Nash sprinted down the sidewalk, shaking the dust of crumbled concrete from his clothes.
When he had reappeared from his Aether gambit, he had done so partially inside the concrete, requiring him to heave with all of his cultivator strength and extricate himself from the ground. Thankfully, (at least for his escape, if not for his conscience,) Beryl was too busy groaning on the ground and the driver was too busy cowering to oppose his actions.
Dipping into an alleyway, he breathed heavily, leaning onto the brick wall of a run-down liquor store. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest and his Sternum Etching felt... dry somehow, in a way that felt as unsettling as it did odd.
Intellectually, he knew that having a depleted Aether store would do little to affect his physical performance, but his channels seemed to insist that his body, already exhausted from the constant running, bruises, and the fight with Beryl, was somehow even more tapped out than it actually was.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and going for the maps program.
He searched a few basic terms, running his forearm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat that seemed to want nothing more than to drip into his eyes. Finally, he found what he was looking for; a cheap apartment in the bad portion of town, rented out online on a room sharing service rather than in any official capacity.
Nash slipped the phone back into his pocket and jumped around a few times in an attempt to loosen his rapidly cooling and tightening muscles before he started moving again, this time walking as inconspicuously alongside the buildings as he could.
By now, his strategy for quickly changing his appearance was well-established, though he had never done it while this drained of Aether. He kept walking until he had spotted a thrift store and went inside, picking out a new outfit that looked like it would fit him as quickly as possible. On a whim, he picked a small pack of wash-out hair dye - perhaps it would make this disguise last longer than the last.
He paid in cash and left, regretting that he didn't have enough time to look for new shoes too - he would just have to hope that his description stopped knee-down.
His next stop before the apartment was a gym; this particular one was a hole-in-the wall, oddly enough focusing on the rather niche sport of weightlifting rather than martial arts. A few minutes later, he managed to cajole the owner into letting him use the showers for a one-time fee, and to let him leave out of the back door rather than the one he had come in through.
Finally, Nash was ready to get a new place to sleep. As for income, he had an idea.
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The proprietor of the apartment Nash was interested in was a hawkish old lady, all sharp angles and bony protrusions from scrawny limbs. The skin of her face seemed to be drawn back by her tight bun, emphasizing her long, thin, pointy nose, and there was a calculating look in her eyes.
She looked up and down at Nash, and he felt somehow that he had come up wanting in her estimation, not that he cared.
Nash's guise may have contributed to her expression; he had dressed like a teenager just kicked out of a middle-class home, likely for not paying his parents rent.
He wore a ratty pair of jeans that frayed near the ankles, paired with a hipster band t-shirt. He stood with a deliberate slouch, reducing how much he was looking down at the short old woman in an attempt to appear ordinary, nonthreatening.
"Then we have come to an agreement," the old lady said, her voice as high and tight as her hair bun was cinched. "I trust that you will behave? Do not forget that there are other residents, and I won't tolerate any of that infernal racket your generation calls music."
"Of course, ma'am." The civilian (as opposed to martial) honorifics never came easy to him, but the woman that called herself Auntie Cass insisted on them. "Then, if there is nothing else I need to deal with, may I begin to move in?"
"After your down payment," she said, tapping her cane against the ground. That had come as a surprise to Nash; raised in cultivator society, it had actually been the first time he saw someone that truly required a cane to function.
Surreptitiously, he had checked for her cultivation and found none, which did a long way in explaining the implement for him. Sometimes, he was confused how mortals managed to get anything done, as weak as they were.
"Yes, yes," he said, digging around in his pockets for his wallet. He pulled out a wad of cash and began counting it in front of the old woman, eventually handing her the agreed amount. She nodded and handed him a pair of keys before walking away, leaving him in front of the apartment.
Nash pushed the old, scratched-up key into the matching lock in the doorknob into the apartment. It took some finagling within the lock itself, making micro-adjustments forward and back in the mechanism until the teeth finally bit, the tumblers pushed out of the way, and the door unlocked.
The deadbolt retracted sluggishly, but eventually just barely cleared the part of the frame that it slotted into. Gingerly, he opened the door and stepped inside, making sure not to slam it when he closed (and locked) it again. He turned around, and took in his new home.
