“I don’t get it. Why not just kill yourself?”

Sofie sighs.

“Nicky, you can’t just ask someone--”

“I’m serious!” my Combat Officer protests. “Pull your plug right now and- bing, bang, boom -you’ve got a fresh new body, back in fighting shape. What’s to stop you?”

“Muscle memory,” I reply, wincing as Sander applies another dab of regenerative gel to my wounded shoulder. “A fresh body would need time to develop it. Sure, they bake as much of that in as possible during the rez process, but artificial aging can only do so much. As far as we know, Scáthach hasn’t been resurrected since she came to the Citadel- maybe ever. She’d have a significant advantage over me if I was in a body that was just a few days old.”

Yesterday’s debacle at the sharpshooting event is all anybody wants to talk about, here and on the social feeds. They want to know who put the gravity field in place, who was responsible for it going haywire, and how it managed to flip around and point my own bullet back at me. Some speculate that the entire thing was part of some plan of mine, while others have pinned it all on the Komodos. The truth is a mix of both.

Hark and her people planted the grav-field generator in the first place, and we were the ones to hijack it during the event, but my best guess for what happened at the very end is that Hark- or, to be more precise, one of her tech people -managed to take back control at the last moment, and make me shoot myself. A clever improvised gambit, I have to admit.

Feeling miserable- because of both my wounded shoulder and my wounded pride -I spent all morning in bed, recovering. The first two Championship events of the day came and went, with the Komodos securing their first victory in a one-on-one horse race, Kayla Whitehall triumphing over Tellis Ayedar of the Oxen.

Only with an offering of burgers and milkshakes were Sofie and Niko able to get inside my apartment, for an emergency strategy session over lunch.

Niko’s suggestion of discarding this damaged body for a new one isn’t bad, and if all I needed was to be able to shoot, it’s absolutely what I’d do. But I don’t just need to shoot, I need to be able to shoot perfectly, and without a body that has some muscle memory built up, that’s not in the cards.

Regenerative gel has done plenty for the external injury itself, and numbed most of the pain, but it can’t make muscle and bone knit itself back together by magic. The emergency operation I had after they carried me out of the Exalt Arena on a stretcher was only the first of several surgeries I’m going to need before my shoulder is back in good condition. The doctors did tell me that discarding the body outright would be an option, but I’d already decided by then that I wasn’t interested.

Our ancestors made do with one body for their entire lives. Sure, plenty did so by avoiding pain and injury, but plenty of others bore the scars of battle and still survived without the use of resurrection technology. I’ve got no interest in becoming so reliant on it that I need to kill myself over a single bullet in the shoulder.

“So, what’s the plan? We’re just gonna let Hark walk away with a win, uncontested?”

While Sander re-bandages my shoulder, I shake my head grimly.

“Nah, not a chance. We’ve still got one more card to play. Amalia.”

Niko blinks twice, confused.

“Seriously? I thought you said that she--”

“Isn’t on my level, or Scáthach’s? She isn’t. But the do-over isn’t until the last day of the Championship. We’ve got the better part of a week to get her on my level.”

Now it’s Sofie’s turn to look skeptical, slurping down her chocolate-and-strawberry shake. She’s cheating a little, with food like this- her gymnastics event is coming up tomorrow. But it’s a stressful moment for all of us, and I’m confident she’ll win no matter what. Unlike me.

“You really think you can make her world-class in just a couple days?”

“I’m gonna try, at least. Get in contact- tell her to attend the pankration event tonight. I’ll talk to her then. And if I fail, if I can’t coach her... Niko, I want you to get your hands on a bodyjack. Get in touch with the Recluse if you have to. He’s used them before.”

Imperium law states that no mind may inhabit more than a single body at any given time. The most common way to get around this is through the use of a bodyjack- a device that allows you to seize control of another person’s body from afar. Naturally, they’re contraband. But if anybody knows how to get their hands on one, it’ll be the Recluse, our safecracking ally from the Salzwedel job. Before I got him out of that chair, he used them to puppet people on heists, turning his allies into extensions of his will so that he could disable security systems halfway across the Imperium without ever leaving his home in Limbo City.

