14 – Fight Night
Tony found a spot on the mats—laid out for the fighters to use for stretching and warming up—and used one of the gym’s nylon jump ropes to do just that. He was getting a lot of looks. Some people seemed curious about him, but others were straight-up mad-dogging him to the point where he was wondering if there might be some violence before he even set foot in the ring.
On the way over, he hadn’t been too nervous, but seeing some of these guys, their size, bulk, and hungry expressions, had him wondering if his eagerness for the reward money might have clouded his judgment. Addie hadn’t been wrong when she’d mentioned his eye; it would affect his fighting, but that wasn’t what Tony was worried about. The truth was that he hadn’t had a real fight without his high-end augs in a long, long time.
He had his nanites, but they wouldn’t be much help in a fight. If he had a personal AI, he could control the flow of dust from his reactor, saving it for an emergency so he could direct his nanites to a priority, but he couldn’t even do that—no PAI meant everything was simply running on auto. “Maintenance mode,” he grunted, stopping his jumping as sweat began to bead on his forehead.
A friendly voice behind him asked, “You all warmed up?”
Tony turned to see Lionel Golden, his bright smile refusing to be outdone by the yellow shirt he wore with big, bold black letters spelling out GOLDEN’S. “Hey, man. I’m warm, but I gotta do my tape.”
“Roger that. You’ve still got some time. Hey, buddy, you gonna just fight with your eye bandaged like that?”
Tony reached up to gently probe the bandage covering his eye socket. At the very least, it would get soaked with sweat. Did it matter? His nanites had fixed what they could; he still had some scabs, but they weren’t covering much. Tony looked at Golden and shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Nah, here, I got some FlexBind in this kit.” He reached into a black pouch he had clipped around his waist and took out a roll of stretchy red bandage material. He pulled it loose, stretched it out, and let it snap back onto the roll. “Flexible and only sticks to itself! I’ll do a few wraps around your eye, over your head, and it’ll at least cushion that bandage in your eye and keep blood and grime out.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Take a knee here.”
Tony did as he said, kneeling on the mat so the shorter man could easily wrap the tape around his head. Tony couldn’t help staring at Golden’s strong, gnarled fingers as he tore the tape. They were like branches on an oak tree. He mentally laughed at himself; he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen an oak tree.
“What about your teeth, kid? You got a mouthguard?”
“Uh…” Tony clenched his jaw, feeling pretty stupid. He should’ve thought of that. He should’ve thought about covering his eye. What was he doing? It felt like he was almost on automatic since waking up in the Blast. He was just coasting, letting things happen, things he never would’ve guessed he’d do. Walking a ditzy girl around while she tried to do…what? Expose local gangsters? As if anybody didn’t already think gangs and criminal corporations ran everything in the outer districts!
He had to ask himself why he was willing to be so harsh in his head when, to her face, he acted like she was doing something cool. Was he just a coward? Was he trying to be nice? He knew the truth was even simpler: he liked her. She was cool, and she was definitely not ditzy! Was it really his fault, though, that he’d been distracted and kind of out of it? Hadn’t he had—
“Tony? You in there, buddy?”
Tony blinked, realizing Golden had been staring at him for a good thirty seconds. “Woah! Got lost in my head there, coach. Sorry about that. As for my teeth, nope, I spaced it.”
“Don’t worry, pal; I hand a few out every fight night. I won’t be the guy who watches some dumb kid get his teeth knocked out for no good reason.”
Tony grinned and would’ve winked, but he accidentally tried with his right eye again, and the weird sensation only unsettled him. “That’s me. Dumb kid—”
Golden pressed a plastic-wrapped mouthguard into Tony’s hand. “Nah, I didn’t mean you, buddy. I can see you’ve had a few shitty days recently.”
Tony laughed, and when Golden looked at him askance, he shook his head. “Nah, it’s just that I really only had one shitty day. The last couple have been pretty damn nice.”
