Two days later, in the shadow of a quiet industrial block, the yawning doors of a warehouse rolled open.
This wasn't just any warehouse — one of the far corners was home to an unassuming steel door, bolted and rust-streaked on the outside. On the inside, however, it led directly into the sublevel of Dexter's laboratory. No one in the city knew that the world's most advanced robotics lab was hidden behind stacks of dusty crates and rusted forklift parts. For Dexter, it was the perfect off-site loading bay: no nosy neighbors, no prying eyes.
Inside, the whir of servos and the hiss of hydraulics filled the air as Dexter's work-bots guided Midas onto the flatbed of a transport truck.
Once the last magnetic clamp locked into place, Dexter stepped into the driver's seat. With a flick of his wrist, the dashboard lit up.
"Activate autopilot," he said.
[Affirmative]
The engine hummed. Outside, the tinted-black glass turned the truck into an unbroken slab of shadow as it rolled onto the street, leaving the warehouse behind.
Dexter leaned back, his gaze drifting to the skyline through the polarized glass. Towering skyscrapers cut sharp lines against the late-afternoon haze, their shapes framed by the bright red sweep of the rebuilt Golden Gate Bridge.
This wasn't San Francisco.
This was San Fransokyo.
It was still strange to him, this city, this world. Back in the "true" world he remembered, cities had fixed names, fixed borders, fixed histories. But here… the map was a madman's collage. Metroville, Townsville, and Danville all existed on the same continent like they'd been lifelong neighbors.
San Fransokyo itself was a fusion of the old-world charm of the Bay Area grafted seamlessly onto Tokyo's neon heartbeat. Narrow alleyways brushed against chrome towers. Paper lanterns swayed in the wind beneath drone-packed skies. A robotics convention could be happening two blocks from a traditional tea house, and no one batted an eye.
Here, fiction and reality weren't opposites, they were roommates.
Dexter raised his wrist and tapped the truck's central display. A holographic interface blinked to life above the console.
"Computer," he said, "bring up the roster for tonight's underground matches."
[As you wish!]
The display shifted, flooding with scrolling names, fight schedules, and bot specifications. The World Robot Boxing scene here wasn't a single, clean sport it was a layered ecosystem.
First were the Official WRB Matches: bright lights, sanctioned arenas, worldwide broadcasts, strict rules, championship payouts, and corporate sponsors with deep pockets. Only the best, most regulated bots could make it in.
Second were the Semi-Legal Underground Arenas: the opposite of clean. No rules. No referees. No safety protocols. These fights happened in repurposed warehouses, empty hangars, even old shipyards. Bets flew as fast as the punches. Illegal mods were expected, and destruction was part of the draw.
Third were the Scrapyard and Street Fights: raw, improvised duels in junk lots or back alleys. Half testing ground, half demolition derby. Losers rarely left with their bots intact.
And in the shadows of all that were the Challenge Matches: where smaller fighters could call out bigger ones, betting pride, reputation, and obscene amounts of cash.
Also the WRB ranked its fighters in tiers which is:
Tier S – Legends: World Champions, unbeaten bots, heavily upgraded.
Tier A – Top Contenders: elite WRB fighters, sponsored, well-maintained, win most of their matches.
Tier B – Mid-Tier Pros: solid bots, but not consistent champions.
Tier C – Low-Tier Pros: WRB bots that often lose to higher tiers, sometimes on the verge of being cut.
Tier D – Amateur League: just starting out, trying to get noticed by WRB scouts.
Tier E – Scrap Kings: underground bots, dirty fighting, modified illegally, often one-hit wonders.
Dexter's eyes slid down the list until he caught on one name.
Bio-War
The undefeated king of the Crash Palace circuit: Tier B. Sleek, fast, brutal, and a lightning bruiser. Exactly the kind of opponent that could push Midas to its limits and give Dexter the combat data he needed.
Dexter's reflection in the glass broke into a faint grin.
"This will be fun," he murmured.
---
An hour later.
The truck rumbled closer to a hulking, dimly lit building at the far end of the docks. Neon green letters spelled out CRASH PALACE above the entrance, their flicker fighting against the darkness of the night. As the truck eased toward the fenced-off gate, the muffled roar of a crowd seeped into the truck — half excitement, half bloodlust.
Dexter let the autopilot handle the roll forward until a burly man in a grease-stained jacket stepped into view, raising a hand for them to stop. The guard approached the driver's side, his face half-lit by the overhead lamp. Dexter lowered the tinted window, and for a moment the man just… stared.
The kid behind the wheel couldn't have been older than fourteen.
The guard's brow twitched, but after a moment he shrugged, he'd seen weirder. This was Crash Palace; questions only slowed the night down.
"Your ID, please," the man said gruffly.
Without hesitation, Dexter produced a sleek laminated pass.
[Robot Handler: Dexter]
[Dextrotech Industries]
The guard scanned it, gave a quick nod, and handed it back. "You're clear. Head on in."
The truck rolled past the gates and into the belly of Crash Palace an industrial cathedral of steel and shadows. The place was massive, a repurposed shipyard hangar dressed for brutality. The walls were plastered with oversized propaganda-style posters showing towering bots mid-punch, each stamped with the words ROBOT FIGHTS TO THE DEATH. Catwalks ran along the upper edges, crowded with gamblers and shady mechanics leaning over the rails. The air was a thick mix of ozone, oil, and fried food from concession stalls shoved between stacks of scrap metal.
Floodlights swung over the arena pit at the center, illuminating a ring surrounded by chain-link fencing reinforced with steel plating. The crowd pressed in tight, faces half-hidden under caps and hoods, their shouts blending into the rhythmic pounding of metal on metal from the ongoing bout. Somewhere deep in the din, you could hear the faint squeal of gears and the occasional sharp crack of hydraulics giving way.
Dexter found an open parking slot along the side wall, killing the engine. He grabbed the handheld controller from its cradle and stepped down.
At the back of the truck, he released the latch. The heavy doors groaned open, revealing Midas. The robot's sleek form glimmered under the warehouse lights, its eyes powering on with a sharp electric hum.
Midas stepped down from the truck bed, each footfall sending a small shudder through the floor.
"Time for your debut, big guy," Dexter said with a smirk, thumb brushing the activation controls.
The crowd hadn't noticed them yet but they would.