The air in the deeper ventilation ducts was a pressurized soup of heavy metal particulates and recycled nitrogen. It tasted like someone had ground up a bunch of old nickels and forced him to swallow them. Asher moved with a silence that shouldn't have been possible for a man his size, his mineral-sheathed skin sliding against the vibrating zinc plates of the shaft without a single metallic rasp. One of the plates had a loose screw that rattled every four seconds—a tiny, rhythmic annoyance that made him want to rip the whole wall out.
On his back, Chen Yu—callsign: Cipher—hung like a discarded mannequin. His legs were just useless sticks of bone now, strapped into a harness Asher had rigged from tactical webbing he'd stripped off a multi-arm guard who didn't need it anymore. Cipher's eyes were shut, but his fingers were twitching against the air, playing an invisible piano. He smelled like sour milk and old copper.
"Three meters ahead," Cipher's voice echoed in Asher's skull, courtesy of the mental bridge Su Wan was barely holding together. She was trailing ten feet back, her mind a fraying wire. "There's a junction box. It's a legacy model, Pre-Tech Type III. The UGL is too cheap to upgrade the Sump's internal sensors. If you tap the primary terminal, I can spoof the station's Star-Credit exchange. We have ninety seconds before the watchdog algorithm notices the packet loss. Or until I have a stroke. Whichever comes first."
Asher reached the junction. He didn't bother with a screwdriver. He just extended his index finger, his Hyper-Adaptivecells already shifting under the skin. His fingernail hardened, narrowing into a fine, conductive needle. It felt like a splinter being driven into his quick. He slid it into the port.
[INTERFACE ESTABLISHED] Current Team Liquidity: 0.00 SC Access Level: GUEST/SLAVECipher Status: OVERCLOCKING...
"Asher, wait," Su Wan's mental voice spiked, a jagged needle of caution. "I feel them. That multi-arm Patron... the multi-eyed prick in the silk suit. He isn't just watching. He's already placed a bid on the next match. He's gambling on our death to recoup the credit he spent on Cipher. He thinks we're a bad investment."
"Let him," Asher whispered. His voice was a low vibration that made the zinc plates hum. He noticed a small, oily smudge on the box. "A gambler only wins if the deck is clean. He doesn't know we're the ones marking the cards."
"Done," Cipher breathed. A bead of cold, greasy sweat rolled down his pale forehead and landed on Asher's neck. It was irritating. "I didn't manufacture credits—that's a one-way ticket to an orbital strike. I just rerouted the 'Unclaimed Asset' dividends from the last three liquidations. Basically, I stole from dead men. We have 15.00 Star Credits. It's not enough to buy freedom, but it's enough to buy a seat at the table."
Asher withdrew his finger. The conductive needle sloughed off his skin like dead scales, leaving the tip of his finger raw and weeping a clear fluid. "What does fifteen credits buy us in this butcher shop?"
"Information," Cipher replied. His mental tone had gone flat and heavy. "And the right to pick our own grave."
They crawled out of the vents and dropped into a sub-level designated as the 'Intake Gutter.' It was a vast, open floor beneath the main Arena, where hundreds of Grade-G monsters were kept in magnetic pits. It smelled like a wet dog that had been set on fire. The heat was oppressive.
In the center of the room sat a terminal for the UGL Betting Pool. A small group of Goblins—stumpy, grey-skinned scavengers with too many eyes—were huddled around it, their voices a series of sharp, wet clicks. They were watching the odds for the night's opening match.
[U.G.L. MATCH PREVIEW: SESSION 902]Contender A: #492 (Human - 'The Tyrant') Contender B: Grade-G 'Sludge-Worm' (Mutant Annelid) Odds: 50 : 1 Total Pool: 5,000 SC
Asher looked at the screen. The UGL had already framed the match as a joke. Contender A was a 'monkey' in rags. Contender B was six meters of pulsating, translucent flesh that could dissolve high-density alloys with a single squirt of bile. To the audience in the golden balconies above, this was just the appetizer. A bit of 'Spicy' gore to go with their cocktails.
