Mikael and Brock exited the Miyazaki in a bustling district filled with the ubiquitous crowds and multi-story buildings, but in this case, despite the initial surge of disorientation that Brock didn't know if he'd ever get used to, there was a familiar undercurrent to the chattering hordes. Most were broken up into knots of matching color and style, wearing near-identical jersey-like shirts or scarves, or carrying hand-drawn signs beneath one arm while gesticulating with the other in animated conversation. Snatches of words filtered through the general hubbub.

"-lling you, Cybercrusher is going all the way this time-"

"-n't believe she fell for that NPK at the last min-"

"-ot five ACs riding on the Gleeman beating Fis-"

"-eard The Shifter's unveiling a new move tonight-"

A group in light blue checked with golden yellow chevrons ran into another group sporting purple and black and a raucous series of chants broke out between them.

"Sword! Saint! Steve!"

"Ham- mer bro! Ham- mer bro!"

It was the sort of good-natured clash Brock had seen countless times in his previous life, outside stadiums and schools and sports bars. He drew in a wondering breath.

"Mikael? Is this a sports thing? Do you guys play sports here?"

Mikael snorted as they moved along with the flow of humanity (and goblinity and androidity and - Brock rubbed his eyes - beastpeopleity? Were those furry ears and tails?). The swordsman generated a small sphere of personal space that no one seemed eager to violate so they were spared the shoulder-bumping and general buffeting.

"Close, but probably not quite what you're thinking of, kid. Not this event."

"This event?" Brock asked distractedly as they continued with the crowds around a corner. The architecture here was vaguely reminiscent of home as well, a stylish entertainment district of multi-story buildings chock-full of various eateries packed with groups of people all dressed in the same colors, many with floating screens displaying what looked like a standard pregame sports commentary show. Brock squinted his eyes for a closer look.

Is that a... panda? With a necktie?

Sure enough, on one of the larger screens, a panda in a necktie was conversing animatedly with a female-presenting robot next to him at a curved desk as a humanoid dragon in spectacles nodded knowingly, while a scowling goblin sporting a sharp suit looked like he wanted to jump in to rebut a point. Various statistics too small to see scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Dazed, Brock kept pace with Mikael as they passed what looked for all the world like a sports bar, then an Elvish Joe's, where a familiar figure in brown leather was bringing out a tray of mushroom burger sliders, then another sports bar. All were packed with groups of people animatedly discussing whatever event it was that was going on. As he wrenched his attention back to the here and now, he realized Mikael had said something.

"Sorry, uhhh, can you say that again? I got distracted. Was that Elvish Joe?"

"I said, 'it's a Sekkie Cup preliminary,'" Mikael repeated, a slight frown turning his lips downward. "Not my particular fancy, but it's probably one of the most popular events on the planet. I prefer combat chess," he added with a sniff of disdain. "And yes, that's Joe. I told you, he franchises himself."

"What's the Sekkie Cup..."

Brock trailed off as they rounded another corner and an enormous plaza opened up before them. It was packed full of bodies, interspersed here and there with various street carts and vendor stalls, and at its center was a building that towered above the surrounding landscape. It looked to be an oval nearly a mile wide, the lower ten stories a graceful series of carved columns and archways evocative of a coliseum, and it was topped with a rounded dome of pure crystal, its hexagonal panels gently pulsating between glowing shades of aquamarine and seafoam green. Massive displays, featuring the same group of four that Brock had seen on the screen at the sports bar, wrapped around the entirety of the structure that wasn't carved stone or crystal lattice, but they paled before the projected figures rising into the late afternoon above the building's footprint. They looked like giants conversing above ants, rendered in stunning clarity, and a deafening cheer rose from the square as the bespectacled dragon pointed to a still clip of two figures locked in combat as if making a point.

"That," Brock said in awe as the cheer died down, "is the coolest stadium I've ever seen."

"The Arena does have its charms," Mikael agreed, pushing his way forward through the crowds. "Even when it's not being used for combat chess."

As they drew closer to the gigantic structure, Brock saw that the plaza was cleverly designed to funnel visitors either to gathering areas set aside from the main flow of traffic, or directly to a series of entrance gates set into the facade of columns and archways. Despite the multitude of bodies, it didn't feel overly crowded, and they made good time through the press of people.

