Coffee lingers like incense in the air while Jolie and I examine our new guest. Sunrise has only just begun filling the capital’s alleys outside. I’m still bleary-eyed from the night before and working my way through a cup of Jolie’s morning caf when she slips up beside me with an even larger mug between her hands. Glasses balanced over her forehead, eyes hatched by crows’ feet, and a pre-dawn grimace twisting her lips in a decidedly dissatisfied shape. A long kimono imported from the capital’s outskirt villages drapes from her shoulders to her feet.
She takes a loud, seconds-long sip of caf. Snaps her fingers once, just to see if Mori will wake up. Or even register our presence at all. The girl’s battle sense has to be one of the worst I’ve ever seen. I can’t even call it a sense. As soon as Ajax left the apartment last night, I turned around to find her splayed out in a chair, head back and eyes slammed shut. She hasn’t moved an inch since then. Her chest rises and falls evenly. Drool leaks between her open lips. Loud, nasally snores drift up every few seconds.
“I told you we were never adopting anything,” Jolie grumbles, kicking at one of Mori’s feet. A zombie would react more. “What are we even going to do with her?”
I match my sister in taking another long drink, swishing the coffee around my mouth before eventually swallowing. “We’ll… bring her to campus with us.”
“That’s never going to fly.”
“Your contact couldn’t meet until evening, right? We can’t leave her here. So, campus.”
Blue light paints Jolie’s face as she flicks open a projection. Not even listening to me anymore. “Mhm.”
“It’s a university with fifty thousand students. No one will notice her.” I glance over the lower half of Mori’s skinsuit where it hangs by the couch, still covered in grimy runoff and dried blood. “We’ll just have to dress her up a bit.”
Jolie crouches down to inspect one of Mori’s boots. It’s horribly out of place. Not just among my sneakers and griptape and Jolie’s formals, but among anything a Venter would ever wear. Too expensive, real leather, the kind of craftsmanship you don’t even see on the street. Like something a high-fashion Innovator might make for a penthouse design studio. Not the sort of footwear an admitted undercity criminal would be wearing. Jolie’s fingers trace along the heels, grudgingly appreciative of the metalworking.
“Rockets in the heels. You can’t make this shit up.” She shakes her head as she glances over the rest of Mori’s open scabs. “We can’t slap a tux on a stray and send it to a wedding, Mars. Someone’s going to ask questions if she just shows up on campus with us.”
“We don’t exactly have many options.”
“Need I remind you who it was that volunteered our apartment to a Venter and insisted on having her help?” Grunting, Jolie spins on one foot and stalks back into our split bedroom to get ready for the day. “Stare a little less, by the way. You’re way too obvious about it.”
“About what?”
Her laughter echoes from behind the door. “You’ll find out.”
My arms cross as I watch her shut the door. Slowly, my attention returns to Mori, her fluttering hair, and her obstinate snoring. There’s so many mismatched pieces to her puzzle. I doubt they all contribute to the same picture. Her hair is immaculately kept, even in sleep. Everything of her physicality speaks to a committed mind. Yet she’s an absolute slob. Eating like an animal, verbally jabbing to the limits of social acceptability, slumped over the couch like a hungover uni student. A memory of the balcony and her unused lighter flits through my mind. Chaotic, pushing boundaries. Her attitude. This isn’t her home. It’s a place of shine, not smog. Her lashing out isn’t justified, but it’s not wrong, either.
I wonder how different she would be in the Vents. Or maybe she never stops wearing that coy mask.
“You can stop pretending,” I say, finally breaking the silence.
Mori’s eyes snap open as I nudge her foot. She cuts a snore off at the head. “How’d you know?”
“Ki fighter. Remember?”
“I do now.”
“Good.” I place my mug down on the counter and hook a thumb over my shoulder. “Grab a shower and get back out here. We’re taking the next metro in ten.”
-
When a cabal of university fighters calls for a secret meeting, there’s only two places in the capital where it can go down: a gym, or a bar.
My home gym is clearly off limits. Ajax would never make it past the door without a hundred martial artists mobbing him onto fighting square for an attempt at a public lynching. Same story with any of the facilities scattered around our campus. Too many people could drop in on us on a whim. But when it comes to the alcoholic alternative, there’s only one uptown bar where the two faces of the university league, a secretary intern, and a matchstick Venter can meet without raising eyebrows.
Cayman’s Spicy Noodles is an urban legend for a reason. It’s the brightest spot on the circular streets ringing the base of the Metro Blockhouse. Notorious for having the highest concentration of street brawls in the entire capital, a statistic I’ve contributed to a respectable number of times. Bar food and single-credit booze is a hell of a drug, especially once the main cards start in the arena next door. Every single wall has been blown out over the years, leaving the surviving structure a Thesian amalgamation of string lights, tarp doorways, jamming swing music, and crowds that spill out across tables in every adjoining alley.