Golden’s smile grew, and stepped closer, holding up a big, gnarled fist. Tony bumped it with his plasteel knuckles, and the older man nodded. “You’ll do all right, man. Keep up that good attitude. Listen,” he looked left and right, then leaned closer, lowering his voice, “I saw you move. I think you’ll make it to the final round, but then you’re probably gonna have to fight Malik. They call him ‘the Grinder,’ and it’s for good reason.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Just…just don’t let him get ahold of you, right? Use your speed. He’s a damned tank, but he’ll run out of gas before you do.”
Tony nodded. “Thanks, Golden.”
“That’s between—”
“Coach! Ernie’s here to set up!” Golden jerked his head toward the kid who’d yelled—a teen with eager eyes and a chrome left arm. He was standing near the big table they’d set up to overlook the center ring.
“Coming, Alex.” He looked at Tony again. “He’s a good kid. Try not to hurt him too much.”
Before the words could properly register, Golden turned to jog over to where a red-headed man was setting up a portable speaker. As he unwrapped his mouthguard, Tony watched the kid. He was a clean-cut, handsome young guy who moved like he’d been fighting or at least training for a while. If Tony saw him at an amateur fight show in New Manhattan, he wouldn’t have thought the kid looked out of place. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed he was from the Blast.
Still, he could see the young guy was green. He didn’t have the killer, hungry look in his eyes like some of the other monsters wandering around the mats. As that thought crossed his mind, one of the brutes in question walked toward him. He was a big guy with two chromed-out, fully cybernetic arms and had to weigh more than a hundred and thirty kilos. He didn’t wear a shirt, and his chest, shoulders, and arms were covered in tattoos. The one on his left pectoral was animated and showed a beautiful woman’s face with long, flowing hair. Her emerald left eye winked, and her bright red lips curled into a sultry smile as the guy approached.
Tony tried to turn away, hopping in place to keep his muscles limber, but the guy just moved until his hairless bruiser’s face was right in front of him. “Getting some attention from the legend, huh?”
“Legend?” Tony frowned, genuinely confused. Was the guy calling himself a legend?
“Golden. Giving you some special attention. You his new project?”
“Uh, I’ve met him twice.” Tony shrugged. “He was just telling me how things work in the tourne—”
“How things work, huh? I can spare you. I get in the ring. I break my opponent. Repeat.” The guy’s voice was gravelly and flat, his eyes like cold, black stones above his flattened nose.
Tony regarded him a little more appraisingly. His arms weren’t any higher quality than the one Tony had gotten from Bert, but they were modded—thick plating welded over sensitive actuators and heavier, denser polymers on the knuckles. He didn’t seem to have any other obvious augs—even his dark, shark’s eyes looked natural. His musculature, though, was suspect—he was boosting, for sure, though it didn’t look like he was using quality stuff. No, this guy was more in the “get big fast, no matter what” camp. Tony shrugged. “Cool.”
“Cool?” A tremor ran through the enormous trapezius muscles that framed the guy’s too-thick neck. Was he struggling to hold himself still? “As you see,” the guy held up his long, shiny arms, flexing the polymer muscles so the chromed plating creaked on his biceps, “I’m in the aug-50 division. I hope we’re matched up ’cause I could use a warmup before I fight Devo.”
Tony looked down at the guy’s skin-tight exercise pants and well-worn black wrestling shoes. He could feel a yawn coming over him and let it loose, stretching his jaw until it popped. He held the back of his hand over his mouth as he shook his head, chuckling. “Sorry about that. Uh, anyway, do I know you? You Malik?”
“Good, you’ve heard of me.” He punched one of his chromed fists into his palm, the impact ringing out like a gunshot. “They don’t call me the Grinder for nothing, one-eye.”
Tony just nodded. “You with a gang?”
