We're still sitting at the bar, playing spectator to Spot's pick-up attempt. From this distance, I can't tell if he's succeeding or not. Springbok decides to get a bet going, so I'm rooting for him to pull this off. I got a hundred creds riding on his success. You got this, man.
A NeuroLine message pings my commlink. It's Flash. I'm assuming the girls got the same message, because they both swiped in sync. I hope it's not bad news.
<
I swivel my neck to look in Spot's direction after reading that message. Oh, he just got decked right in the face. Looks like he botched it.
“We just got here. We're moving to a different place already?” I know, I know. Making it painfully obvious that I'm the new guy, but there's no shame in stopping and asking for directions.
Springbok downs the rest of her cocktail, pats my shoulder, and stands up. “It's still here, just in a different section. Not to sound like a secret underworld society or whatever, but it's where the inner inner circle goes.”
“And we're part of that inner inner circle?”
“Sure are. And now you are too. Come on, we're going now.” Springbok takes a step forward, stops dead in her tracks and turns around. “Also, you owe me a hundred creds now. You too, Mags. Pay up, Mama needs new shoes.”
Fuck. I was hoping she forgot. I also stand up from my seat and hand her a credchit. There goes my monthly budget of DiMaggio's pepperoni pizza.
Magpie does the same. “I was hoping he would succeed this time.”
We cut our way through the dance floor, heading towards another set of double doors way in the back. Spot joins the posse halfway through, still rubbing his jaw and looking more mellowed out than usual. I pat him on the shoulder by reflex.
Springbok pushes the door open and leads us into a hallway. The ear-pounding beat from the main hall is cut off almost immediately as soon as the door shuts behind us. Great soundproofing, if a bit unsettling.
“Took you guys a while. Those two were staring a hole into me.” Flash is already here, leaning against the wall. He gestures with his head towards the end of the hall.
The dimly lit hallway stretches on, filled with nothing but brickwork walls on both sides. No way to go but forwards, towards what seems like an elevator shaft guarded by a pair of in-house security. Our footsteps echo all around, a mixture of thuds and metallic clangs against metal grate flooring. It really feels like we've passed the threshold into something ominous, foreboding.
We reach the end, coming face to face with the awaiting security. This pair seems a lot less friendly, unlike Kassi and whoever her partner is called. Definitely heavy hitters, judging from the augs they're rocking. The one with bright red hair seems to be the spokesperson. “Access badges.”
I see Springbok rolling her eyes. I also see everyone but me pulling out small badges with a weird icon laser-etched onto it. Times like this, I wish they would give me a heads up or something.
“Fuck, I forgot.” Flash digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out another identical badge, palming it to me. I shake my head and present the badge to Bright Red, who seems to be scanning each one with her cybereye.
“All good. Nothing fucky.” She signals her partner to stand aside.
We file inside the elevator, with no regard given to my personal space by Springbok. She's probably just in a celebratory mood. I quickly scanned the inside of the cab. No buttons inside, so it's most likely controlled by the guards outside. Unusually high level of security for a club facility. Brings back unpleasant memories about Donehal Plaza.
The elevator starts with a jerk, and we move downwards. At least, that's what it feels like. No shitty elevator music, which I'm grateful for. “Where are we going again? And don't tell me I'll see.”
“You'll see.”
Thanks, Spot. Guess I did set myself up for that one.
----------------------------------------
The elevator stops after a smooth slowdown, unlike the way our journey downward began. The solid polished metal doors slide open, revealing a room that is different and distinct from the club upstairs.
Lacquered wooden interior, lots of leather upholstery, tasteful amount of neon lights.… There's kind of an almost vintage look to it. Wait a minute, the centerpiece of the room. That's a first generation Amaya Katana. Classic crotch rocket. I can't help but scan around the spacious room, trying to see if there are more pieces of automotive history here.
“Sweet, huh? I could tell you'd appreciate the classics?” Spot wasn't wrong. I do.
“Yeah. What is this place anyways?”
Springbok links an arm through mine again. “It's where you can make the right contacts. And speaking of, it's tradition to meet the owner first. You need me to accompany you?”
“I'd like that.”
I didn't even notice that everyone else in our crew had already melded into the place. I'll probably get a crash course later. Springbok drags me towards the bar, walking past the Katana centerpiece.
An elf is manning the bar. Standing on the taller side. Big hair, naturally red with white streaks. Black dress shirt with the long sleeves rolled up. I know it's rude to try and guess a woman's age, but she can't be much older than me. It's hard to tell with elves. She looks bored as she's pouring herself a drink through a strainer. The click-clacking of Springbok's footsteps prompt her to look up, the flat expression unchanging. “Bokkie.”
Bokkie. The nickname suggests a close relationship. She can't be the owner, can she?
“Hey, Mor.” She pulls me into view. “This is Luc.”
“New shooter?” The elf called Mor gives me a quick scan. Business-like, almost as if she's gauging how good I am. I know shooters aren't usually expected to be talkers but it's time to defy expectations.