What first impressed upon him was how small it was.
To his right, an ancient and rather sad-looking kitchen was placed, a spotless but minuscule and rather damaged countertop was placed between a fridge that looked forty years old and a stove that looked even older.
Both were rather small models; Nash was able to see over the top of the fridge, which was straddling the border to being a minifridge, and the oven had only three burners. The sink was shoved in apparently as an afterthought, haphazardly set into the countertop so off-center and so far back that the rim of the sink basin actually butted up against the fridge from where the lip rested on the countertop, a bit of it hanging off to the side.
Turning to what directly faced the door, a table and the chairs stacked on top of it to save space mostly blocked the view of a curtain spanning the entire breadth of the apartment. Apparently it was for blocking the bed from view.
If he craned his neck, he could see another door, the only one in the apartment other than the one leading out into the hallway - presumably the bathroom door.
The next few minutes of exploring the new space confirmed that. A small bed shoved into the corner, a wardrobe bereft of any coat hangers, and the cramped bathroom was the extent of that which wasn't visible from the front door. Nash checked everything once again, this time more stringently; he found nothing that was visible in the Aether or any cameras or microphones in the cramped, fastidiously tidy space.
Eventually, Nash felt secure enough in the place to set down his backpack and pull down one of the chairs, sitting down at the dining table while contemplating his next move.
I'm settled on the arena fights for my income, at least for now, Nash thought, his fingers tapping on the table in the odd rolling tic all Emeralds seemed to share. But the past week or so shows that if I don't change anything, people will recognize me and I'm back at where I started anyway.
He scratched at his chin, still clean-shaven despite quite literally never having used a razor. I physically cannot grow a beard, so unless I want to wear a fake one everywhere that's out of the question.
The Emerald's Longevity and Appearance channel that made up part of his cultivation's foundation was practically miraculous, if somewhat annoying for someone in his current position; it would be perfect for a politician, of course, as it modified the structure of the skin (especially that of the face) to remove the need for anything so pedestrian as moisturizing or shaving.
While Nash appreciated never having a pimple in his life (they looked both disgusting and painful,) that very function was proving quite difficult for someone in his situation. An effortlessly immaculate appearance would catch unwanted attention, especially for his current 'character' - preferably, he would look at least a little greasy at any time with this disguise, though he couldn't figure any way to do that other that spritzing himself with cooking spray, which sounded unhygienic.
Even if he did end up doing that, it would do little for his quite literally perfectly symmetrical bone structure, which marked him as something uncannily other for any astute onlookers. At one point, a particularly drunk customer at the convenience store he worked at had said he looked like his face had been cut in half, one side discarded, and then a new side reconstructed as a perfect mirror to the remaining one.
That comment, while far off from the actual process that had caused the uncanny appearance of his skull, did serve to illustrate how noticeable it was. I'll need something to cover my face, my entire face. The rest, I can get away with - baggy clothes, if I'm still that worried by then.
Nash reached into his backpack and took out his notepad, turning it to a new sheet of paper and twirling the pencil in his hand as he thought. "Concealing my identity won't be too odd for the arena, at least," he muttered to himself, jotting down some barely coherent bullet points on the notepad. I can get a mask or something, lean into it being a persona.
Another column of bullet points joined the first, these ones brainstorming a theme. Hopefully, he could hide in plain sight, using the showmanship likely to be present in the underground tournament as a method to draw suspicion away from his identity, or rather draw suspicion away from that he was trying to hide it.
What would be much more difficult was hiding his identity outside of that place; when he was out of the costume, not in the arena, he couldn't exactly cover his face constantly.
Sure, it would help create a separation between the more criminal elements of the competition and make it harder for any enemies he made there to find him, but outside of the arena he had no better disguise ability than before.
The hair dye could certainly help, Nash thought, taking that out of his backpack for the first time since he had bought it. But it wouldn't be the be-all-end-all. I need something that could either change or take attention away from the structure of my face entirely.
Opening his phone, he tried to see if there was anything that could fit the persona, but found nothing. I'll just have to use the hair dye for now and work on the persona. I'll figure something out later.