“Damn, fool,” he laughed, looking around, and that’s when Tony realized they had an audience. Something like seven or eight of the amateur fighters were standing around, watching the show. “This guy new?” He clicked his tongue, sucking on his teeth as he made a show of shaking his head in disbelief and sauntered away.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The crowd mostly dispersed, people moving off to get ready for their fights, but one woman stepped closer. She was short with buzz-cut reddish-pink hair and a pretty face with matching, big pink-irised eyes that stood out on the hard planes of her face. She was dressed for a fight or exercise, at least, in a compression top and tights a lot like Malik’s. The skin she had on display was sun-bronzed and glistening like she’d rubbed herself down with baby oil. Every movement she made revealed muscles rippling under the surface. She held out a taped-up fist. “Hey.”
Tony bumped her knuckles, realizing he needed to get to work on his own tape. “Hey.”
“Don’t let Malik get in your head. Golden’s pretty good about stopping a fight before anyone gets too hurt.”
Tony laughed, shaking his head. “Wow! I feel a lot better.”
She smiled, revealing nice, straight teeth with a single gap right in the middle of the two top front ones. She shrugged. “I guess I’m not good at pep talks.” As Tony kept smiling, taping his left hand, she added, “You do seem new, though. If you really wanted to know, Malik’s a member of the Cold Boys.”
Tony ripped the tape and started working some strips between his knuckles. “Isn’t this Helldog turf?”
“Sure, but they’re not at war right now, and Malik knows better than to wear his colors on the street.”
Tony nodded, then glanced up, locking his single, silver eye onto her pink ones. “I’m Tony, by the way.”
She grinned, and Tony liked how the left side of her smile went up a little farther than the right, making a little dimple on her cheek. “Maisie.”
“So you fighting barebones?”
“That’s right! Haven’t lost a limb yet.” She flexed her arms, and Tony had to arch his eyebrow, impressed by the size of her biceps.
“That how it goes down around here? People don’t get cybernetics ’til they lose something?”
“Usually, unless you’re sponsored.” She nodded to the side of the mat where Malik was busy chatting it up with some other fighters. “I’m quite sure Mal’s replacements were elective.” She nodded to Tony’s bulky, industrial-looking black metal arm. “What about you?”
Tony finished his taping and then tossed the roll onto a nearby table. “Truth?” Maisie folded her arms over her chest, nodding. “I had a plasma forge mounted to my forearm—into the bones for stability. The guys who did this—” He pointed to his missing eye. “—wanted it back.”
“No shit? I mean, it sucks they did that to you, but a plasma forge? That’s some serious tech.” Tony gave her half a smile and shrugged, and she shook her head. “Can’t tell if you’re bullshitting or not. Guess it doesn’t matter.” She held up her fist again. “Good luck.”
Tony bumped her knuckles and nodded. “Good luck.” As she walked away, Tony bent to pick up his jump rope again; he needed to stay warm. He’d just started jumping, though, when some feedback from the central speaker made everyone groan and cover their ears, and then Golden began speaking, his voice reverberating through the gym, loud and clear.
“It’s Boxer Day, and that means it’s tournament time at Golden’s! Let’s make some noise!” Tony stopped jumping and joined in, clapping as the crowd went wild. “Okay, okay, listen up, and I’ll tell you how this is going to work. We’ve got almost fifty fighters registered, so that means we’ll be running fights in every ring. Most of you are fighting in the aug-50 division, but we’ve got a few great matchups in the barebones and the aug-75, too. You need to listen. If you miss your call, you will forfeit!”
Tony moved over to the side of the gym to hang up his rope and overheard one guy talking to another fighter, “I saw the brackets—five rounds for aug-50 and only three for the other two. And the purses are the same. Bullshit if you ask me.” Tony had to agree that it sounded like BS, but he figured Golden had his reasons.