Niko frowns, and I can tell what he’s thinking- that there’s little chance Amalia would ever agree to let me borrow her body, even for something like this. But all he says is “Got it.”

“Good. Now get to work.”

----------------------------------------

There’s a tense energy in the air at the pankration event in the evening. Feels like being surrounded by sharks- and it’s my blood in the water that has them in a frenzy. Can’t hurt that this is undoubtedly going to be the bloodiest event of the entire Championship.

Mars didn’t seem concerned by that prospect when we spoke- if anything, he was excited. That didn’t come as much of a surprise, knowing how his Founder made his name. He, along with many other Imperium soldiers, was captured by a warlord after their foolhardy general’s ill-conceived strategy failed. Rather than simply slaughter his captives, the warlord kept them alive to fight for his amusement in an arena. Mars’ founder not only survived for years in the arena, but managed to organize an uprising. In contrast, a couple wrestling matches must seem like small potatoes.

“You wanted to speak with me, Commander?” asks Amalia, slipping into the seat beside me. Her voice is characteristically quiet, but pitched up so I can hear her over the din of the crowd.

“Yeah, I- well, first, I need to thank you. For giving me a hand, when I... shot myself. So to speak.”

It was hardly intentional, but the bullet that hit me was the same one that I fired. And though realistically, there wasn’t anything I could have done to prevent what happened, I’ve still found it difficult not to blame myself for being careless. All the others had already stopped shooting when it became obvious what was going on- I could have easily done the same, and avoided this predicament.

“There’s no need to thank me, I was only--”

“C’mon. I was a total bitch to you the other day. You’d have been well within your rights to let me sit there and bleed until the paramedics came. But you didn’t- so, thank you.”

Amalia turns to face me, meeting my eyes for perhaps the first time since our altercation at the range the other day. There’s no trace of malice or resentment in her expression.

“Apology accepted, Commander. Now, what else was it you wanted to discuss?”

The success of my awkward attempt at making peace feels like a burden lifted from my shoulders- which is nice, since one of those shoulders is freshly injured, and I’ve already got way too much resting on it.

“The do-over for our event. I won’t be able to compete. If we’re gonna win, it’s got to be you doing the shooting. And I don’t much like the idea of letting Hark have the win after all the trouble we’ve gone to. So you and me are gonna train every day for the rest of the Championship, until you can shoot just as good as me. Sound good?”

Maybe it would have been more tactful to couch this ‘request’ more carefully- assured her that she’s a fine sharpshooter already. But I don’t think Amalia needs her ego stroked like that. If she does, this plan is probably dead on arrival.

Instead of immediately responding, she takes that in silently for a few seconds, then draws breath to respond- but before she can do so, the voice of the Championship announcer booms over the arena’s public address system, drowning out all conversation.

“Citizens of the Imperium, please welcome the competitors for the Junior Division Pankration Event!”

On command, the four competitors emerge from opposite corners of the arena, clad in tight, sleeveless wrestling singlets that cling to their musclebound bodies in all the right ways. Idly, I wonder about the degree to which they were deliberately designed for sex appeal, or whether that was just entirely an unintentional byproduct.

Mars seems to be a little uncomfortable in his singlet, but still manages to project confidence as he strides towards the leftmost of the three rings in the center of the arena.

“Tonight’s event,” the announcer continues, “will consist of two rounds. The first round will eliminate two of our four competitors. In the second round, the two winners will face off for first place, while the two losers will share the position of third.”

That explains the presence of the third, central ring, then. It’s also a bit larger than the others, presumably to reduce the chance of an unsatisfyingly short match ended by ring-out.

“In the East Ring, Chen Lu of the Ox Unit will face Hector Casales of the Komodo Unit.”