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In the same city but miles away, an old man knocked on the door of the Emerald office. He was bruised blue and yellow, walking gingerly, and one could see bandages peeking out of one of his sleeves.
Eventually, the voice sounded from a speaker, the voice of the man who practically commanded the city.
Through the speaker mounted above the door, Senator Emerald, said "Come in."
Old Longstep Beryl did so, closing the door behind him as fast as his gait, even more hobbling than usual, allowed.
"Lord Emerald," Beryl said. "I underestimated your son. I planted a tracking device on him, but the device that monitored it was broken in our... scuffle."
"My old friend," the Senator barked, an undercurrent of concern barely audible beneath his obvious impatience. "Please explain. How did you lose to a child over a hundred years your junior and two realms below you? No," he said, his voice chilling.
"How did you allow it to come to a fight in the first place? I commanded you to return him, not fool around with my son and let him escape to who-knows-where."
An aide that was previously informing Emerald of the goings-on of some particular family-owned corporation (for the Emeralds owned many,) stepped to the side awkwardly. They clutched a manilla folder to their chest like a warding talisman and generally tried to look small.
"At first, it seemed like the Young Master would be compliant," Beryl said, his hands clasped behind his back and a guilty expression gripping his face. "I had found him in a small martial academy working as an assistant instructor, and he led me further into the building under the guise of collecting his things before he left. He then used that to create distance between us, jumping through a solid wall, which started a chase."
"Of course," Senator Emerald said, disdainfully. "The boy can be all too clever when it comes to shirking. Go on."
Beryl nodded. "I managed to plant the tracker on his backpack, and used that to corner him in front of an old entrance to the Imperial subway tunnels."
The Senator's face softened in sympathy, but only momentarily. Beryl continued the tale. "We fought, and he was much stronger and more skilled than should have been possible. Eventually, when I was about to drag him into the car, he pulled both of us into the Aether."
Patriarch Emerald's face was schooled into a careful passivity. "Then?"
"He used the confusion of the situation to push me away from him, high above ground. He returned to the physical world quicker than I did, and when I returned I fell down, breaking the tracker. I could not track him down again."
The aide, their voice warbling, raised their hand and interrupted.
"Lord Emerald, Senior Beryl," they managed to squeak out, intimidated by the suddenness with which the eyes focused on them, "The tracker breaking may not be impossible to solve."
"Elaborate," Senator Emerald said, "Or stop wasting my time."
"Well, sir, no, Lord Emerald, I mean -" the aide's voice was restrained in fear, but eventually they managed to spit out what followed. "From what I have heard, the display is broken, due to the unfortunate circumstances Senior Beryl was placed in. However, the actual tracking device that was planted on the Young Master should still be functional."
"The tracker on the Young Master, even working, does nothing to help us without any way to actually find it," Beryl noted. A small twinge of pain and guilt crossed his face, his bruises obviously bothering him. "Don't waste the Senator's time, Junior."
"Junior Beryl," the Senator said emotionlessly. "Scolding my employees is my duty alone, unless I specifically charge you with their performance."
"Yes, Patriarch."
The aide cleared their throat nervously. "Well, as long as the tracking device is functional and still with the Young Master, I and my team will be able to track it down. Depending on the state of the display, it may take only a few hours or as much as multiple days, but my team can handle it."
The aide's fingers worried at the edges of the manila folder. "Shifting our focus on that endeavor, however, would delay the launch by an indeterminate amount."
"That is acceptable," the Patriarch said, leaning back into the chair. "This is more important to the clan than the launch. Use all the resources required. Beryl?"
"Yes, Patriarch?"
"Assist this initiative with whatever they need to track down my son. While they work and you cannot assist, assemble a team. Keep this matter within the family if possible - stick to the official story in public. Cover up any possible holes. Assure the silence of everyone involved. Commence now."
"Understood, Patriarch." Beryl turned towards the aide and motioned them to follow him out of the door.
"Come with me," he said, closing it behind the young member of a branch family. "We have much work to do. Let us discuss it over tea."
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In this part of the old, abandoned sections of subway, a fervent excitement, an anticipation of bloodshed coated the underlying smell of rot.
