The slums of the Grand Electrum festered in a perpetual haze, a cloying tank of burnt wiring and synthetic grease. Above the grime, floating cars once glossy symbols of the 3140 boom hung rusted and immobilized, their sputtering hover engines dripping oil onto the graffiti-tagged projects below.
Kiro shoved his hands into the pockets of his tattered jacket, his breath misting in the neon-lit drizzle. He stared up at the ruined college gates, its shattered hologram sign flickering a broken promise against the gloom: W LCOME TO HE LL.
Kiro, at twenty-two, was all lanky limbs and sharp angles, weaving through the press of bodies with a hungry grace. He had no visible cyberware, no armor nothing but the clothes on his back and a pair of eyes that burned a faint, unsettling red in the gloom, like distant brake lights in the fog.
Looming beside him, Raiji was his opposite. At twenty-four, his barrel chest and scar-crossed arms carved a path through the crowd without him having to ask. His spiked red hair was a brutal, hack-job mess, as if cut with a knife during a brawl. It wasn't for style; it was for fear factor.
Just like the swords at his side.
"Three credits," he muttered, the words tasting as bitter as the air. "That's it. The grand total after tuition." He shot a glare at the larger man leaning against the flickering streetlamp beside him. "You know what three credits buys at the commissary?"
Raiji didn't need to look over. "Let me guess," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Another one of those protein bars?"
"The one with the sawdust, yeah," Kiro said. "The one that tastes like cardboard and regret."
A grin cracked Raiji's scarred face. He finally pushed off the lamp post, the movement making the two swords at his hips sway. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed a small coin pouch. Kiro snatched it from the air; the few coins inside clinked a sad, thin song.
"Then stop whining and put it to use," Raiji said. "Here's twenty. Arena entry fee's fifteen." His tone was light, joking, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the hilt of his sword. "So don't you dare lose. I want my investment back."
Kiro weighed the pouch in his palm. It felt impossibly light for the risk it represented. "Since when do you care if I win or lose?"
"Since my account's as empty as yours," Raiji shrugged. The worn leather on his sword hilts was stripped down to the bare metal, a testament to a thousand desperate fights. "And if you die in there, who's going to pay me back?"
A cold breeze cut through the drizzle, carrying the scent of ozone and decay. Without another word, Kiro turned, and together, the two young men melted into the crowded, neon-drenched street, a study in contrasts.
Underground Arena Arrival
The press of bodies grew thicker, the air shifting from the damp chill of the slums to the dry, electric heat of a packed crowd. They pushed through a final set of heavy doors, and the world erupted.
The underground arena was a cavern of noise and stench a potent mix of blood, sweat, and decades of stains ground into the sand. Despite being indoors, the air was thick and hot, the roar of the crowd vibrating through Kiro's ribs as he eyed the bloodstained pit ahead. Fighters of every size and augmentation hulking brutes with grafted metal and wiry quick-strikers milled around, sizing each other up.
Kiro tossed the bouncer, a wall of scarred muscle and chrome, his last few credits.
"These guys stronger than the street trash we stomp daily?" he asked, cracking his neck.
Raiji didn't answer. His hand rested on his sword hilt, but his mind was elsewhere, pulled back to a neon-lit alley just last night.
Ten thugs had blocked their path, their leader a mountain of a man with a broken nose. He grinned, a cruel slash of yellowed teeth. "Credits or teeth. Choose."
Kiro had sighed, the picture of weary annoyance. "I'll take 'neither.'"
The big man lunged. A mistake. Kiro's boot slammed upward between his legs with a sickening crunch.
Then, chaos erupted.
Kiro blurred into motion. An elbow cracked a jaw with the wet pop of breaking teeth. A knee drove into a gut, followed by the whoosh of air forcibly expelled from lungs. He moved so fast he seemed to displace the very air, sweat droplets hanging suspended in his wake.
Raiji, in contrast, leaned against a graffiti-tagged wall, yawning as a thug foolishly charged him.
It was over in a blur. The hilt of Raiji's sword kissed the man's temple, and he dropped like a sack of stones.
"Hurry up," Raiji had muttered, not even winded. "Sun's burning."
Kiro wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, already scooping up the scattered credits from the groaning thugs. "Free food," he'd said, a grin finally touching his lips. "Then I'll spar you."
Back in the arena's oppressive heat, Kiro snapped his fingers. "Earth to Raiji."
His friend blinked, the memory dissolving. "They're skilled here," Raiji said, his voice a low growl that cut through the crowd's din. "Higher ranks mean real money." A deliberate pause. "So try not to die. My money's on the line."
Kiro smirked, stepping down into the sunken pit. The crowd exploded as his first opponent lumbered in from the opposite side a mass of muscle and metal, a cyborg with hydraulic fists that whined with pent-up power.
Raiji's voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear from the pit's edge:
"Just don't embarrass me."
The arena stank of blood, sweat, and decades of stains ground into the sand. Flickering holograms cast the pit in a sickly green light as a blonde man in a tailored suit floated above in a VIP hover-pod, his gold-tinted sneer amplified across crackling speakers.
He wiped imaginary dust from his sleeve, leaning into his mic. "Ladies, gentlemen... and you genetic rejects in the cheap seats!" His voice oozed contempt. "Welcome to another night where you're all still losers in our eyes!"