In other words, it’s the perfect place for a meeting. And the food’s not bad, either.
I arrive at the tail end of the dinner rush at the head of a dozen-strong pack of martial artists coming straight from practice. We’re an impressively discordant group bound by one commonality. No two of us sport the same colors or fashion. Bulky Guardians jostle shoulders with slender Arcanists. Padded sheaths for Duelist blades clank side by side with Gunslinger holsters. The sweat of hard workouts stains us all. I might lead them, but they’re their own fighters. Each has mastered a unique combination of classes and cultivated a flair all their own. They might strive every day to dethrone me and take the title of Concordia’s best martial artist for themselves, but that hasn’t stopped us from forging friendships in the crucible of combat along the way.
Kestrel, our resident chef for late-night training sessions, jabs an elbow into my scabbed-over ribs as we round the last alley before Cayman’s street. The orange neon sign of dragon and noodles looms just over the nearest line of fashion boutiques and open-flame restaurants. Already I can hear the swing music ripping over the rooftops.
“I heard you and Ajax were running together in the undercity, Mars! You two finally getting over it?”
I dissuade the suddenly interested glances with genuine, full-chest laughter. “As if.”
“Are you boys ever going to make up before the tournament?” Winter, a panther of a duelist as tall as I am, hooks a curious eyebrow at me. Hair the color of blue ice dangles in straight lines down her back. “It’d be bad luck if the captain and co-captain kill each other before the other universities even get a chance to try.”
“I’ll take all the bad luck in the world if I get to be the captain in that scenario.”
“I bet you would.” She drifts closer to my side, brushing a length of hair behind her ears. “How many fights are you planning on watching, Mars? If you’re staying late, I’ll buy you a drink or two.”
“If I’m staying late, you might as well buy a bottle to share…”
It’s no exaggeration, and that’s what gets a rise out of her. We’re technologically-augmented superhumans at absolute peak physique. Stubborn livers come with the territory.
Winter’s blade bag jangles as she bumps her hip against mine. “Where do you want to finish it? Your place, or mine?”
“Yours. My sister would kill me if I brought another girl over.”
“Another? Sounds like a story for later.”
“One still in the making, too.” My eyes roam over the exterior of the noodle bar. “Though I think it’ll have to wait for another night.”
Blue neon spills out of the bar’s tarp doors, painting brick streets in washed-out sapphire. Flashing lights blink between patrons legs as they enter and exit in a constant flow. Every one of the outdoor tables is packed to capacity. Means it’ll be standing room only on the inside, perfect cover for the meeting. Cheers and roaring chants explode as the bar’s rooftop seating goes wild for the current fight in the M. Rebroadcasted streams blow out second-story stereos. Everyone passing by on the street stops to look up at the noise, catching glimpses of airborne projections playing out the pro league fight in ten-by-ten screens. I crane my head up to look over the crowd, searching the deeper shadows near the front door for a familiar airboard and orange hair beside it.
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Mori is watching a JOY-sized projection of the same fight with a group lingering near the tarps. Bumming a lighter off them, too. She made a good disguise of impromptu streetwear. One of my too-large jackets dangles past her waist. Jolie’s poorly fitting shorts hang to her knees. Colored smoke haloes her head as she looks my way, throwing a perfectly aimed wink at me despite the number of moving bodies between us.
Winter pinches my rear and splits off with the others on a path to the exterior stairs. “You’ve got my number.”
She’s lost to the crowd in a moment, icy hair and long legs disappearing behind a pack of assassins from a rival university. My face flushes before I can stop it. Still burns by the time I finally shoulder my way up to Mori’s side in the shadows. Screenlight of the ending fight washes over us. The major league’s fifteenth against fourteenth; one a Mytho tideweaver and the other an elusive dual-wielding Gunslinger. The Gunslinger weaves his way daringly close to the Mytho with perfect microspacing and drives the crowd crazy by firing his pistol from a reverse grip in point-blank range.
Mori picks that exact moment to aim a knowing glance in my direction. “Who was that hot piece of ass?”
“Third-rank Duelist at the university,” I answer, not meeting her gaze just yet. The fight’s reaching its apex. “And a martial artist. Not a bad one.”
“Is that how you measure women? By how badly they can beat you in a fight?”
“Please, she can’t beat me in a fight. And it’s how I measure everyone.”
“No wonder you have posters of the Champion plastered all over your bedroom.” She mimics a vomiting motion. “Come on, flyboy. They’re already inside.”