“Okay,” Golden’s voice continued reverberating through the crowded space, “the rules! These are clean fights. We’re not trying to kill anyone! You must wear gloves and a mouthguard, and if someone taps, you must stop, or I will disqualify and ban your ass! Get it right! All fighting styles are permitted. Yes, you can kick. Yes, you can grapple, and yes, you can take it to the ground. If I or a ref says ‘stop,’ you will stop, or you will get your ass banned! Clear?”
Again, the gym erupted with cheers and shouts of “yes,” “hell yeah,” and a dozen other affirmations. “Okay! Listen for your name; we’re starting round one! Green ring: Maisie H will fight Ronny E. Blue ring: Tony S will fight Alex P. Red ring: Dominic will fight Gordo! Let’s go!”
Tony’s heart lurched, surprised to hear his name so soon. He glanced at the clock on the wall: 6:09. Hadn’t Golden told him his first match would be closer to six thirty? Even as his mind raced, his body reacted to the news. He stripped off his tracksuit jacket, began stuffing his hands into his gloves, and jogged toward the center ring, the one with the blue ropes. He saw the young, clean-looking kid climb in ahead of him.
Fighters were entering the other rings, and as Tony pulled himself up onto the side of his ring, stretching the ropes to slip between them, his gaze drifted toward the red ring, where two monsters were already squaring off. He didn’t have to guess who “Gordo” was. The guy had to be two meters tall, and he didn’t have a spare tire; he had a whole set of spares. His gut hung down over his bulky, piston-driven cybernetic legs, quivering with the force of his two mechanical fists as he gyrated, pumping them up and down.
Tony jerked his attention back to his own situation as a volunteer ref—a local wearing a too-tight, white and black striped pullover shirt—moved to the center of the ring. Tony spared a couple of seconds to scan the crowd, wondering if Addie had made it in time, though he wasn’t hopeful; she wasn’t expecting him to fight so soon. He wasn’t sure why he wanted her there so badly. Was he trying to show off? Was he nervous and wanted his only friend to be nearby in case he got knocked out cold? Did he need an accomplice in his stupidity?
“Hold out your gloves,” the ref said, jerking Tony’s attention back to the ring. He thrust his fists forward, and the ref ran his hands over them, ensuring they were tight and squeezing them to check for weights or sharp objects—sort of a moot point, considering Tony’s right hand was like a sledgehammer when he made a fist. “Good.” The ref looked him in his eye. “Let me see your mouthguard.”
“Shit!” Tony slapped at his tracksuit bottoms, feeling the mouthguard in the pocket. “Um, could you—”
The ref groaned, narrowing his dark brown eyes, but he reached into Tony’s pocket and extracted the rubberized polymer tooth protector. Tony opened his mouth, and the ref stuffed it in. “Ready?”
Tony nodded, and the ref walked to the other side of the ring where the kid, Alex, waited. Tony watched, biting hard on the mouthguard, letting the weird, molding membrane learn the contours of his teeth as the ref went through the same process. After a few seconds, the ref moved to the center and said, “Come forward and touch gloves.”
Tony did so, locking his eye on the kid’s bright blue ones and holding out his fists. The kid bumped them respectfully, and when Tony nodded, he nodded back. The ref took hold of Tony’s left wrist and the kid’s right. “When I let go of your wrists, the fight will be on. Keep it clean, guys; this is supposed to be a fun time for everyone.” While he spoke, Tony took a deep breath through his nose and focused on the feel of the man’s fingers around his wrist. As soon as it slipped away, he moved.
Alex wasn’t a slouch, but Tony had been in a lot of fights—on mats, in rings, in the streets, and the corridors of rival corps—he wasn’t jittery, he wasn’t nervous, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do. All that said, when the ref released his wrist, Tony stepped forward and to the side, driving his left fist in a quick jab toward the kid’s solar plexus. He didn’t commit to the blow, expecting it to be deflected. Alex hammered his left hand down, knocking Tony’s blow aside, which only set him up for a perfectly placed right hook that Tony aimed at the plates covering the top of his metallic left shoulder.