"The Sekkie Cup," Mikael said as they approached the gates, "is probably best described as a mix between your universe's World Cup and a mixed martial art tournament." He flashed his magiphone at the gate attendent, who waved them through. "It's been going on for thousands of years. Sekkies from all over the planet compete against each other to see who's the most powerful."

"That," Brock said, following him into a cavernous concourse filled with even more food options and merch stores, "seems weird. Don't you guys hate Sekkies?"

"It's complicated," Mikael admitted, weaving through the crowds to an innocuous-looking side door. He raised his magiphone again and the door opened, revealing a glowing platform of what appeared to be pure light. He led Brock onto the platform, and once they were both standing on it, it slowly rose upwards through a transparent tube. Two floors of plain stone suddenly gave way to an impressive view of an enormous arena, tiers of seating rising up all around it like an inverted cake. Most of the seats were unoccupied, though people were starting to trickle in in steady streams. "The Cup originally began as a way to let Sekkies blow off some steam; try and keep them from having a mental breakdown. Exploding city blocks and all that. It wasn't supposed to be fun."

"How," Brock asked as they went through another band of stone, then emerged even higher up above the stadium interior, "does it let them blow off steam?"

"Simple. We release their Limiters and let them beat the crap out of each other in a contained environment. A very contained environment." Mikael shook his head. "People being people, the first observers immediately started making bets with each other on who was going to win, the Sekkies loved getting to use their full powers again, and thus the Sekkie Cup was born. It was fairly low-key for the first few generations, before we got better at catching them before they could do too much damage but," he shrugged, "it turned into a whole big thing once regions started betting on 'their' Sekkies." He shook his head again. "Over the years it's proven to lessen Sekkie incidents among the general populace and each other, helps them integrate a bit better, so the Council gives it their official backing. Nowadays it's a huge deal for everyone who follows the Cup, which is most people who haven't been personally hurt by a Sekkie."

"Still seems weird," Brock insisted, and Mikael laughed.

"All sports are weird, Brock." His expression turned serious. "Except for combat chess. It's the beautiful game."

Brock eyed him, then wisely decided not to say anything. They passed into another layer of stone, leaving the arena floor behind, and the lift slid to a halt. The door opened onto a fabulously opulent marble hallway, a decadently plush red carpet running down the middle of the glossy floor. Small alcoves dotted the walls at regular intervals, each one filled with a mastercrafted bust and oil-painted portrait. None of them were smiling.

"Past winners," Mikael explained as they walked down the long hallway. "Warlord likes to remember his predecessors. Gives him someone to look down on."

"Who's Warlord? Does he run this place?"

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"Good guess, kid. Yeah, he's the one in charge, and he's a real piece of work." Mikael checked something on his magiphone, then tucked it away in a pocket. "Let me do the talking as much as possible. He's going to be interested in you, and he's smarter than he looks."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Brock replied quietly. The initial shock of the stadium was passing, and his thoughts kept returning to the bundle of emotions shrouded by the trauma spell. It was a strange sensation - he could identify they were there, but it was a clinical detachment that only allowed him to feel the edges of them. It felt like poking at the wiring of a ticking bomb.

Mikael gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't say anything more as they approached a set of frosted glass doors. The cloudy panes slid open at their approach, revealing a richly appointed room filled with weight training equipment, sparring dummies, and a crystal desk that looked like the same material topping the Arena. Behind it lounged a shirtless man with brutish clean-shaven features and long dirty-blonde hair gathered back into plaits. His chest rippled with scars and muscle, and he appeared to be mid-conversation with a weedy, balding, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting gray suit holding a clipboard. The viking-looking brute's eyes narrowed as they walked into the room, and he slowly stood from behind the desk, pushing a sumptuous leather chair more dead animal than furniture back behind him. A fur loincloth tap-dancing the line between decency and too much info was his only apparent clothing.

"The fucking Blade. What do you want?"

"Wellness check, Warlord," Mikael said conversationally, but there was steel in his voice that hadn't been there during the other visits. "Got some questions for you."

"And I got some for you," came the curt response. Piercing blue eyes flicked over to pin Brock mid-step. "Both of you."