We duck through the tarp doorway together. Electronic jazz and a tsunami of human voices, clinking glasses, and overpowering stereos floods into my ears. A round of toasts goes up for the victor of the league fight. Stream screens cover every wall in the bar’s open interior. Silhouetted heads bobbing in conversation fill the gaps between. Blue neon colors everything in here. Soft on the eyes, only joined by the occasional lantern or candle near tables in the back. Untouched weapons dangle casually from belts. The main card won’t be starting for another hour.
I lead the way through the standing room crowd, doling out grins and loud excuses as I shoulder a path for Mori to follow. There’s not a face in the room that doesn’t smile back. Cayman’s is popular with the retro crowd. Those who watch fights for the personalities and spirit, not just technical mastery. I might be one of the youngest on the ground floor, but my arrival started making waves the moment I ducked into the bar. Any league fighter showing up this close to the arena is a celebrity, even a small-timer from a university. And they don’t hesitate to let me know.
“Yo, Mars!”
“The red devil, how’s it going?”
“Good shit last week, dude!”
Genial hands clap against my shoulder. Friendly jabs from gregarious old men, waves from the women, and shouted salutes from the drunks. I answer every single one with a laugh or a comment of my own, not missing a single fist bump on the way. Half-full glasses raise high when I swing by the bar to grab drinks for the others. Mori just chuckles as she helps me carry the five cups towards a table in the back of the main barroom.
“And you thought I was joking about the fan clubs.”
“This isn’t a fan club,” I reply, pausing to swap a few words with a trainer who runs a dojo on the other side of E-Town. “It’s called… being friendly. It pays dividends.”
Two familiar faces and one unfamiliar lounge around a lantern-topped wooden table opposite the stage where a live band is preparing for their next set. The pianist hammers out electronic melodies during the intermission between pro matches on stream. Sets an aggressive beat in the background as I kick a chair out for Mori and slip in beside my sister. Across, Ajax reclines like a swashbuckler with his feet draped over one corner of the table. Thin saber laying like a cat on his lap. The exhaustion he let slip last night entirely evaporated the moment he had a chance to ditch his Venter disguise. Tonight his golden hair is clean, coiled, and braided to a shine. Long bangs sweep over his face. A utilitarian grey bodysuit, skintight and moisture-wicking, fits him from head to toe beneath a wool parka. Both are unzipped halfway down his chest to vent heat from a workout.
There’s almost as much attention on him as there is me in this tiny corner of the bar. Only, where the people I passed threw up high-fives and greetings, everyone at the tables around ours is doing everything they can to not meet his unimpressed gaze. He doesn’t even have to pick his nails like Jolie does to look like he’s already tired of a place like this. He’s just got this way of sitting. Cocky, smartass, and showing absolutely none of it. Begging you to throw a punch without giving a single reason, just so he can have some entertainment.
His voice holds the drollest tone possible as he cocks his head up at my arrival. “Done signing autographs?”
“I can sign one for you in the alley right outside, if you want it that badly.”
Glasses thud loudly. I send them skittering across the table with ki-enhanced flicks of my fingers, each sliding right into the hands of its target. Ajax takes one sip of the glowing blue Nirvalian I put between his fingers and barely manages to hold back a gag. The liquid shines straight through his throat as he makes the amateur mistake of swallowing.
“Right on time,” Jolie drawls, yelling to be heard over the general tumult.
The way her fingers lift the new drink tells me it’s not her first of the night. An expensive pair of hololenses replaces her usual spectacles, balanced above her forehead. Reflected light from the nearby bar shimmers too vibrantly in her eyes, overlaying natural grey-blue with neon green tones. Sharpening her vision artificially.
I make a note of where said vision lingers and release the observation by clasping my hands behind my head. My focus skips to the only unfamiliar face at the table. The least threatening of us all, going simply by looks. He’s an unassuming uni kid wearing a letterman’s jacket over a cream-colored suit. Jolie would know more about the suit’s particulars. I can’t do much more than eyeball its value at something between ludicrous and astronomical. But it’s not the expensiveness of the weave that catches my eye. It’s the small, utilitarian fishhook logo embroidered on his breast pocket.
Jolie waves a tipsy hand between the two of us. “Everyone has already made the rounds, so let’s keep this quick. Mars, meet one of my lab partners.” She aims a glare in my direction, downs the rest of her drink in one go, and knocks its base against the wood. “Shim, meet the reason I had to dump our project on you last week.”
The boy extends a metal-sheathed hand to shake, not bump. “Shimano Kas.”
Though he’s a freshman, his voice is reassuringly confident. I shake cordially and settle into my seat. Wood creaks behind my back. “Shimano. As in, Shimano Heavy Industries Shimano.”