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Irreverently, the ancient remains of bloodshed that had soaked into the surface of the tunnel's concrete here had been washed away where it was possible. Whatever mummified remains of cultivators that were still present had been disposed of alongside their tattered clothes, their rusted weapons sold off to whoever would pay and the treasures pried off of their corpses.
Instead of the eerie silence that pervaded the rest of the subway system, where all one could hear was water dripping, skittering animals, and distant footsteps, here the ambient sound of the tunnels was overcome by the sounds of money changing hands.
Fools went gambling, predatory loans were given, debts were repaid, services were rendered. Drunks stumbled to and fro, bothering each other and the more sober clientele of the arena, though that wasn't to say that alcohol was the only substance peddled here.
Some decided to set up video cameras or begin to record on their phone, and those that did so were quickly reprimanded by those who organized the event.
Hoses ran from generators to the exit, diverting the suffocating gasses away from the enclosed space. The generators themselves were hooked up to a variety of things, though most of their power was being channeled to the floodlights that lit the place and the large screen mounted on one wall, displaying the view of a camera pointed at the ring in the middle of the room.
The ring itself was raised slightly off the ground, though not by much, only by the thickness of the wooden planks that made up the floor of the assembly. Ropes were tied around the outside, pulled taut around the metal posts that sat on each of the four corners, the posts obviously repurposed pieces of fencing.
Folding chairs were arranged in a ring around the ring, and perhaps fifty or sixty sat in them, waiting for the main event to start.
In one of the chairs closest to the ring, a Second Calcification cultivator sat. He was dressed oddly; loose black pants reached down to his sneakers, the waistline hidden under the lower edge of a hoodie, also black. The hood had been pulled up, and the sleeves were cut off to display his muscular arms in stark contrast with the care taken to conceal his face.
He wore a mask, perfectly smooth except for three places, that being the two larger holes over his eyes and the many smaller ones, poked around the nose and mouth to give him a way to breathe.
Concealing one's identity was nothing new for the venue, and was tacitly encouraged by the organizers, who all wore tinted motorcycle helmets themselves, but the type of mask was new and drew more than a few looks, many of which were quickly diverted by those with a functioning self-preservation instinct.
Inscrutable*, implacable, unstoppable.
Those were the three words that Nash had chosen to theme the outfit around; he decided that the in-the-face presentation of mystery would work to throw anyone off his actual trail - after all, whatever rumors that popped up that he was connected to something-or-other could be easily dismissed as a marketing gimmick.
Slowly, surely, he wrapped the boxing wraps around his fists, one loop after another, soothing his nerves.
Despite his confidence in the idea of hiding in the spotlight, the actual application of it was still nerve-wracking - he could practically feel all of the eyes on him, as if he was back in that first night at Old Man Looking-In's dojo, staring at the eyes in the wall, except these ones wouldn't judge him worthy and look away.
These eyes would only grow in number, in scrutiny, in pressure as he proved himself here, in battle after battle.
More eyes meant more money, yes, but more eyes meant more eyes. More eyes meant a higher chance of one of those pairs of eyes recognizing him - more eyes meant more risk.
What doesn't? Nash would've sighed, but that would have worked against the character he was trying so hard to establish.
If this failed, he could always get another normal job, but there was no doubt that the police would be cracking down on under-the-table workers at the Emerald family's behest. By now, he had a pattern of taking those jobs, and that was something his family would not miss.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shoes clapping against the hard wood of the arena. He looked up, finishing the wrap on one of his hands, and saw a short, slight man wearing a motorcycle helmet push up the visor slightly. He put a handheld microphone below it and turned it on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, pacing around the ring with an expressive stride and making large, sweeping motions, "As few of you as there may be in this crowd, I'd like to announce to you - as well as the criminals, lowlifes, and other hooligans that make up the cornerstones of our little free market economy here - that the maaaaiin event is about to start! So grab a seat, grab some booze and maybe a bit of blow, and get ready for some CAPITAL C CAAAARNAGE*!"
"In THIS corner, we have our mysterious newcomer! Come on up, kid - let's see if you have what it takes!"