“Only when I have to. Two for two so far.”
She gives me one last appraising look. “Yeah, you look like you'll last long. Mor's short for Morrigan, by the way.”
“A pleasure, Morrigan.”
That gets me an approving nod. At least I think it is. She turns to Springbok. “You've shown him around yet?”
“I was about to, but I had to introduce him to our local legend first.” Local legend, huh?
Morrigan waves the compliment off, but the small smile betrays how she really feels about it. “That's a story from, psh, three decades ago or so by now. I've passed the baton to you kids. Now I'm just the lady who fixes up drinks.”
Three decades? Scratch my earlier guess, I was way off.
“Oh, sorry. Rugged man like you probably don't like being called a kid all that much.” Morrigan grabs a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and fills up two glasses with a shot's worth each. “On the house. Something to sip on while you take the tour. I'd tell you to steer clear of Dozer for now, he's kind of high-wired tonight.”
“Good shout. We'll be back, Mor!” Springbok drags me away from the bar. I just hope this isn't becoming the recurring theme.
We're going in a counterclockwise direction, and stop in front of an entrance to a separate room. No doors, just a frame. Past the threshold, I see a square metal table with grips on the corner placed in the center. In the corner, I see a hulking figure hunching over. Guesstimation says that he's almost Bobrovnikov's size, which would already be reason enough to not look for trouble, but it's the oversized pneumatic cyberarms that's the real threat. Eye-catching yellow finish with diagonal black lines, reminding me of the heavy duty utility vehicles you'd see around the district of Steele. This must be Dozer.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Springbok pops up next to me and takes a peek into the room. “Oh yeah, that's Dozer, the current arm-wrestling champ. Has been for a while now, actually. Let's not go inside.”
“I figured he was. Those arms are on-brand with the name.”
We continue our walk. Doesn't seem like Dozer noticed us. No complaints from me. We reach a corner of the main room, which is populated by a few booths that are currently occupied by some people. The lights are a bit dim in this section, but from what I can see, they all look blissed out. Someone is leaning against the wall between the rows of booths, standing right under a light that acts as if it's a spotlight. Long white hair that looks like it was once an impressive mohawk but now it just flops to one side. He's wearing one of those big visors with a screen that covers nearly the top half of his face, the word ‘Sero’ in all capital letters scrolling past in a repetitive fashion. Transparent raincoat indoors? Far be it from me to comment on anyone's style, but props to the stabproof vest under it.
“Sero.” Springbok points him out to me.
“Yeah, Springbok. I can read.”
“No, you prick. That's his name. You need Scrambz chips, Volt, whatever vice you're looking for that has to do with messing with your own neurochemicals? That's your guy.”
“I'll pass, but good to know.”
“Good boy. Also, this section is ideal for talking business when you need to. White noise generators installed under every table, so it's a bit hard to eavesdrop. Not that anyone who sits here would think of doing that. Too absorbed in their own satisfaction to care.”
Unlike Dozer, Sero notices us and gives Springbok a two-finger salute. He gives me a shallow nod and I return his greeting with the raise of my glass.
We walk towards the back of the room, the side that's opposite from the bar manned by Morrigan. Staircases going up, leading towards a raised U-shaped platform. She doesn't take me up and just points out a guy standing on the platform. One word comes to mind when I see him: slick. Slick hair, slick clothes. Even the way he moves is slick. A cyberdeck, one of the newer models, is slung over his shoulder. “Going up takes you to Valle. He's the unofficial bookie here. Wouldn't even call him a second-rate matrix jockey, but someone needs to keep track of any impromptu bets that pop up.”
“Could've used him for when we were betting on Spot's pick-up game.”
“Oh nah, that one was a sure win for me. I probably had the unfair advantage because I knew Spot keeps trying with that one girl and has never gotten the bag.”
“Well, fuck. Remind me to never make bets with you.”
Springbok laughs and leans against me. “Scared I'll clean you out, Cowboy?”
“I'm not a sucker who bets big.”
“Yo, Springbok!” That interruption came from upstairs. Valle. Even the way he shouts is slick.
Springbok doesn't bother to look up and clings closer to me instead. This looks like none of my business, but I let her do her thing.
“Springbok!” He calls out again, this time with just a hint of annoyance.
She ignores him again, dragging me forward to continue the tour. Something bright flashes from the side and I turn my head away by reflex. No weird makeshift flashbang is going to catch me this time.
“Ah, fuck,” Springbok curses with her chest right beside me. I guess it caught her instead. “Fucking Baldie.”
“The what now?”
She covers the side of her face and points to her left. “Baldie. Don't know who he runs with, but he's a regular.”
“Got it. So what's his deal?”
“His deal is always managing to blind people with the light bouncing off his stupid bald head no matter where he fucking sits or stands.”
“That's… a weird thing to be known for, but at least he's known for something.”