A cheer goes up for the two of them, and Casales spreads his arms, drinking in the adoration of the crowd with a wide grin visible beneath his mane-like white beard. Old though he may be, Casales is massively musclebound, a complete juggernaut, as I found out through hard experience in the ring with him. Chen Lu, on the other hand, has a more lithe physique, befitting the man who won the swimming event just a few days ago. I don’t exactly love his chances in this fight.

“In the West Ring, we have Mannix Devlin of the Peregrines, versus Mars of the Gazelles.”

As Mars raises his fists to the sky, I join in the cheers, enjoying the way that the Gazelle symbols projected above the stands seem to outnumber the Peregrine emblems. Devlin, for his part, merely folds his arms and scowls.

While all four of the wrestlers make their way into their respective rings, I turn back to Amalia and raise an eyebrow.

“So? What’s the verdict?”

“Hm? Oh- of course. Yes, I’d be happy to train with you. But let’s focus on giving Mars our support for the time being, shall we?”

“...yeah, sounds good.”

Mars and Devlin are sizing each other up from opposite sides of the ring, waiting to be given the signal to begin. Presumably Chen Lu and Casales are doing the same thing, but I don’t see much point in watching that match when I already know how it’s gonna end.

“Begin!” bellows the announcer, and in an instant, the two of them are on each other. There are no points to be scored in this event- you only win by making the other man submit, or by breaking their body to the point where they can’t possibly fight anymore. Rarely does it come to that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw it tonight.

Moving a bit faster than Mars, Mannix strikes first, delivering two body blows, each of which Mars catches after they hit, using them to pin Devlin’s arms in place. He uses that pin to pull the Ox warrior towards him, before delivering a knee to the gut.

The crowd- or at least, those that are choosing to watch this fight -lets out a sympathetic cry as Devlin grunts in pain, before rearing back and slamming his forehead into Mars’ nose. That’s enough to dislodge his grip on Devlin’s arms, freeing the scarred man to wrap his arms around Mars’ waist, in an attempt to lift him up and flip him over Devlin’s head. An audacious, showy move- but unlike in scripted ‘sports entertainment,’ Mars isn’t just going to sit there and let it happen. He hooks a leg behind Devlin’s knee, and uses it to break the man’s stance, causing him to drop to the ground, arms still wrapped firmly around Mars.

Now on one knee, Mannix strains against Mars, trying to push him to the ground, while Mars slams his two fists down on Devlin’s back over and over, like he’s trying to shatter his opponent’s spine. With each successive blow, the crowd’s cheers seem to get louder and louder, my own voice among them. A quick glance to my left, however, shows that Amalia doesn’t seem to be quite as enthused by the wanton violence as the rest of us. If there had been a better venue for us to convene at, I’d have chosen it, but this happened to be the event happening tonight.

You know, I whisper to her over the brainband, if you’re not enjoying this, you can go- Mars won’t hold it against you or anything.

No, I- I’ll stay, she replies. I just wasn’t expecting this to be so…

At a loss for words, she falls silent, watching while Mannix throws himself to the side, dropping both of them to the ground, where he immediately attempts to pin Mars.

Extreme? I offer, unable to keep a faint note of amusement out of my voice.

Yes. The way the Dean spoke during the opening ceremony, I thought the Championship would be more reserved than the War Games.

The other events tend to be, for the most part. Pankration is kind of a special case.

Even though Mannix has a knee on his chest and an arm pressing against his throat, trying to force a submission, Mars continues to strike him, alternating body blows from the right and left side. Each hit has a visible effect on Devlin, but it doesn’t seem to be enough to dislodge im, and I worry for a moment that Mars isn’t even going to make it to the final round.

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Seeming to realize that very possibility, Mars switches tactics, stead reaching up to wrap a hand around Devlin’s own throat. If this was a real fight, without any rules whatsoever, he’d probably be trying to gouge the other man’s eyes out instead- but even though pankration is markedly bloodier than any other Championship event, it’s still not quite that bloody.