The announcer pointed in an exaggerated manner to one corner, and Nash stood up, plodding towards the ropes in a slow, steady walk that was intended to make him look more confident than he felt.
He walked through the ropes, careful to make sure that only the rope's cross-section was visible moving 'through' him at any given time - he wanted to make it look like he could pass through things instead of removing parts of himself from the physical world, which would hopefully help conceal the origin of his cultivation.
The announcer, a head shorter than Nash, continued with his excitable movements and speech. "This is the first time our newcomer has fought in the Arena, so we made sure to give 'Eidolon*' here a true Arena welcome!"
The excitement of the crowd was evident - some booed, some cheered, some even happened to be the type of person able to whistle in 'that' way, who all seemed to simply materialize in an event of a given size. "On the other corner, the Second Calcification favorite of the Arena, let's hear it for our good friend Heavenly Apeblood!"
More shouting filled the stands, though this time they were slanted more towards cheering than they were for Nash's entrance. Several shouted the man's stage name as he brought one leg over the ropes, heaving himself into the ring and walking around, flexing.
He was shirtless, though the amount of thick, coarse hair on his body made it difficult to see the musculature underneath. His face was somewhat more bare, but still hairy, his messily-cropped hair hanging halfway down his neck. His beard, though it was only sideburns, was more groomed, and it framed his pale face in a way that made him look somehow like some sort of monkey, an impression exacerbated by his long, sharp canines, like those of a baboon.
Is he from some sort of Aether beast bloodline, or is it the side effect of some unorthodox technique? Nash wondered, but his speculation was quickly cut off.
The announcer paced back and forth through the ring, stopping in front of the shirtless man. "So, Heavenly Apeblood! You're a regular favorite of the Arena, you got anything to say before the bloodshed starts?" The announcer, exuberant as ever, practically shoved the microphone under the other man's mouth. He took it and leaned back a bit, posturing at Nash.
"Well, I think I speak for everyone here on this one thing." He leaned forward, a wide smile revealing his massive canine teeth as he stared Nash in the eyes. "But this 'Eidolon' fella? Nothing but a poser trying to hype himself up, and I'm gonna tear him apart in this ring. If he doesn't walk out of here needin' crutches, you can drop the Heavenly from my name 'til I earn it back!"
Heavenly Apeblood tilted his head back goadingly, handing the microphone back to the announcer. The slight man reared back dramatically, waving at himself in mock surprise at the nature of the larger man's words. "Well, then, we already got some animosity in the ring! And all you thugs out in the audience already know, little ol' me can't resist fanning those flames a little bit. So, Eidolon, you got anything to say about that?"
Theatrically, the announcer leaned over and presented the microphone, bidding Nash to take it. He did.
"I tire of this farce," Nash said, careful to not let a hint of emotion seep into his voice as it issued from his masked face. "If I come out needing crutches, you'll come out needing a stretcher. Now, let us fight. I grow impatient to spill your blood." Nash reached out slowly and deliberately, dropping the microphone back in the announcer's outstretched hands, his eyes never leaving the face of his opponent once in the meantime.
The announcer chuckled, unimpressed. "Well," he said into the mic, "Certainly a lot of anticipation to start the match today. In that case, I won't delay any further," he said, ducking under the ropes to exit the ring. Facing the bulk of the audience, he brought the mic up to his mouth and yelled. "Let the fight - BEGIN!"
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Heavenly Apeblood felt his blood boil in excitement.
He ran forward, bent over and ready to pull the newcomer to the arena - no, HIS arena, HIS territory - down to the ground, where he could get to the good part.
The ripping, the tearing as the mask was torn off the little poser's face. Maybe I'll take the face with me too, he thought to himself, already confident in his victory as he saw the newcomer simply stand still, hands at his sides, making no attempt to react. Poor kid's frozen in fear. I'll make sure he gets exactly what he deserves for coming in unprepared.
Then, his hands caught only air, simply passing through Eidolon. For a moment, he looked, fascinated, as he saw flesh and bone exposed to air, receding into nothingness as he passed through it.
He caught himself on the ropes, looking back and already raising his foot to catch his opponent with a spinning heel kick, and -
Felt something slam into his back, hard and fast.
