The capital’s lights spin like stars beneath our eagle’s eye perch. A whole galaxy of motes waiting just one viewport away, veiled by low-altitude clouds and hemmed by a never-ending expanse of mountainous farmlands. Twinkling lanterns mark the horizon where distant seas meet moonlit shores. Rustic, faraway villages where rice, not politics, decides the course of roads. I wonder what they do there tonight. Who they love, how they dance, what they fight for. Then the gunship shakes, and I return.

Fingers tight around a handhold. Metal decking shaking under my feet. My sister pushing the billion-credit hawk we ride to its preprogrammed limits. Running lights blinking faintly in the darkness. Red, then blue, then blue again. The deck tilts, spilling skylight beams through duroglass windows.

How it shadows my company. Ajax, like he was born for it. Knowing eyes closed in meditation. A theatre heartthrob who eschews the stage. Cheekbones fierce and jaw straight. More angular and striking than I in the spotlight. If only he were warmer. Perhaps he would smile more. Or perhaps I haven’t learned yet why the strongest so rarely do.

Mori leans against the wall beside him like an unabashed delinquent. Fingers defiantly opening the buttons of her shirt that Ajax only just fixed for the thirdtime. Tie rakishly loose. Hair disguised an unassuming shade of blonde. Eyes flirting with me across the empty hold between us. They dart towards the cockpit as our destination swells and a shudder runs beneath our feet.

My sister’s voice crackles through the hold like a pre-century shoutcaster. “Live in the pipe, five by five.”

Mori’s answering groan broadcasts straight to my earpiece from her JOY. “You know, I’d still vote for a straight shootout instead of this."

“Good thing this isn't a democracy.”

“Classist much? If we're going that route, I’m older than you.”

“And still as short as a grade schooler.”

It’s all banter, nervous brains seeking any way possible to relieve the tension we all share. Shimano Heavy Industries’ largest engineering laboratory looms outside the front viewports like an ominous, obsidian spear aimed straight at heaven. So close I could almost reach out and touch it. Guiding lights on the penthouse level illuminate the jaws of the beast. Dotted personnel scurry about to prepare for our entrance. Lights fill the skyscraper’s fifty-odd floors from top to bottom. The dragon of commerce never sleeps, even on late weekend nights.

Engines spool down across the wings as Jolie brings us in. A darker twin of our rented gunship is cooling its thrusters on the other landing pad when we finally touch down. The deck sinks silently in the grip of our landing gear. Lights flare to life throughout the hold. Pressurized air hisses. Buckles and straps unwind in the cockpit. Locks begin disengaging in the rear ramp. Outside, waistcoated attendants jog across the windy, open-air roof with cables, fuel lines, and carpets in hand. Their rippling hair settles as an invisible repulsorfield goes up overhead. An instinctive itch slithers down my spine, reminded of sandstone and ringing bells.

Jolie’s heels click like pens as she strides into the hold, headset and hololenses still synced with the gunship. She steals the atmosphere like a flash fire. Formal dress a black widow’s invitation that flaunts skin at every weakpoint, so confidently removed from the buttons and slacks filling her closet that I almost can’t see my sister in the flirtatious woman she pretends to be. Her skin is glossed and shined like polished marble. One coy eyebrow arched. Lips parting in a seductive smirk that has the other half of the hold gaping while she peels off her headset.

“Eyes up, boys.”

She glides by while Mori squints and Ajax manifests an unreal amount of discipline. Gaze fixed somewhere in the next galaxy over. A village statue for a moment, not the young man he is. He leans over to mutter where only I can hear while we file in behind Jolie’s silken, midnight-black trail.

“Mars.”

“Yes.”

“Is your sister…”

He pauses when the folds of Jolie’s dress drift between her legs.

“…No,” I scoff. “And no.”

“Not what I was going to ask.”

“I didn’t want to hear what you were going to ask.” Grunting, I bat his shoulder with the back of my hand and start forward. “Besides, you’re not her type.”

Mori’s sour voice crackles to life in our earbuds as she checks her comm again. We each wear one on the left, synced to our JOYs. Only Jolie goes without one. Hers is the most important job tonight. Everything will rely on the ruse of Remara Sova holding long enough for us to scope out the underground laboratories and look for any signs of Bishop or his disappearance. I wasn’t sure she would be ready for it. Her preferred world is populated by ones and zeroes, not social cues and clever wordplay. But her temper seems perfectly suited for tonight. To me, at least.

Jolie pauses one last time to fix one of Mori’s buttons, warning us through the comm as she does. “Check you can see a blinking green light in the top right-hand corner of your shimmerscreen.”

A one-way projection covertly streaming from our earbuds to retinas. Ajax and I sound off together. Mori snorts derisively into the channel, leaning away from Jolie’s touch. “Mine’s red. Must be bugged.”

“That means you’re colorblind.”

“…Fuck.”

I draw to a stop shoulder to shoulder with my red-haired twin. In front of her, the boarding ramp lets out a hydraulic hiss as its nanometer edges split open down the middle. Perfectly manicured light spills though the growing gap. Shadows retreat from her collar in reticent strands.