"Then let's have a chat, Warlord," Mikael replied genially, fingers drumming on the hilt of his katana. He pulled out one of the chairs in front of the desk, its metal legs screeching on the marble floor, but didn't take a seat. "Figure out where we stand."

Brock swore he could see two coruscating lines of force pushing at each other across the desk, wavering auras in the air like heat shimmers rippling up off a noon-day desert. The air grew heavy and hot, an awkward silence filling the room as Mikael and Warlord stared each other down.

The balding man in the ill-fitting suit coughed, breaking the tension.

"Shall I fetch some refreshments, sir?"

"Yeah, Goose," Warlord said, his eyes never leaving Mikael's, "you go do that."

"Take a seat, Brock," Mikael commanded almost simultaneously. Nervously, Brock stumbled forward and into the metal chair. It was incredibly uncomfortable, hard planes of unforgiving material pressing into his back and butt. He tried shifting around to find a better position, but they were all bad positions. Behind him, Mikael rested one of his hands on the seatback, the other still tattooing a rhythm on his cherry blossom hilt.

"Why don't you go first," Warlord growled, leaning forward onto his knuckles. Brock tried not to gulp.

"Got a report of a couple Cup entrants that flatlined during early prelims," Mikael began without preamble. "On your facilities."

"And I'm trying to find out who let it happen," Warlord continued without missing a beat. "Bringing Black Cats down on my head is the last thing I want."

"You sure about that?" Mikael asked, tilting his head to where Warlord's knuckles were starting to deform the crystal surface of his desk. "You sure you're not indulging yourself when you think we aren't watching?"

Broad nostrils flared, like a bull's.

"I don't need," Warlord snarled the word, accompanied by the sounds of cracking crystal, "to indulge myself. I've got everything I want right here." He paused, then rolled his neck, sending a series of pops snapping through the room. "Well. Almost everything I want. That recording they showed those Council dipshits for real?"

"You know we can't comment on Council business," Mikael replied smoothly. "I'm sure whatever illegal footage of the apprehension of an Overlord you thought was real was no doubt doctored multiple times before reaching your desk."

Warlord grunted in satisfaction.

"So it's real, then. Thought so. Did I hear your name right, brother?" he asked, shifting his attention to Brock. "You're Brock?"

"Uhhh, yeah."

"And how old were you, Brock? When you came over?"

Brock glanced at Mikael, but he didn't make any sort of sign to stop.

"Uhhh, eighteen."

Warlord scowled even harder.

"...fuck me, Mikael, you necessary needs'ed a newbie? With that level of power? What the fuck is the Director thinking?"

"The Director's decisions aren't for me to question," Mikael shot back, eyes and voice flat. "Nor are they your concern. Kindly leave my recruit alone."

"Shiiiieeeet, brother," Warlord said, returning his focus to Brock and suddenly sinking back into his chair, "we all get raw deals, but yours is bleeding fresh. Thanks, Goose," he said as the balding man placed three cut glass tumblers of water on the desk, then retreated back against one of the walls, clipboard held to his chest. Warlord took a sip, smacked his lips appreciatively, and motioned Brock to drink. "You gotta stay hydrated, brother. I was ennenn'ed once. Worst two weeks of my life, and it wasn't because of the eyeball creatures they made me fight. It was," he took another melodramatic sip from the tumbler, then stared straight at Mikael, "the company." He gently set the glass back down with a quiet click. "No respect for a man's dignity whatsoever."

Brock heard a tiny squeaking noise behind him, as if someone was twisting their hand around leather so tightly as to wring any trace of moisture from it.

"We," Mikael ground out, "will have to agree to disagree."

Warlord smiled, a vicious sight.

"Bygones, I'm sure. What I'm interested in, Brock," he stabbed a finger across the desk, "is you. I want you to compete in the Cup."

"Whut-"

"Out of the question, Warlord," Mikael overrode Brock's involuntary outburst. "He's currently on assignment, not to mention recovering from a recent RD episode."

"Figures you're already breaking him into pieces. Just like you monsters do to every one of us you catch. What's he ennenned for?" Warlord hissed, a viper striking.

"Maybe looking for why your entrants died," Mikael shot back, voice just as venomous. "Maybe tracking the uptick in violent behavior in neighborhoods where one of your gyms opened. Maybe he's just here to fuck with you, because the Director doesn't buy your 'reformed noble savage' act."