He fell down as his legs betrayed him, a pain and soreness already spreading through his spine as he dangled from his hold on the ropes. He saw another kick coming from the corner of his eye, this one a roundhouse already heading for his head, and dodged out of the way by dropping down onto the floorboards.
He rolled to the side, attempting to avoid whatever attack his adversary would undoubtedly throw next. He sprung to his feet with a kip-up and settled into a tall, square stance.
His feet were close together, his elbows covering his ribs while his slightly curled fingers covered his jaw. Leaning back onto his back foot to allow quick kicks from his front leg, he shuffled forward, cautiously advancing towards the impassive form of Eidolon.
For his part, Eidolon seemed to be taking things slightly more seriously himself. He entered a stance as well, though it was more evenly distributed than Heavenly Apeblood's, as well as tending towards bladed rather than square.
Apeblood flicked out a jab as quickly as he could manage, and was surprised when Eidolon simply shuffled slightly, letting it stop at the end of its reach not an inch away from his mask. Apeblood felt Eidolon's own jab crash into his face, square on his nose; he ignored the pain. His anger roused, he lunged forward, the artificial lights glinting off of his massive canine teeth.
Eidolon moved to the side gracefully, one hand in Apeblood's armpit, the other one around his wrist, throwing him forward with his own reckless charge.
Before Heavenly Apeblood could halt his lunge or even catch himself on the ropes, he felt something hit the back of one knee hard, buckling his leg and sending him sprawled out onto the ground. Eidolon knelt down, raising one fist to cave in Apeblood's skull, but he managed to yank down on Eidolon's hoodie, pulling him down to the ground and interrupting his attack.
Apeblood clambered over, straddling Eidolon and sending punch after punch into where his face should have been, but hit only wood.
In some instances, Eidolon simply twitched his head out of the way as he wrestled Apeblood in an attempt to reverse the position, but in others, Apeblood's hands just passed through the other fighter's head, hitting nothing but the planks of the wooden floor.
"Why can't I HIT you?" Apeblood growled, slamming down in frustration with a double-handed hammerfist, straight into Eidolon's sternum. This one, Eidolon attempted to divert, but it did little against Heavenly Apeblood's animalistic strength. Instead, it was shifted only slightly to the side, glancing off of Eidolon's ribs and slamming into his elbow.
Eidolon used that to trap both of Apeblood's arms under his and roll around, putting Apeblood into an arm bar.
"Surrender," he said, his voice indicating no emotion at all - like his victory was simply an inevitability, and whatever Apeblood did would only adjust the form it took, not the occurrence of it.
"Die in a ditch," Apeblood said, spitting the best he could towards Eidolon. It landed at his feet.
"Very well," Eidolon said impassively, and he cranked down in the armbar. Heavenly Apeblood felt the pain build and build for a few excruciatingly long seconds, in which he tried repeatedly to kick away, to squirm out, to do anything.
Every time he did, though, Eidolon simply leaned in further, pushed Apeblood's face further into the floor and increased the pain.
Heavenly Apeblood distantly heard a sound like a twig snapping, and felt a lance of searing pain as one of his arms bent the wrong direction, flopping from where the bone had given out.
He screamed, and even he could not tell exactly where the balance fell between pain and rage.
He stood up, and Eidolon let him, just standing there, not even in stance, just observing him like the arrogant poser he was. "I am going to rip your mask off," Apeblood said, grasping his forearm and forcing his bones back into alignment, popping them back into place as they healed faster than they had any right to. "Then, I will eat your face, and I will enjoy it."
"You are welcome to try," Eidolon said, rearing his leg up to kick Apeblood in the chest, pushing him outward and sending him careening off balance, bouncing off of the nearby ropes.
Apeblood tried to turn his bounce into momentum for another punch towards Eidolon's face, but missed as he leaned to the side. "However," Eidolon continued, getting into an actual stance, "I am under no obligation to let you."
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Nash was standing in front of the bathroom sink in his apartment, scrubbing the dried blood from his recently-used hand wraps. His Eidolon outfit, minus the mask, was sitting on the floor of the shower, also ready to be hand washed.
The fight had ended in his favor, but more narrowly than he had hoped.