It seems unlikely that Mars will be able to choke Devlin out first, since the other man has a he’d start on him, but he realizes that, too. Instead of trying in vain, he uses that grip on Devlin’s throat, along with a hand pushing against his chest, to lift Devlin up into the air- raising the knee off his own chest in the process -then flip the man over his own head and dump him unceremoniously to the ground. It’s an incredible feat of strength, one that the crowd rewards with a triumphant roar.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Mars gulps down air greedily, but that maneuver has only earned him a moment’s respite. Mannix is already back on his feet, and moving to grab Mars from behind this time. Without so much as glancing over his shoulder, Mars drives an elbow backwards into Devlin’s stomach, which must already be badly bruised from the beating it’s taken, driving the wind out of the Oxen’s lungs.

Before modern resurrection technology, this sport was done with blows to the head prohibited, for fear of causing permanent damage. That’s not much of a concern nowadays- which is why the only reaction from the crowd when Mars wheels around and delivers a right hook straight to Devlin’s jaw is a cheer.

Swiftly kneeling down, Mars raises up one of his opponent’s legs and locks it in place, attempting to pin him and prevent him from getting back up. When Devlin stirs and begins to struggle, Mars simply starts to bend the joint of his knee backwards, inching towards the point where the bone will snap.

With furious, futile force, Mannix struggles, swiping at Mars from his position on the ground- but the Gazelle warrior has wisely chosen a position just out of his opponent’s reach. Devlin attempts to sit upright, but with his leg held in place, he can’t even manage that much- and eventually, have twisting in pain as his leg comes ever-closer to breaking, he slams a fist against the ground, signaling his submission.

One final cheer goes up from the crowd, so loud I can’t even hear my own voice amongst the multitude. Mars releases his grip, and Devlin’s leg falls flat, limp as the rest of his battered body. My champion isn’t in much better shape, though, despite attempting to project strength as he stands and raises his fists to the air.

A quick glance to the other side of the arena tells me what I already knew- Casales won his match much faster, and with significantly less fanfare. The main difference is that Chen Lu isn’t going to be walking away from this match at all- he’s being carted away in a stretcher, not unlike how I was just yesterday.

There’s no chance Hector had to win the fight like that- he chose o, no I can guess why. A protracted fight, where you force your opponent to submit, means a higher chance of you being injured. If you break the enemy with as much efficiency as possible, you’ll walk away relatively unharmed. Which gives him an even greater advantage over Mars going into the next round.

“Your first-round victors!” the announcer proclaims, close-ups of both Mars and Hector appearing on the holo-screens over the stadium. “The next round will commence in just fifteen minutes!”

A round of applause for both winners goes ‘round the arena. Hector doesn’t react beyond a smile, while Mars pounds his chest twice, then raises a fist to the air once more, before finding a nearby bench and taking a seat, chugging down nearly the entire bottle of water once it’s in his hand. Sweat has drenched his scalp, along with no small amount of blood from when Mannix headbutted him.

“Well,” I remark to Amalia. “That was a hell of a thing. I’m gonna go get something from the concession stand- want me to bring you anything back?”

“I… wouldn’t mind a lemonade,” she says slowly, looking concerned for Mars as he tosses one empty bottle to the side and grabs another, pouring half down his throat and the rest right over his head.

“You got it.”

One advantage of the Championship mostly being attended via hologram is that the lines for food and drinks are significantly shorter than they would be at any other stadium of this size. Only a handful of people are in line before me when I get there, most of whom are wearing Citadel staff uniforms.

It’s a mere minute or two after I’ve gotten in line that I hear behind me the sound of someone clearing their throat. Turning around, I find myself face to face with a woman who looks to be the same age as one of my younger mothers, wearing a shawl made from hexagonally segmented glass. A single glance is all it takes for me to tell she’s a Noble.