“Wish I could say the same. There's a lot more to show you, but those were the people to keep an eye on for tonight.”
We make the full circle back to Morrigan, and I set down my empty glass on the counter. Morrigan puts her own drink down. “Know your way around now?”
I nod my head and lean an elbow against the bar. “For the most part.”
“Plenty of chances to get familiar. You'll be visiting more anyhow.”
I like how she phrased that. Direct. Not a question, not a request. Just a statement of fact. “I think I might.”
She points at my glass with a slender finger. “Refill?”
“Oh, I'm good for now. But thanks.”
“You'll change your mind.” Without missing a beat, she picks up a cloth and starts cleaning a glass that's already clean. I wish I knew why bartenders like to do that.
A giant yellow-and-black cyberhand slams onto the counter right next to me. Two things spring to my mind right off the bat. One, high quality wood and construction for the bartop. Not even a bend from that force. Two, I don't like where this is going at all.
“Never seen you before.” Dozer speaks in a voice that's more like a low rumble, like rocks getting filtered through a crusher.
I stand my ground by not immediately acknowledging him. “Morrigan, I don't know how you do it, but you're right. I changed my mind. Make it a double.”
She cracks a slight smile, shakes her head, and reaches for my glass. “Coming right up.”
I swivel in my chair to face Dozer. Something tells me he's not in the business of friendly greetings. “I'm new.”
“Well, New, I'm Dozer.”
“So I've heard.” I took a sip from my refilled glass, smacking my lips for effect. The big man falters. He's probably not used to people not getting intimidated from the jump.
“Well, uh…” I can almost see the gears turning in his head. “Tradition!”
He's losing me. “Tradition?”
“Tradition,” he repeats. “As the reigning arm wrestling champion, I have to give you a chance to take it away from me.”
Glancing from the corner of my eye, I see a crowd forming up. I look up towards the platform. Valle is leaning against the railing. We make eye contact and he shoots me a shit-eating grin. I see what's going on now.
I stand up from my seat. I have to tilt my head back a bit just to look in his eyes. Yeah, he's definitely Bobrovnikov's size. “If I arm wrestle with you now, you'll be good with whatever the results are, right? Win or lose, we're squared.”
“You have my word.” He says that, but he can't hide the surprise on his face. Definitely didn't expect me to accept the challenge.
“Lead the way then.” I finish the rest of my double shot of whiskey in one go.
Dozer stomps off towards the room where his square metal table sits. I follow, and the crowd follows behind me. Let me just say this now, I don't care if I lose. One thing I've learned is you don't want to shrink away from a direct challenge. That's just the nature of things here in the Slag.
I let Dozer pick his preferred side of the table. He's the champ, after all. I take my place across from him. Hand on the grip. I'm not in a hurry to clasp hands with that gigantic piece of chrome.
A Red Gorgon girl comes forward from the crowd and stands perpendicular to us. “Alright, I'm your neutral party referee. No fuckery allowed. This is a bout of pure strength and skill. Grab hands.”
We do as we're told. The referee puts a hand wrapped in a fingerless glove on top of ours. Dozer stares me down. I can feel his confidence brimming. Mine is too, after the whiskey fuel.
“GO!”
Dozer goes in full force after the referee's cue. I expected him to. The synthmuscles in my right arm tighten in sync, keeping my forearm from drifting past the halfway point. I glance up. From the look on his face, Dozer wasn't expecting the resistance. He's definitely used to quick wins. The clamoring of the spectators grows louder.
I sense a slight slack in his push and seize the opportunity. I push him past the halfway point. Just a little bit more…
A vein pops out of his massive forehead. It's do or die for him. He's the one who started this. He's the one with everything to lose. Part of me feels almost sorry for—
He's pushing me back again. The crowd loses it. We're back to the starting point. Neither of us are budging an inch now. Second staredown. My synthmuscles scream, threatening to snap from the exertion anytime now. Sweat begins to drip along Dozer's temple. Sweat begins to drench my t-shirt.
The referee drops her hand onto ours from the top. “Stop! It's a draw.”
The crowd's reaction is a mixture of boos and cheers. I guess no one thought to bet on a draw. I can't blame them, I probably wouldn't have bet on myself either.
Dozer loosens his grip, and I do the same. He's all red and sweaty in the face now, and I'm sure I don't look any better. He takes a deep breath. “Hey, New. You're alright in my books. Been awhile since I had to try.”
“Just doing my best against the champ. Oh, and, the name's Luc.”
“We'll get a rematch sometime, Luc.” He drops a massive cyberhand on my shoulder. If I didn't have synthmuscles reinforcing it, my arm would have popped clean out.
“We'll do that.”
The Red Gorgon ref lifts both of our arms up towards the crowd with a bit of struggle on her part. “BUDDING FRIENDSHIP!”
What the fuck.
The crowd cheers after the ref says that, and I can't help but smile. These people might be hardened criminals undesired by society, but it's starting to feel like home.