Brock and Mikael left the Arena plaza to the sound of cheers as the first fighter of the night was introduced, a dumpy young man armed only with a shield and a bewildered expression.

"Idiot," Mikael scoffed, his first words since exiting Warlord's chambers, "know who you're up against. Shields don't do shit against chemical attacks."

Brock glanced back at the towering structure as they pushed their way back through the crowds. In the early evening air it seemed to exert even more of a presence than earlier, a spotlight drawing a million moth's eyes. The shield hero took up one side of the projection above the crystal dome, a question mark still in place of the other.

"How do you know who he's fighting?"

"That's-" Mikael began.

"-common knowledge, Brock! I'm here to help you! Would you like to wager on the bout! I have fifteen thousand different odds calculators to help you pick your best gamble! Let's do it, Brock! Bet the house!"

Brock snatched at the wildly twisting magiphone in front of his face, multicolored sparks whizzing off it in every direction.

"You're embarrassing me, Bindy," he hissed, noticing the multitude of laughing faces turned in his direction. "Can't you just be normal for once?"

"I'm here for you, Brock!" Bindy declared, doing a double backflip evasion away from his clutching grasp. "Without me, you'd be completely lost! Turn right here!"

"Friggin.... hate... you..." Brock grumbled as he finally wrestled the thin rectangle back into his coat pocket. Unwillingly, he glanced to his right. A solid section of concrete wall met his gaze. "Goddamn... worst... piece of..."

"You know, you can change-"

"-your personal assistant configuration in the settings menu THANK YOU SO MUCH," Brock yelled, ignoring the startled people around him. "IF ONLY I HAD THOUGHT OF THAT BEFORE NOW."

"Don't bite the messenger's head off, kid," Mikael chuckled. "You don't see anyone else dealing with Bindy, do you?"

"Probably because they can't be legally tortured for throwing their phone in the river," Brock muttered. After a few more steps he looked over at Mikael. "So that guy, Warlord, he wants to fight me?"

"Warlord wants to fight everyone, kid. It's why we put him in charge of the Arena."

"Yeah, but he seemed pretty insistent on it being me."

"That's because he hasn't found a Sekkie who can justify him using his full strength yet, which means he doesn't get to go all out unless we need him for an ennenn. Makes him more than a little irritable, as you saw."

Brock paused for several steps, then asked his next question. It meant a lot.

"He thinks I can fight him at full strength?"

"Kid,'" Mikael guffawed, "you'd take Warlord to the nearest dumpster, rub his face in the accumulated sewer juices, and then kick him into the sun. He's not even close to how horrible your powers are."

Brock scowled, not knowing how to answer. It felt like Mikael was making fun of him while somehow complimenting him. He decided to deflect instead.

"So, uhhh, Warlord, he didn't seem to like you very much. He said you two worked together before?"

"We ennenn'ed him to help fight back against a strange matter invasion a couple decades ago," Mikael replied frostily, earlier cheer evaporating. "He got his chance to go all out." Knuckles throttled a sword hilt. "Warlord doesn't care much about collateral damage, especially when he gets a free pass to commit it. I had to clean up after his messes." He shook his head, as if clearing away bad memories. "Enough about him. You still doing okay, kid?"

Brock took stock of his emotional state.

Still angry, still confused all the time, still stuck with a bundle of breakdown waiting to break out of its cage, yup, everything's normal.

He said as much to Mikael.

"Gonna say it again, kid, you should be getting counseling right now."

Brock waved him off, ignoring the squirming ball of feelings knotting his gut. Now wasn't the time to let his team down.

"I'm fine, and that spell's still working. Don't feel a thing. Let's finish this out."

"It's your call," Mikael groaned, leading the way back to the Miyazaki station. Brock stared at the crowds still lingering all around, feeling something about them calling to him.

"This is really the biggest sport here? People fighting each other?"