“Izanami, yes?” she asks, looking quite pleased to have run into me.

“The one and only,” I shoot back, flicking my tail from side to side to punctuate my point.

“Chantal Bellerose,” she says, extending her hand to me.

“A pleasure.” Wincing slightly, I reach out with my injured arm to shake. Bellerose seems to realize her error a moment later, when she sees a hint of the bandages around my shoulder beneath my sleeve, and keeps the handshake short.

“I’ll admit, I was hoping to run into you.”

“That so?”

She smirks, like I just asked a ridiculous question.

“Of course. The girl they brought the Gazelle Unit out of retirement for? I doubt there’s a single Noble out there who isn’t at least a little bit curious about you.”

That notion is enough to bring a smile to my face, despite the faint twinge of pain in my shoulder. While Chantal’s name is still fresh in my mind, I blink twice to run a quick brainband search on her, curious as to what her position in the Imperial bureaucracy is. She didn’t introduce herself with her Noble line, which usually gives you a decent idea of who you’re talking to, so I’m forced to make do with what information is publicly available.

“Yeah? Seeing me constantly fuck up and get shot or stabbed isn’t making people write me off?”

While the words were supposed to be ironic, they end up sounding more bitter than I intended. Probably unavoidable, but Bellerose just laughs.

“Some have, no doubt, but those are the sort who have forgotten that they, too, suffered growing pains at your age.”

The results of my search arrive, flooding my mind with new information as though I’d always known it. Her Founder was called the Vizier Resplendent, an advisor of high status in the Imperial Court. That explains her presence here as well as anything- she must live on Prime, which is practically right next door in cosmological terms.

“Have you drawn your own conclusions yet?” I query, raising my eyebrow.

Once again, she laughs, producing a melodic sound that reminds me in no small way of Sofie.

“Your potential speaks for itself, but beyond that, I am reserving judgment. Now- turn around. You are next in line.”

When I blink twice this time, it’s simply as a gesture of surprise, until I put together that she wasn’t delivering some ominous invocation, but merely letting me know that we’ve moved forward in the actual line we’re both standing in.

After ordering- a lemonade for Amalia, and a hard seltzer for myself, mango-flavored -I wait by the concession stand for Chantal to finish her own order, so I can speak with her. In the back of my head, I know the clock is counting down until the final match begins, but something about this woman intrigues me. Plus, it couldn’t possibly hurt to have a friend in the Imperial Court.

“You’re welcome to join me in our reserved seats,” I offer, falling into step with her smoothly. “They give us the best views.”

“Indeed they do,” she says, offering a subtle reminder that she herself was once a student here. “I would accept, but I am here with my children, and I don’t think they would take kindly to being abandoned.”

Right- of course. People her age have families and children. No time to hang around with a bunch of baby Nobles. I try to keep my cheeks from flushing with embarrassment.

“My sympathies,” I reply, attempting humor. “I do have a quick question for you, if you don’t mind terribly.”

Bellerose bows her head gracefully.

“Of course.”

“By any chance, do you have some familiarity with the Queen? She’s supposed to be visiting here soon, and one of my officers seems dead-set on finding a way to impress her, but we don’t have a clue how to actually... do that.”

For once, Chantal doesn’t seem amused by my words, but rather intrigued.

“We are by no means close, but I have had encounters with her in the past. If advice is what you seek, I would suggest that you aim to entertain, rather than impress. She is not the sort to see equals- the best you can hope for, especially at your age, is to be a worthwhile diversion. And what she finds most diverting... is to see someone utterly humiliated.”

With a respectful nod, Bellerose turns and heads back to her seat, her glass shawl tinkling softly in the evening breeze, leaving me to consider her words. Surely she’s not suggesting we debase ourselves before the Queen- no, I would imagine she means that we need to find a foe and crush them, in full view of the Great Game’s deadliest player. Not to make her fear or respect us, but simply because she would find it entertaining. Something tells me Sofie won’t be particularly satisfied with that, but I’m inclined to believe someone like Chantal when she says it’s the best we can hope for.