He had a counter for nearly every move that Heavenly Apeblood had used, but the fight (thanks to his opponent's constant, inhuman levels of regeneration) had dragged on long enough that it was a statistical certainty that a few shots had snuck in.
The front of his body was bruised in several places; all along his ribs on one side, his face, in many spots around his forearms, and a few on his thighs where he had ate a leg kick.
No matter what he did, Apeblood just kept coming, popping his broken bones back into place no matter how much Nash shattered them.
Eventually, the fight ended; Apeblood had been swaying on his half-broken legs, covered in a dozen bleeding cuts, throwing weak strike after weak strike and taking hits that should've killed him. What finally ended the battle was not him surrendering or the referee stepping in, but rather the animalistic cultivator simply running out of blood and passing out.
The announcer had stepped in and started to count, and once he reached fifteen he stepped to Nash, handing him a stack of bills held together with elastic. He had gone on to shout praises to his Eidolon persona, recapping the fight and building hype for the next one.
Both he and the unconscious form of Apeblood were ushered out of the arena, each by two goons in motorcycle helmets. As soon as he was out of the fight, Nash left, ignoring the costernation of those who had lost a lot of money from his victory and the elation of the ones who had experienced a sudden windfall.
Nash had jumped through a wall into a fast food restroom, quickly changing his clothes and jumping into an adjacent building and leaving from there, making every effort to separate his two current identities.
Once he was satisfied that all of the blood he could possibly wash out had run through the sink, he turned it off and hung the handwraps on the same rod as the shower curtain. I'll wash the rest later, he thought, drying his hands and leaving the bathroom.
He sat down at the table and took a sip from a sports drink, already half-drank and set down next to the stack of bills. The rough, scratched surface of the table pressed up against his bruised elbows as Nash counted the stack of money once more.
It had been counted multiple times already, and it stubbornly refused to grow in amount no matter how much he recounted the bills - every time the conclusion was the same.
Enough for a month of rent, but that's the bulk of it, he considered, fidgeting with the bills. When he had received it, it had looked a great deal more valuable than it actually was - on each face of the stack, the two highest-value bills had been placed, sandwiching the rest of the significantly lower value bills between them. I already paid for rent this month, so I can stretch this out for quite a while. Maybe most of the rest of the year, if I actually learn how to cook for real.
Nash sighed, standing up and shoving the chair back under the table. He needed groceries, as well as something to store things in. It was time to spend the money he had fought so hard for.
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A thug was released from the hospital. The doctors recommended a long period of convalescence; he ignored them. He had an Emerald to crush.
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Police searched an opium den, sweeping back and forth with their long-handled tasers. Junkies were arrested and put in cuffs, Aether-blocking or otherwise. One of the policemen saw a flier for an underground fighting arena sitting on a table filled with paraphernalia.
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In the Emerald compound, a team of computer scientists worked to recover data from a well-smashed device, extracting every bit and nibble of digital information as possible.
The device was emulated and reconstructed digitally from the ground up as they searched for an identifying code somewhere in the hex dump, hoping that they could find the correct identifier before the tracking device they were searching for ran out of battery.
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As the Boss meditated in front of his treasure, he heard a crack open along the side.
Rage and despair built in equal measure. He lashed out at the floor with his fists, opening splintered holes the size of his hands in the ground. Smoke roiled out from his every pore, quickly filling the room. He stood up and grabbed the mat beneath him, tearing it in half with his bare hands and throwing it against the wall.
More and more things in the room were destroyed in his blind rage; every time his anger cooled down, it only took a sideways glance at his treasure, his treasure broken in half, to send him back into a destructive frenzy.
The only thing spared his wrath was the treasure itself. If one imagined a cylinder centered on the crystal about four feet in radius in the center of the room, shooting off into the sky and burrowing down into the ground, they would be able to perfectly align it with the untouched part of the room, marred only by splinters falling onto the ground there from where they were launched, often from across the room.
He left the room, fearing what he would find if he looked too closely at his treasure. An underling slinked away, grateful that they were able to ascertain the Boss's mood before they gave their report. They decided to wait until the Boss would be more... understanding.