Warlord surged to his feet, chair crashing back against the far wall, veins in his neck pulsing.

"Say that one more time you colonizing piece of shit!"

Mikael slammed one hand on the other side of the desk, the other in a death-grip on his katana, his body leaning past Brock's stunned form.

"I'm the colonizer, you fucking parasite? I'm not the one who hijacked someone else's body!"

"Like it was my fucking choice!"

"Like what happened in your world was mine!"

The two glared at each other, inches apart, nearly panting with the intensity of their exchange. In the uncomfortable chair, Brock hesitantly raised a hand.

"Uhhh, why do you want me in the Cup?"

Warlord took a heavy breath, then another, still staring Mikael dead in the eyes.

"Because I want to fight you, brother. See what you're made of, what you brought to this world. I haven't had a decent challenger in a fair fight in years, and you..." he leaned back and laughed, "I think you'll do just fine. The fact you're wearing his body is icing on the cake."

"You lost your last 'fair fight,'" Mikael said grimly. "That's why you're in a collar."

"And that's why I'm going to fight him for the championship," Warlord declared, pointing at Brock with eyes blazing. "Either he's as good as that recording shows, and you have to let me go all out, or I scalp one of the biggest Black Cats against the wall for the entire world to see. Either way, he's going to enter the Arena. Believe it."

Mikael inhaled heavily, then settled himself with a visible effort.

"It's his choice, Warlord, but for right now, all I'm concerned with are those dead bodies. Two of them were on the list."

"You think I don't know that?" Warlord spat out. "I was looking forward to training them up. That Banruto guy might've given me an actual challenge in ten years. Of course they're on your precious ennenn list, along with me, and him," he gestured at Brock, "and who knows how the fuck many more of us you have stashed out there for the next incursion of eyeball monsters or circular saw dickmouths or whatever other messed up shit washes onto your reality. Fuck me but this place sucks ass. Worse than the rez."

"Excuse me," the balding assistant, Goose, said diffidently, whisking the slowly condensing glasses away. "Don't want to leave any stains."

"It's fucking fine, Goose," Warlord sighed, backing tiredly away to his side of the desk. "The crystal's self healing."

Sure enough, the earlier cracks were already filling themselves back in, each water ring from the tumblers in the process of disappearing. As if sensing the feeling for a truce, Mikael returned to his position behind Brock's chair.

"You're telling me the truth, Threefeathers? Those bodies aren't yours?"

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Mikael," Warlord ground out, "but no, they aren't. I'm just as interested as you are in who actually flatlined them. Dead entrants are bad for business, and good business is the only reason the Council tolerates me here. You think I haven't noticed the recent PR push for Shifter?" he added with a grimace. "Younger, cuter, more relatable to the everyday NPC-"

"Watch it," Mikael snapped, but Warlord only laughed.

"You use 'sekkie' in your vocabulary, it's only fair my man. Fucking deal with it. As I was saying," he gestured towards the desk and a screen appeared above it with a multitude of line graphs and number comparisons, all labeled "Shifter," and all trending upward, "I'm on my way out. It's not hard to figure out if you learn to use the system properly." He grinned that terrible smile again. "The only question is how hard I go down. Still got plenty of favors to call in, limited or not if you know what I mean, and my people have a history of dying expensive."

"Sir," the balding man interrupted nervously, stepping forward and tapping at his clipboard, "we're supposed to be preparing for tonight's preliminary intros. You're scheduled to give hype remarks to the crowd in ten minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, Goose, I got it, thanks," the burly figure behind the desk said quietly, a sense of exhaustion suddenly suffusing his pale features. "Another war dance for the occupiers, coming right up. Let's sell my ancestors one more time, what could it hurt now?"

Warlord covered his face in one massive hand, the other fluttering in the direction of the door.

"Go, Mikael, and take your new toy with you. I have a show to put on. Unless you're willing to let me loose, let me live, then leave. Please."

His hand suddenly dropped, pale orbs beneath heavyset brows fixating on Brock.

"But we will meet in the Arena, Brock. Believe it."

Silently, Mikael ushered Brock from his seat and out the sliding glass doors.