“You ready?” I murmur.

“Yep.”

“How do you feel?”

“Honestly?” Jolie runs an analytical nail up her bare thigh, as if testing its worth for herself. “I feel sexy.”

Her face flushes when she glances back to the hold and sees Ajax adjusting some last setting on his JOY. Russet hair shakes only once as she settles back into control. Replacing her mask; the Jolie I’m well acquainted with. My kitchen-counter analyst. Cold, witty, and sharp as a scalpel.

“Don’t forget.” She quickly waves me back a step. “It’s us against the world.”

“And we’re going to be kings,” I say, finishing our mantra with a confident grin. One callused hand sweeps towards the door and the penthouse waiting beyond. “After you, Ms. Sova.”

-

Without a JOY to mechanize his body, Vex Shimano is shiveringly handsome. Though it’s hard to tell if it’s his money or his features that make the impression.

He’s a contradiction in human skin. Eyes slim, gleaming dangerously beneath mercurial hair that spills like quicksilver down one shoulder. The other half of his head is shaved to the skull. Black form fitted metal covers from his collar to his lower lip where six obsidian teeth make an exoskeletal underbite beneath an otherwise flawless face. Contradictions on contradictions. He speaks with the most surgical of accents as he greets my sister with a metal kiss to the hand, all traces of his village roots excised.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Remara Sova,” Vex says, chewing over the repetitive cadence of the name. “My parents were most eager to make your father’s acquaintance. Even we of Section G have heard tell of his gladiatorial exploits.”

He sets the tempo from the first word. No illusions here. Nowhere to hide in this gleaming marble lobby that cost ten years of a pro fighter’s wages to build. It’s not the opulence that sells it, though. This place is as decadent as a ravaged tomb. Tall, empty, and hollow. Two titanic doors loom open at the end of the lobby, revealing hints of the penthouse’s single massive chamber. The wine-colored carpet beyond. Glass windows for walls. Muted lighting. All of it existing for the sake of a single table with two chairs situated in the exact center of an empty space as vast as a Simulacrum battle arena.

Even I get the message. Money is empty without a vision to guide it. Ideas, not the credits that buy them, are what matters to these people. And what welcoming message could be grander than a vantage over the entire capital? Every inch of its dark, distant borders can be seen from the skyscraper. It’s the only building in the capital with such a claim to fame.

This is who holds the power, the skyscraper whispers. The doors forward look straight over the Metro Blockhouse’s heavenward lights. Look how small the champion rises in comparison. His futility.

We’re ushered forward in the midst of Vex Shimano’s guards and a small army of attendants. Jolie, perhaps the only one here immune to the view, takes her hand back from the elder Shimano with a fight promoter’s tight-lipped sarcasm.

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” she replies. “It’s a shame your father couldn’t join us tonight. I’ve heard so much of the famous Yor, and so little of his seven sons.”

Vex Shimano needs not smile to bare his obsidian underbite in aggravated cordiality. His gloved hand sweeps up a pair of filled wineglasses like roses by the stems, graciously extending one to Jolie before taking a test of the golden liquid within. “Truly, rumor of northerners… brutal mannerisms does not do them justice.”

“I’m happy to impress the gentleman,” she chuckles, mocking the native accent of Section R while passing the cup right along to Ajax. He holds it like a ticking bomb while we continue trailing our faux noble across the depths of the chamber. Shimano’s entourage follows us step for step, perfectly matched in numbers. The rest of his miniature army waits behind at the door. Two hulking, suited Guardians with Mecha-classed helmets and hardpoints instead of proper faces trail steps behind a woman who deviates from the corporation’s metallic obsession like oil from water. Her hair is a floral mix of pinks, teals, and whites that razors above her head in birds-tail plumage. Thick makeup flares her lips and eyelids with shades of blue. Silken garments cover her body in oversized fashion and similar colors, ending in petal-shaped drapery at the knee. One leg tenses open and bare to the waist as she stands. Both her arms show slim muscle in the dim lighting. Spirit rope and weighted daggers hang from her waist. All the trappings of a graceful huntress, and all subverted by her unnaturally pink, catlike eyes.

“An Iros,” Mori mutters, subvocalizing through the comm. “Dynasty’s top caste of Psi operatives. No one beats them at infiltration or seduction. Don’t let her start talking to you.”

Jolie and Vex continue on towards a nearby bank of windows arm in arm, chuckling daggers at each other all the while. Their conversation echoes faintly through my earcom. Plates clink and dishes scrape behind us as servants begin setting the stage for two. A sudden shifting in my vision draws my attention to Ajax as he takes a sip of Jolie’s drink for himself, grimaces, and makes to pass it off on attendant on my other side. Dyed black hair dangles down his back in its usual long braid, hanging strands concealing his mouth. “Think neutral thoughts,” he murmurs.