“Shimano Yor is my father, yes.”
“Is the affinity for Mecha hereditary?”
“Tradition, actually! One of many in my family. Though I assure you, I do not partake of them all.” Kas’s eyes crinkle together happily as he takes his hand back. “I believe that handles the introductions. Lionhart Ajax. Mons Jolie. Mons Mars. Mori Emilia. Quite a lot of M’s at the end there, hm? And one very large one right across the street.” His fingers steeple together atop the table. “Jolie has kept me up to date with your investigation since she had me crack Akis Prazen’s geotracker.”
Ajax raises a disbelieving finger in the air. “You hacked a pro fighter’s JOY?”
“I thought you said you got that address from the arena’s mainframe,” I add.
Jolie just rolls her eyes. “What’s one more crime?”
Shimano drags our attention back with a lighthearted smile.
“Naturally, I’m intrigued. My family’s business isn’t something I have much access to, but I’m as curious about your findings as I imagine you are. This deal in the Vents, the biological shipments.”
“Jolie said you can help us get inside SHI’s research tower,” Ajax says. “Forgive my bluntness, but I want to know why it is you’d help us commit sabotage against your own family before we get into the particulars.”
“No need for apologies, Ajax. Your suspicion isn’t groundless in the least.” Shimano glances to Jolie. She nods fractionally. “I might keep my distance from the family business, but I was born the latest in a line of businessmen that spans generations. Frankly, I see opportunity here. My family tree has too many roots for any one to grow deep. This is a chance I can’t pass up on. Shimano Heavy consorting with undercity syndicates, missing fighters, illicit shipments with records erased… only one of my elder brothers- or perhaps my father himself- could be ultimately responsible. If we find real evidence of criminal acts, their downfall could mean my rise. I could finally take control of a significant stake in the company.”
He raises a very delicate finger in the air, eyes narrowed with intent. Tone entirely too cheerful as it cuts the air like a titanium scalpel.
“And once I have that stake, I’ll have a means to ensure any such future corruption is excised before it can spread like it so clearly has.”
Whistles and applause end his monologue as the bar crowd starts gearing up for the next pro match. Streams across the room immediately snap to the same channel. Flyby camera angles hover over a mid-level battlefield in the Metro Blockhouse. Stats of the minor league fighters scroll on either side of their walkout. Roars begin building closer to the bar. Credit chits clink as they hit tables and bowls en masse. Bets made and paid in an instant as the crowd wagers on their favorites.
Jolie catches my eye with a shrug. “Told you I had the right guy.”
I reach over and flick her shoulder. “Never doubted you, sis.”
“He sounds dedicated, I’ll give him that.” Taking another swig of her drink, Mori waves her fingers casually, reigniting the table’s lantern with a fingertip of thunder when a sudden gust from the tarp doors douses it. “So, we have our inside man. What’s the plan for getting into the skyscraper?”
Jolie motions for our attention as she opens a screen on her JOY. “The shipping manifest we pulled said our suspicious vials were destined for an R&D lab on the seventh sublevel."
“We should go in through the bottom,” Ajax says. “The capital is an insect hive just beneath the surface. Underground tunnels are everywhere. Sewers, powers conduits, air chasms to the Vents. A building like that skyscraper would require at least three ingresses from the closest electrical grid.” He motions to Jolie and Shimano. “We can take our pick at will. Two Innovators will make quick work of any autonomous security.”
Tendrils of crimson hair drift over my eyes as I nod. “For once, I agree. Screw wasting time. Let’s do it direct. They’ll never expect it.”
“Quite the contrary,” Shimano interjects. “The company is on high alert, and a secretive deal with Dynasty just went belly-up in the Vents. Whoever is pulling the strings will have their eyes aimed downwards; at the undercity.”
Jolie picks up the slack by zooming on the skyscraper’s upper half. “Which means we’re going in through the top. Not the bottom.”
“You already have a plan.”
“That I do, brother.”
Shimano adds another projection to the spread; this one of a dashing Mecha accented in colors of silver and black. “My elder brother, Shimano Vex, is our person of interest. He’s also been the eye of my parents for some time now. They’re trying to marry him off to our competition, forge new ties. An influential daughter of a powerful foreigner is the perfect candidate for their aims.”
Clearing her throat, Jolie waves her fingers to dispel her half of the imagery. “Someone like Remara Sova. A daughter of major league fighter from Section K with sizeable banking interests, suitably handwavy origins, and a face that her day-old ID says looks just like mine. She’ll be meeting Shimano’s brother for a dinner date on the penthouse floor tomorrow night. And you three will be her bodyguards.”
A catlike grin steals over her lips as she sinks back in her chair.
“Which means suits, boys. Very expensive suits.”