Their clash was quick, and when Tony smashed his metal fist into Alex’s shoulder, they separated, the blow pushing Alex to the side. The damage had been done. Tony had clocked the arm the minute he’d seen the kid waving for Golden’s attention earlier.
It was a low-end athletic model meant for sports like baseball, climbing, and even wrestling, but not for a serious fighter. Sure, a human fist wouldn’t pose much of a threat, but an industrial-style fist like the one on the end of Tony’s plasteel limb? Even through the padding in his glove, he’d bent the shiny chrome cover in and broken several actuator rods. The thing wouldn’t move properly until it was repaired.
Tony backed off, dancing lightly on his toes while he watched the kid circle, glaring at him, annoyed at how quickly he’d been rebuffed. Tony almost felt sorry for him; he hadn’t even realized how badly his arm was messed up. The kid lifted his fists or tried to, but when he realized his left arm was hanging low, twisted to the side, he looked down at it, and his scowl deepened. “What the fuck, asshole?”
Tony shrugged. “Just tap, kid. You’re done.” He wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that his arm wasn’t meant for taking punishing blows from hard objects, but, in a way, it was. The kid needed to learn to work with what he had. He should’ve known about those actuator rods under the chrome. He should have been working to ensure nobody landed anything but glancing blows. He was damn lucky that Tony was willing to back off and not lay into him.
Unfortunately, Alex didn’t see it the same way. His upper lip twisted into a snarl, and he darted forward. His body told Tony’s eye, plain as day, “I’m going to try to kick your head off.” Tony tucked his chin and darted forward, putting himself inside the overly projected roundhouse. He caught the kid’s leg under his arm, swept the other leg, and sent him to the mat with a resounding thud. This time, he pushed the attack, dropping down, pressing his knee against the other fighter’s good arm, pinning it, and lifting his heavy, metal fist high. “Tap,” he growled.
Alex’s eyes were wide, startled by his sudden change in perspective. He struggled, twisting at the waist and trying to bring his damaged arm around to slam a fist into Tony’s head. He didn’t reach, though. The rods clicked and ground inside the chrome cover, and his glove harmlessly buffeted Tony’s shoulder. It took Alex half a second to realize what was happening, and then, with a grunt of effort, he slapped the mat with his chrome hand.
The ref grabbed Tony’s shoulder and hauled him back. “He’s out! It’s over.”
Tony stood and held out a hand, and Alex took it, allowing Tony to pull him to his feet. “Damn, dude, that went too fast!” he groaned.
“You’ll do better next time.” Tony clapped him on his good shoulder as the ref grabbed his other wrist and lifted it.
Golden’s voice blared through his speaker, “Tony S with a quick round one win!”
Tony smiled, visualizing the brackets, knowing he was one step closer to the prize money and, hopefully, a new eye. He’d decided that would be his first major purchase. He wanted a data port and a PAI, sure, but he wanted to have his full range of vision more. As he climbed out of the ring, making room for the next fight, he scanned the crowd again. He didn’t see Addie, so he looked up, wondering if her drone was around. He saw other, bulkier drones up there, but her clever little piece of anti-grav dust-tech was absent.
He picked up his tracksuit jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he scanned the rings. The bruisers were whaling on each other, doing what bruisers do, and he saw Malik standing near the ring, frothing at the mouth he was cheering so wildly. Tony had seen plenty of big-ticket fights between guys geared-up and chromed-out to the max. In a heavyweight fight like that, it all came down to who could take the most punishment. There wasn’t much technique at this level, not with those guys.
He looked to the other ring and saw Maisie on the mat, grappling with her opponent. Tony walked that way. He probably had fifteen or twenty minutes until the first round of fights was done, so he figured he’d watch some of the more interesting ones. He grinned as he worked his way closer to the green ropes. He wasn’t sure she was worth watching for her technique, but there was certainly something interesting about Maisie.