torjin at the center of the circle, the pit, and stood over the beast, casting the sun's ember shadow.
"Torjin." Bo stated calm and clear, "Tell me. What it means when you submit to me."
The beast huffed wetly, "It means you are strong. Stronger than me..." he grumbled low in a strained voice.
"Are you the strongest?"
"In this village..."
Bo looked around once more at the masses gathered.
"Let us discuss this in private. Arrange a space for us, I will be with my... companion." Bo declared and walked away.
He leapt up and mantled out the pit, the xenos spread further as if he could kill them at a touch.
He made his way out the mouth of the cavern, jumping down the drop instead of taking the stair, walking along the sandy seaside. The wall of rock bordered high on both sides as far as the eye could see. It didn't matter, he needed peace and to think about his next move with LIRA.
"LIRA."
Silence.
Bo tried again but there was silence, "LIRA?"
That's when it dawned on him, "You can talk now."
[May I speak AND do my job now?]
She blinked into her avatar in his vision. She was knelt on the shore, patting a digital sandcastle, then stood and dusted sand off herself.
"You're not serious." Bo chuckled to himself dryly.
She blinked beside him and walked with him along the shoreline.
[I know when not to be. Now from what I've gathered is—]
"Titanborne." The voice came from behind, Heaterin. Her bare rough feet covered in grainy snow-white sand, dressed in the same torn leather clothes and clutching her sheathed sword close.
Golden eyes glowed in dimming twilight.
"Titanborne." She said again, "what are you going to do now?"
Bo turned to her, "I haven't decided yet."
"Where will you go?" She pressed.
Bo looked around for a moment, "North."
"Where the Emberthorn are?" She asked carefully.
"If they are north." Bo answered.
Heaterin nodded, perhaps more so to herself than to his answer, "You were going to kill him—scout leader Torjin-har—I saw you reach for your... weapon." She eyed his pistol at his thigh with an envious look.
Bo almost had to pat it to make sure it was still there—but it was.
"Yes... I was... he wouldn't give up. Why?" He narrowed his eyes behind his thick visor, LIRA subtly adjusting his stance. "If you're here to fight, know that I will not hesitate."
Bo said, but the statement rang hollow to him. Despite Heaterin trying to kill him before, he enjoyed the last two days with her. Putting her down felt like he would be putting down a stray dog.
Dog? They aren't dogs, they're humans—no, humanoid xenos: sentient.
"I do not attack, I remember vaguely of you. You killed my hunters with your magic—powerful magic." Heaterin said.
"So?" Bo asked slowly.
Heaterin bowed deeply before, "I-I want to repay that debt by being your—" the translator paused before continuing, "...retainer. I ask humbly to go with you wherever you go."
Bo's body shifted to her, the ocean sighed at the shores, swallowing their feet in a tide. Sands shifted under them as if dragged to the shimmering reddened sea, as the water quickly fled back.
Why would he bring a xeno native along with him north? Why would he handle the added logistics of travelling with another living being to where his comrades are? Why not endure talking to LIRA for God knows how long? Why would he care for a ragged xeno that could turn into a furry beast?
Heaterin.
The answer was simple.
It was a decision that was optimal for travel and for the sake of his sanity. His comrades would agree and LIRA would understand.
"You may come with me, Heaterin. I needed a guide or map anyways." Bo confirmed. "Don't slow me down."
Heaterin's ears twitched, "Uhhh... yes I won't let you down."
The light bled away from the withering twilight.
"Then... we won't have any issue." Bo declared, "But first there's still work to be done here."