I don’t even have time to ask what the hell he means. He’s back to standing with hands impassively clasped a moment later. My gaze drifts over to the Iros. A Psi. The mindbenders. Capable of reading thoughts, influencing emotions, and so many more things. They’re one of the most dangerous classes, and keeping one on retainer is practically a requirement for any serious negotiation. Without a Psi of your own, you leave yourself wide open to uncontested mental manipulation. And in the case of experts like an Iros, having your deepest desires pried wide open without you ever being the wiser.

Even as I watch her, the Iros draws out a small pipe and lights it off an open brazier nearby. A single puff passes her lips. Inky clouds drifts past her half-lidded eyes like sloppy sine waves. Distracting from the spider’s foot-touch that creeps its way along the surface of my mind for the briefest of moments. She slips the pipe back into the depths of her robe like nothing’s the matter. Distracting me again. But from what?

I blink twice. The altitude must be getting to me. I can’t even remember the source of my own suspicion. Ajax and Mori stand unbothered. I clasp my hands in front of my waist and pretend to do the same.

I pretend because my body knows better than to relax, even when my mind does not. I’ve been drilling my battle sense in the art of war for the better part of two decades. Every fighter has an instinctual sense of danger in some regard. But not everyone has topped the university’s reflex charts from the day they enrolled. At their best, my instincts aren’t measured in microseconds. They’re measured in null values and negatives. They do not lie. And they’re itching for a fight right now.

The Iros doesn’t say a word. She’s clever not to. Doing so would give away her entire ploy and whatever lies she discovered in our minds. We didn’t predict this twist, and now the game is changing right in front of us. Near the window, Vex’s head suddenly, fractionally ticks upwards, like he’s hearing a voice no one else can. One of the most basic cues of unexpected telepathy from someone unused to encountering it. The invisible contact interrupts he and Jolie from their quickly-thawing conversation. Matched intellect tempts even the iciest tempers. But it doesn’t stop Vex from redirecting the conversation and leading Jolie back in our direction with a hand balanced delicately against her waist.

“Apologies for the delay,” he tells my sister. “Tonight’s course is something of a specialty. I’ve been told the amuse-gueule is to die for. It’s also best enjoyed in the solitude of one’s own company.”

Jolie clears her throat and pointedly glances at Ajax. “I wouldn’t have made it as a banker if I didn’t understand the importance of backroom deals. Shall we?”

“By all means. Persidia?”

The Iros steps forward and bows low, sinking onto a knee. Head lowered.

“Take the guards to the spa and give them the rest of the night off. Bottle service, too. My compliments for their work.” Silver hair tips fractionally in my direction. “And Ms. Sova’s attendants, as well. Show them the full gratitude Shimano Heavy Industries can provide its newest acquaintances.”

“Aye, young master.” The Iros rises like a willow freed from wind’s embrace and curls a finger for Mori, Ajax, and I to follow her towards a pair of glass-tubed lifts on a far edge of the tower. Her voice fills my head with the vibrance of a cherry tree when she talks. Gnarled wood, soft blossoms. “Gentlemen, if you would.”

Jolie sends us on our way with a knowing wink from behind her hologlasses. I’m the last in line to leave, bringing up the rear with Vex’s two hulking guardians and a coterie of other suited and muscular guards wearing synonymous shades of black who trailed in from the lobby. I tug at the too-tight collar of my rented designer suit as I join them in stride, loosening a few of the buttons like Mori did earlier in the gunship.

I’ve never been a suit guy. Never enjoyed the stiffness or the subtle displays. And the sleeves, I have found, are a little too tight.

They split us at the lifts. Ajax and Mori to the left, I to the right with half the Shimano contingent. Concordia University’s top-ranked fighter raises a hand high in a wave I’m sure to see over the press of bodies, casually leaving me to my fate as we file into the elevators. He noticed too. The Iros, Persidia, goes in last with them. Her dull pink eyes watch me like cat and mouse as I walk straight between the next set of doors. I can still see her through the glass walls when I crowd into the tubular lift at the front of eight stone-faced brutalizers.

The other lift races down the exterior of the sidescraper without a sound. Mine takes a moment of a guard fumbling with biometric scanners before its destination locks in on a waist-height screen. Sub-one. Couldn’t ask for better than that.

Gravity takes hold and the floor sinks. Formal shoes shuffle from toe to toe. Fingers pop. Brass knuckles and pocket weaponry slide into the reflections on every side. I almost laugh when I glance over and see myself in the glass. Back broad and confidently turned to the killers behind. I wonder what old man Fang would think if he saw me stealing his moves not two weeks after we met. Amusement, I hope. But I’ve got some showstoppers of my own in store.

The capital blurs to a lightstream smear behind me. Numbers glide down one at a time on the digital pad beside the door. Floor forty passes in a blink. I yawn. Turn my neck from side to side, cracking the joints. Jolie said to wait for twenty. She also knows the moods of my storm. The temper that earned me my place as second of an entire fighting generation.

Besides, they don’t call me the show-waiter on the streams.

Martial fingers fish a laughably large cigar out of my breast pocket. I lift it high over my head, calling for the attention of every happy trigger finger in the elevator.

“Before we get started…”

The cigar hits the deck with a meaty thud, ground beneath my heel.

“Does anyone mind if I crack a window?”