The crowd roared back, throwing empty synth-booze cans that fizzled harmlessly against the forcefield protecting his pod.
"Let's give a warm Electrum welcome to tonight's FRESH MEAT!" he continued, squinting at a flickering hologram. "...some broke college kid calling himself... Kiro?" A cruel smirk spread across his face. "Christ, did your parents hate you?"
Sand kicked up as Iron First stomped into the pit—a 300-pound brute with hydraulic knuckles that whined menacingly as they powered up.
The announcer yawned dramatically into his mic. "Before we begin... rules! Oh, wait." He paused, letting the tension build. "There are none. Weapons? Sure. Cheap shots? Encouraged. Outside interference?" He chuckled. "Entertaining!"
A bottle shattered against the forcefield nearby.
"Actually ONE rule!" he snapped, his playful tone vanishing. "This is a 1v1. Break that, and King Croc gets... angry."
A distant, guttural roar shook the very foundations of the arena, silencing the crowd for a brief, terrifying second.
The announcer's smile returned, wider and more vicious than before. "Now... FIGHT!"
Iron First cracked his hydraulic knuckles with a high-pitched whine. "Fresh meat? I'll make it quick."
The giant launched forward a 300-pound freight train of muscle and augments. His fist cratered the sand where Kiro had stood half a second earlier.
Skin of my teeth, Kiro thought, tasting copper. The man was a steroid monument 6'2" with a neck thicker than Kiro's thigh—but his footwork was sludge.
A kick whistled toward Kiro's face. He blocked, but the impact sent him skidding back. Then WHUMPH a gut punch launched him airborne. He hit the ground hard.
"And that's why we don't bet on college kids, ladies and gentlemen!" Announcer Midas yawned into his mic.
In the shadows, Raiji sipped his wine, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Now it gets fun."
Kiro rose, spat blood. "Oh. That type of fight."
Iron First charged like a bull. Kiro pivoted, redirecting the brute's momentum face-first into the wall of the pit. A liver shot crunched. A sweep sent the giant crashing down.
"You'll pay " Iron First wheezed, lumbering up.
Kiro was already moving. As the man grappled at air, Kiro slid between his legs "Sorry. Wrong number." and sprang up with a spinning kick to the jaw. Iron First's head snapped back. Kiro didn't let him fall.
The final blow was a flying knee to the nose. Cartilage shattered with a wet crack. The giant toppled like a felled redwood.
Midas sighed as the crowd chanted "FRESH MEAT! FRESH MEAT!"
"Pathetic. Kiro wins, I suppose."
Iron First twitched in the sand. Someone threw a bottle. "That cost me 500 credits, you steroid trash!"
Kiro exited the arena, his knuckles still singing from the fight. Raiji cracked his neck, already unbuckling his swords.
"Looks like my turn," he grinned. "Watch and learn, Kiro."
Kiro grabbed his arm. "Wait... you gave me your last credit."
"Pre-paid fight," Raiji said, shrugging off the grip. "Higher ranks pay upfront. Special deal since I'm gunning for the arena champ." He tossed Kiro a crumpled flyer.
Kiro smoothed it out. The heading read: RANKINGS (OFFICIAL - terms and conditions may not apply)
RANK 10: Top Ten. Worthy of King Croc.
RANK 50: High-paying mid-card (if Midas feels like it)
RANK 100: Low-card. You'll eat sawdust protein.
RANK 150+: Grunts. Hope you like broken bones.
Kiro squinted. "This just says 'stronger guys get paid more.'"
"Slums don't do HR departments, dumbass," Raiji snorted, vaulting into the sand pit where a 7-foot stick insect of a man tapped bony fingers against the ropes.
From above, Midas's voice oozed through the speakers with renewed boredom. "Now for tonight's mid-card two broke nobodies! On your left, 'Wind Blade' Raiji! On your right, 'Dirty Dam' an ex-UFC fraud who fights like my grandma!" A pause, then a sharp crackle: "FIGHT, YOU WEAKLINGS!"
In the shadows near a service entrance, a man in a trench coat sipped his coffee, his eyes locked not on the new fight, but on Kiro. "That one..." he murmured to himself. "He's strong."
Meanwhile, high above the grime of the Grand Electrum...
A sleek black vessel hummed through the night, its shadow cutting through the smoggy sky like a shark's fin. Inside the dimly lit cabin, a mountain of a man bald, with a cigar clamped between gold-capped teeth glared at a hooded figure leaning casually against the closed hatch.
"We got one shot at that Cube," the big guy growled, smoke puffing from his lips. "Government ain't handing out second chances. Don't screw up, Soundman."
The hooded figure didn't turn. A faint smile was just visible in the shadows of his hood. "Yes, boss. Wouldn't dream of it..." he said, his voice calm. "Especially not with those Loyal Guard sniffing around."
A hologram flickered to life between them, displaying two armored captains. One hefted a massive plasma axe, while the other had menacing rifle barrels where his fingers should be.
The big guy ground his cigar, his jaw tight. "Intel says at least two of those pain-in-the-ass captains are escorting it." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "So unless you wanna end up a stain"
But the hooded man was already gone. The hatch hissed shut behind him.
He plummeted toward the city's neon sprawl, headphones blasting thrash metal as wind ripped at his hood. The last thing the airship crew heard before he vanished into the electric abyss was a distorted, fading shout:
"BANG... LIKE A SHOCK WAVE!"