Over the next two weeks, I get back up again.

It’s not easy. Starting from zero in the hostile undercity of a metropolis a world away from home, twenty thousand credits and one injured assassin weighing me down, a physical and mental wreck from my encounter with Thane- you could say I’ve been better off. I certainly would. But, at least I have Cal with me. She and my new loan shark friend weren’t wrong about the Vents. The undercity is completely absent the Champion’s influence; the last place anyone would come to look for me. For now.

Every night, I leave Cal at the shooting range and sneak onto the metros that snake through the Vents, joining the legions of runaways and renegades who ride the roofs for free. I pick a different arena every time I go. Small or large, fancy or little more than a hollowed out factory with fireflies for spotlights, it doesn’t matter to me. I conquer them all. I return to the range only long enough to study fight tapes and devour theory books during meals. My time is spent in grungy gyms, underground fight clubs, showering, or crashing for a scarce few hours of sleep. Nothing slows me. I’m chased by the fate that awaits me the next time I face Thane. And I will face him, whether when we make a move to free Jolie or if we try to escape the capital.

If I’m not ready, if I’m not at my old strength and even further beyond, there will be no second chances. I will lose.

I have to be able to beat him before I make a move to rescue Jolie. But how do you fight someone who was trained by legends and uses all eighteen of the JOY classes together?

Cal’s Relic is the one thing I know can overcome him for certain. The Relic’s suppression field is the perfect anathema to Thane. The ultimate trump card. But it’s also no guarantee. He knew exactly how to neutralize it before it could even become a factor in our fight. Not to mention the question of what happens should we manage to get Cal close enough to use her Relic. In an even fight without access to classes, just on a biological level, Thane would easily overwhelm us. I’ve seen him manually spar against Dad and go toe-to-toe for minutes straight- and that was three years ago. He’s equally competent fighting at any range and against any classes, with or without a JOY.

Thank my father for that one. Dad knew how to raise monsters of combat. Now it’s on me to find a way to defeat his best.

As hard as I try to improve, I’ve only been clutching at smoke. Any progress eludes me. The ki I manifest is still dark and painful, physically tearing at my body’s seams whenever I ignite. The pain is unreal. Unsustainable, nothing like the giddy flow it should be. I rarely touch the power, only using it in the thick of combat when absolutely necessary- a far cry from the days where I’d be radiating literal tides of ki throughout the day. No amount of shaky meditation can stabilize my soul, not that I even have time for it. And my skills in the martial arts are rusty as hell. I smash through every challenge the undercity can give me, but only because I’m faster and stronger than them.

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I’m spinning my wheels in search of a miracle.

Two weeks after the gala, I sit alone on the ringside bench of a bloodstained sandstone octagon, deep in the heart of one of the fancier undergrounds I’ve been in. This one let me in with some grumbles. It’s a floral cavern of pink and orange that looks like it would be more at home in a district like the Glass, not knee-deep in one of the crime-ridden Vents sector close to the surface. Artificial rivers and vibrant displays of imported, JOY-altered flora crawl along the different corridors. Slim water Elementals for waitresses, skin rippling with pink currents under their dresses.

Some of the shiniest fighters on this side of the undercity populate the regular roster here. It’s no wonder the management dragged their feet on giving me a fight. I’m just a rat with a reputation, still ragged and sweaty from getting out of an undercity gym not half an hour ago. Utilitarian sports bra, baggy black pants and a winter jacket discarded on the floor unzipped. White hair in a loose tail with my flower-petal bangs still on display. I strip off a JOY-linked filtration mask- everyone wears them due to worsening smog in recent years- and drop it in my gym bag.

Out comes the griptape, my old friend. I rip off a length and wrap it around the raw knuckles of my left hand while I look out across the fighting square, gauging my opponent of the night. Some Saboteur-Duelist hybrid with a whole crew of Innovators and Biohancers running pre-fight diagnostics. I’m sure he’s a bigshot here. I wrap another length of tape.

The underground’s shoutcasting duo wind their preamble tale like they’ve been practicing it for a week straight. They say I’m an upstart vagrant. They say the crowd might have heard of me. Oh, they have. There are entire boards on the Net dedicated to people trying to get tickets to where my next match will be. They call me the Ghost of the Vents. Those who followed me here roar. The locals jeer. The casters rail about my showing up out of nowhere demanding a fight with the best of the best. I smirk and kick up from my bench. At least they got that right.

The rest; they should have known better.

I don’t even need to try when this is the challenge. This fighter, like the others who fell before him, is no Thane. So I end him like the rest.

It’s over just as we hit double-digit seconds. I’m panting over another unconscious body, carbon-fiber hand dripping a stranger’s blood, wilted flowers falling over my shoulders as they’re thrown from the stands. I look to the empty booth where I left my gear. I can almost see Dad standing in the tunnel, shaking his head in disappointment.

Another night, another fight, and I’ve changed nothing.

Something has to change.