"For our sins, yeah, it is," Mikael grumbled. "Combat chess is far superior, both physically and mentally, but you try and get people to give up their Sekkie addiction and-"

"-and Warlord wants me to fight him, and you think I'd win? Be the best?"

Brock couldn't help the hunger entering his voice.

Mikael looked at him for a long second, then casually pinned Brock up against an empty spot on the wall between two sportsbars. Brock spluttered, but couldn't do anything against the iron-bar forearm pressing his Limiter up against his esophagus with a force just short of painful. Mikael pulled his magiphone from his pocket, ran it over Brock's face, then nodded in satisfaction.

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"Thought so. Fiona," he asked his magiphone, "did you catch it?"

"Of course I saw that bullshit second-rate subversionchant, but it was so boring!" a familiar upbeat voice sounded from the tablet. "I could be cuddling my floofs right now, Mika! Why am I here?"

"Director made you overwatch this time," Mikael responded in a bored tone, "so do your job with, like, two hundred and eighteen percent less complaining."

"Ughhh," Fiona shrieked, "you're the worst. Sniper on your seven," she added conversationally, a tone totally at odds with her earlier distress. "Top floor of the Arena. Non-standard optics, no auditory."

"It's that new assistant," Mikael replied just as deliberately, his bearing unchanging. "'Goose.' He's probably just observing."

"Ugh, but he's so boring, and frumpy," Fiona whined, returning to her earlier speech pattern. "The last assistant was way cooler. At least try and look like a badass reach out and touch faith assassinator, you know what I mean?"

Mikael looked up from his magiphone at Brock, who shrugged as best he could, pressed up against the wall.

"No, Fiona," Mikael said icily, "I don't know what you mean."

"...he shoud be more stylish," came the grumpy voice. "More sunglasses and black leather and sultry mysteriousness, that kind of thing. This one looks like a struggling insurance agent with a panty fetish."

"That's oddly specific," Mikael replied. "Known a few of those, have you?"

"...and he's gone. Probably back to doing longhand division for fun or something else just as boring. Have fun deprogramming the rookie. Fiona, out."

Mikael put his magiphone away, still pinning Brock against the wall.

"What," Brock squirmed, "is the deal, Mikael?" He coughed. "This isn't very comfortable."

"Think back to your training this morning," the swordsman responded abruptly. "What's the first lure of a harem manipulator?"

Brock tried to remember the training video.

"Uhhh, tentacles? No, wait, they start infiltrating your daily life, right? Like, help you do something you've never been able to do on your own, or find something you're interested in? Make you indebted to them?"

"Right. Now I want you to think back to when we were walking to the Arena. How did you feel about the Sekkie Cup?"

"It, uhhh, sounded weird, but kind of recognizable. I've never really been big into combat sports, though."

"And how do you feel about it now?"

Brock felt that same hunger from before run through him.

"I could be the best," he said in a low tone, almost wonderingly. "You said it yourself, Mikael, I could wipe the floor with Warlord and he's the top competitor, if he can get me in then-"

Mikael shook him gently, cutting off the babble of words.

"And what changed between us walking to the Arena, and us walking away?"

Another distant cheer thundered up from the plaza, and recognition slowly dawned in Brock's eyes.

"...crap. Warlord did something to me, didn't he?"

Mikael let off the pressure holding Brock to the wall and backed away a step.

"Low level charm skill. It's almost a given that any Sekkie has something along those lines, and most have clearance to use them as part of their assigned service. He's desperate to fight you. Probably figured I wouldn't care since the cover story is we ennenn'ed you, and any normal new Sekkie would be just as desperate to use their full powers again." He wiped his hands together, then turned to face the avenue. "Now you've consciously acknowledged it's there, it'll be easier to resist."

He was right. Brock could still feel a desire to compete in the Cup, but it felt forced, like someone whispering in his ear to try and convince him to do something he didn't feel particularly strongly about. He swallowed uneasily.

"And you just let him do that on a regular basis? I thought the Limiters were supposed to keep skills like that from working. You said harems were illegal."