Amalia doesn’t ask what took me so long when I get back to our spot in the stands, just accepts the can of lemonade with a quiet word of thanks. Several more of my Gazelles are in attendance this evening, but they’re sitting at the far end of our seating area, having received word from Sofie that Amalia and I weren’t to be disturbed tonight. That order was mostly given when I thought the two of us might end up arguing, but I can’t say I mind having the personal space.

Down in the arena, Mars and Hector are preparing to square off. The latter is as unflappable as ever, while the former- despite having recovered somewhat -still seems visibly more exhausted. If I was a bookie, I’d have ten to one odds of him winning this. Of course, I’m not a bookie, and I stand to make more money off of Mars winning this, than gambling on him losing. Which is why it’s not going to be a fair fight.

“And now,” thunders the voice of the announcer, “the final round. Fighting for the gold, Hector Casales of the Komodo Unit, and Mars of the Gazelles!”

Both men step into the ring, accompanied by fanfare from the crowd. A forced smile is affixed to Amalia’s face as she applauds politely.

“May the best man win! Begin!”

Without so much as a second’s pause, Casales moves, displaying an impressive speed despite his hulking frame. He let me have the first hit when we fought, but that was far from a serious fight.

Moving with all the inexorable force of a hovertrain, Hector throws a punch too powerful to be described by a word so small as ‘jab.’ Mars isn’t quick enough to raise his arms and block in time, and staggers back when struck. Though he has the presence of mind to attempt a grapple, Casales denies the maneuver effortlessly, breaking Mars’ grip without breaking a sweat.

Grimacing, Mars takes another step back. It’s not a move that inspires much confidence- even those who’ve been cheering for him enthusiastically up until now can only muster some vaguely encouraging noises. They all imagine that they know how this is going to end.

Cracking his neck to the left, then the right, Mars gestures for Hector, who’s been standing motionless some distance away, to come at him. Obligingly, the hulking, bearded man approaches, taking three slow steps before suddenly exploding into action. He was offering Mars a chance to tap out without being seriously hurt- and Mars refused. Now it’s on.

But as Hector approaches again, something unexpected happens. Unexpected for everyone else, at least. He stumbles. It’s not the sort of thing that’s supposed to happen in a fight like this. Too small, too mundane, for a battle between two Nobles. But it’s the kind of thing that happens to everybody at one time or another- nothing to raise an eyebrow at. Which is why nobody will suspect that it was more than just an ordinary slip-up. That is, unless they happened to run a test on Hector’s blood- in which case they’d discover traces of a custom-made toxin designed to induce minor muscle spasms when exposed to a certain pheromone trigger. A pheromone that Mars is currently dripping with, having doused himself with it when he poured a water bottle all over himself between matches.

The pheromone is odorless, of course- much as the toxin was completely tasteless when Valent slipped it into a meal Casales ate three days ago. It’s lain dormant since then, waiting to be activated at this very moment. Now, it’s created an opening, and Mars is going to exploit that opening to the fullest extent possible.

Darting in, Mars delivers a series of punishing body blows, trying to repay the damage he’s already taken fivefold. He manages to get four hits in before Casales recovers, and seizes his shoulders, forcing him into a mutual grapple.

This state of affairs lasts only a few moments, before another spasm runs through Hector’s body, weakening his grip for a crucial moment. Mars doesn’t go for the headbutt, though- I already warned him about Hector’s reinforced bones. Instead, he takes the opportunity to toss Hector over his shoulder, slamming the bigger man onto the ground with a resounding noise.

Dense artificial bones are a boon in melee combat, but they also have certain flaws- like making you heavier. Which means that when someone tosses you around, you feel the impacts worse than someone with a fragile, ordinary skeleton would.