"Cipher, buy the 'Tactical Analysis' packet for the Sludge-Worm," Asher commanded. He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his hip—a reminder of the Crag-Walker he'd had to haul earlier.
"Cost is 5 SC. Buying now. Hope you like bugs."
A stream of data flooded Asher's mind. He didn't see text; he saw a biological blueprint.
[TACTICAL DATA ACQUIRED] Target: Sludge-Worm (Grade G) Primary Attack: Corrosive Secretions (pH -1.2) Weakness: Respiratory Pores located in the ventral segment. Note: The worm relies on heat-signatures. It is functionally blind to movement. It's also incredibly stupid.
Asher's eyes tracked the data. He looked at his own hand. His Rad-Skin was tough, sure, but it wasn't going to hold up against pH -1.2 acid for more than a few seconds. If he fought the worm like a warrior, he'd be a puddle before the first commercial break.
"Cipher," Asher said, his mind already discarding useless options. "Use the remaining 10 credits. Don't buy a weapon. Buy a 'Service Interruption' in the Arena's ventilation system. I want exactly ten seconds of total stall during the match."
"Asher, that's 10 credits for a breeze?" Cipher questioned. He sounded like he thought Asher had finally snapped. "If you buy a rusted shank, you have a 12% higher survival rate. A breeze doesn't kill worms."
"I don't need to kill it with the breeze," Asher replied. He noticed a piece of grit in his eye and rubbed it raw. "The worm hunts by heat. If the vents stall, the Arena's heat-extraction fails. The ambient temperature will spike for three seconds, then plummet when the emergency bypass kicks in. For those ten seconds, the thermal background will wash me out. I'll be a ghost."
"Risky," Cipher whispered. "But the math... yeah, the math works. Transaction complete. We are now officially broke again. Don't die, it's bad for my credit score."
A group of Wardens drifted toward them, their pulse-emitters glowing a soft, threatening pink. "Asset #492, proceed to the Intake Gate. The Patron demands his dividend. Do not resist."
Asher stood tall. He felt the cold, heavy pressure of the Slave Collar against his spine. It was a reminder that he was currently someone's property. He looked at Su Wan. She was leaning against a rusted pillar, her face the color of parchment. She was still fidgeting with that loose thread on her sleeve. It was driving him crazy.
"Oracle," Asher said, his voice unusually soft. "Link the team. I want Cipher to feed me the worm's heart rate. I want you to broadcast my adrenaline spike as terror to the audience. I want them to think I'm about to piss myself."
"You want to look like you're losing?" Su Wan asked. She stopped fidgeting.
"I want Earth to look like a failing stock," Asher said, his eyes turning into two chips of cold, orange flint. "Because the rich only get careless when they think the price is bottoming out."
He walked through the gate. The transition from the dark Sump to the Arena was a violent slap of white light and roaring, artificial noise. The Tower of Babylon's Arena was a vertical cylinder of sand and blood, surrounded by thousands of transparent VIP boxes where the elite sat, sipping spirits made from planets they'd already liquidated.
In the center of the sand, the Sludge-Worm was waiting. It was six meters of undulating, translucent muscle, dripping with a thick, yellow liquid that hissed as it hit the sand. It smelled like an open sewer in a lightning storm.
[U.G.L. ASSET EVALUATION - LIVE FEED]Specimen #492 Adrenaline: SPIKING (Calculated: EXTREME TERROR) Survival Probability: 0.8% Viewer Retention: MAXED OUT.
Asher stood in the sand. He looked small. He looked weak. He looked up at the VIP boxes, his gaze searching for that Multi-Arm prick who had bought his soul for a single credit. He didn't wave. He didn't roar. He just stood there and let a single, genuine bead of sweat roll down his nose.
Action -> Reaction.
The gate slammed shut. The match was live. Asher had exactly sixty seconds before he had to become a monster. He wondered if he'd ever get the smell of nickels out of his nose.