"It helps him do his job," Mikael said absently, scanning the crowds still congregating and churning towards the Arena. "He's personally in charge of over a hundred Sekkies doing their level best to kill each other on a regular basis, and oversees the other regional coordinators as the overall Cup coordinator. Technically, what he did to you wasn't even illegal. He's allowed to 'encourage' Sekkies he thinks would be a good fit for the Cup to join in, and he's not forming a harem." Mikael's eyes narrowed as he scanned a group loudly cheering and stumbling along in obvious inebriation, then flicked away in dismissal. "We keep a close eye on things like that."

"Yeah, 'wellness checks,' I got it," Brock grunted, trying to massage some of the ache away from his neck. "Why're you so nervous right now?"

"Something's... off," Mikael said quietly, still observing the crowds of people. "I've got a feeling-"

His sword blurred in the air, the whining buzzsaw of a diamond blade testing itself against titanium accompanied by two distinct metal cracks bracketing Brock's head, echoed an instant later by the sharper sound of something striking the stone wall just behind him. Brock flinched down, expecting more violence to descend, but nothing further happened, and aside from a couple of the closest passerby blinking at Mikael's brief burst of action, life went on as normal. Hesitantly, Brock stood up and patted himself down, looking for leakage, but he was unharmed. He turned to look at the wall, where two neat holes no wider than his pinkie had appeared as if by magic, smoke drifting up from their dark depths. He reached out in wonder, and Mikael slapped his hand down, the other holding his magiphone.

"Don't touch those," he snapped, then turned his attention to the tablet. "Fiona, sitrep."

"Shooter ghosted. Looks like a pro, at least level three skill use, level two munitions. Took the window and didn't stick around to see the outcome. Might've had a chance to catch them in action if I didn't have to countersnipe those two that got by you."

"You try disarming a needleswarm of viral memetics in the middle of a Cup crowd without drawing any attention," Mikael shot back irritably. "Kid was the primary target, correct?"

"Sure looked like it. The main swarm was just to keep you busy, maybe see if they got lucky and one slipped through on a killshot. The two on the rookie were definitely the primaries. You think it was the assistant?"

"Doubt it," Mikael frowned. "Warlord doesn't attack from more than one angle at once. He's pretty straightforward that way, and he already took his chance with that charm skill. This feels like another player."

"Good times. You gonna snag those for evidence or what?"

"I was getting to that," Mikael replied grumpily, his sword flashing once more. Two neat squares disappeared from the wall, barely noticeable amidst the patterned carvings running along it.

"Well, at least today had some excitement. Back to boring overwatch. Fiona, out."

Mikael shook his head and tucked the magiphone away, motioning for Brock to join him. Still feeling at himself, Brock stepped up next to the swordsman.

"Did someone... just try to kill me? Shouldn't we warn the Director?"

"Nah," Mikael chuckled, "that wasn't an assassination attempt." He set off towards the nearby Miyazaki station, Brock falling in alongside. "At least not on you. We'll have to analyze the payloads to be sure, but I'm pretty confident the two virals aimed your way were hijackers. They'd rewrite part of your brain," he added, forestalling Brock's inevitable followup question, "get you to be more sympathetic to someone, or go somewhere whoever's behind the shooter wants you. Maybe even force you to attack me or the crowd."

Brock shivered.

"You guys have bullets that can rewrite someone's brain?"

"We didn't," Mikael replied neutrally, "until a Sekkie created them. Now, well, now they're not even close to the most messed up thing we'll see before this is through. This is in the 'anticipated course of events' category, kid. Try not to let it get you down," he added.

Brock felt the pulsating knot of trauma surge past the shielding spell slightly, and he gulped.

"Uhhh, I guess. You said we had one more stop?"

"Yeah," Mikael said as they boarded the Miyazaki's metal tentacle, "and this one's the one that scares me the most."

"Why's that?"

"Because she's good enough at hiding who she is to make other people trust her."