Bones aren’t the only thing I prepped Mars about, either. The most important piece of information I provided is that Hector isn’t going to give up. Even knowing he’s at a disadvantage- and he has to know by now what we’ve done -he won’t submit so long as he can still stand. Which means Mars is going to have to break him.

Easier said than done, especially since one of the benefits of those reinforced bones is how hard they are to break. Our little trick hasn’t completely swung the fight in Mars’ favor, it’s just evened the scales a bit. Whether or not he actually wins will still come down to skill, ingenuity, and luck.

Without wasting time, Mars bends down and presses a knee against Hector’s back, then loops two arms beneath the other man’s. It takes the crowd a moment to realize what he’s about to attempt, then a series of shocked murmurs go around the arena. Some people are still cheering- but those are the people who just want to see bloodshed. They couldn’t care less who wins, so long as somebody gets hurt.

Pulling Hector’s front half up with his arms, while holding the back half down, Mars is attempting to break his spine. Success would mean crippling his opponent’s body, and winning the fight- but it doesn’t look like Casales is going to make it easy. Though his face is twisting in pain, he still struggles to escape the position Mars has put him in, and thanks to his reinforced skeletal structure, actually accomplishing his backbreaking goal is clearly going to take Mars a while.

This goes on for more than a minute, Hector’s back arching up centimeter by centimeter as he fights back every step of the way. For a moment, it looks as though he may be about to break free, before another spasm hits, and his back bends another half-inch as he lets out a roar of fury. More than the pain, it must be the humiliation that’s getting to him- there’s a wild look in his eyes, something I’ve never seen so much as a hint of before.

Mars has put him in a position of near-total helplessness, neither his legs nor arms in any position to strike at his opponent. Flailing around would be both futile effort, and further humiliation. Instead, he bows his head, seemingly accepting defeat- then thrusts upward, towards Mars.

The sound of his spine breaking is audible even up in the stands, thanks to the Exalt Arena’s noise amplification. But in the same moment, the back of Hector’s head connects with Mars’ nose, already weak from having been struck in the same spot by Mannix in the previous match. Shock and pain make Mars reflexively release his grp on Casales, allowing him to roll himself out from underneath his opponent.

Despite clearly no longer being able to move his legs, Hector is stoic- either because he literally can’t feel the pain, or because he’s so furious that he’s managed to suppress it completely. Either way, he isn’t about to give up. Despite everything, I’m impressed. He allowed Mars to break his back as a tactical move, just to get one more hit in. And now, having created an opening, he’s ready to exploit it, even without the use of his legs.

Lifting himself up with one arm, Casales grabs the back of Mars’ head, and slams it into the ground, producing a spray of blood. Then, with his opponent now prone, he drags himself closer, using the weight of his now half-limp body to keep Mars pinned while he repeats the move twice more.

The spasms hit again, and I see Hector’s legs twitch involuntarily- but he doesn’t even register the motion. There really isn’t any other word for what he’s doing except incredible. Amalia’s jaw is practically hanging open in awe.

After the third slam, Mars stops moving- whether he’s unconscious or dead isn’t entirely clear, but Hector doesn’t pause to check. Instead, he raises an elbow and brings it down on Mars’ back, clearly targeting his spine. He starts from the neck, but moves on from there, producing break after break with far greater ease, given that he’s applying greater force to weaker material. In the span of just a few seconds, he’s hit Mars in at least half a dozen spots, each time producing the same stomach-turning sound.

A few people were still cheering after the third hit, but by the last one, the arena is utterly silent. Even the people here just for the bloodshed have found themselves unable to muster any enthusiasm for this display.

Finally, the announcer speaks, his typically thundering voice now unsteady.

“Victory... goes to the Komodo Unit.”

Two separate teams of paramedics are already rushing towards the ring, stretchers at the ready. If Mars is even alive, he’ll be in no shape to speak with me anytime soon. Trying to keep my expression neutral, I put a hand on Amalia’s shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re gonna pay them back for this.”