Dynasty’s behemoth is still waiting when we exit the square an hour later. While over a dozen syndicate fighters glare daggers around us in the middle of their own sparring, the beast waits wordless and emotionless for us to fully descend the steps, dissuading the others with titanic presence alone.

It’s impossible to get any sense of him other than a vague chill along my arms. Given how hot they already are from my sparring, I trust the instinctual response to an unknown threat more than I usually might. All of the behemoth’s skin is covered in hulking plates of smooth, dark red chitin. Organic yet dead, ridiculously heavy and nearly impossible to move without some sort of artificial aid. With one class dedicated to the Modd’s shape-altering arts, he is the dread creature he looks to be as long as his cloth-draped JOY hovers like a mourning ghost over one shoulder.

Modds are a popular class to encounter in the wild; one of the most common among users who prefer to watch fights, not take part in them. Adding body parts like third arms or tails is its broadest function. Rare is it to find a fighter who wields the class like the man in front of me. His entire body is consumed and replaced by the class. I’ve learned nothing if not to be wary around the type. They tend to leave their humanity behind for a reason.

My hands tense when the behemoth reaches up towards his shoulder and the cloth-covered JOY floating there. He taps at the battered sphere, silently bidding it to spit out a crusty, fizzle-edged projection. His slitless, featureless helm of a head stares unmoving all the while. Takes a moment for me to relinquish enough of my caution to look down and read the screen for myself. The words are almost too frazzled to make out.

“What is this?” I ask.

Ajax drops his blade into its sheath and melts the two back into a sleeve for his left arm. “I believe what my friend meant to ask was, what business do you have with us?”

No response comes, save an electronic crackle when the behemoth’s JOY shudders from internal damage. He doesn’t even move. Crossing my arms, I snap to summon a pinprick of igniting ki between my fingers. “Doesn’t seem like this one is the talking type,” I growl.

Ajax shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first.”

My eyes lower to the projected text once more. I squint and skim through whatever jumps out at me the most. Don’t have time to read the whole thing. It’s an invitation handwritten in flowing, curving script and filled with fancily-worded garbage. Notably, it is signed by a name I can read.

[Sincerely, Executor Tanis.]

Ajax’s shoulder nudges my arm. “It’s addressed to you,” he murmurs.

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“I noticed.”

“An invitation to meet one of Dynasty’s Executors isn’t something to discard on a whim.”

We read it again together, muttering back and forth like we’re in a library and not having our ears blasted out by the general mayhem of the gym. I almost forget the armored thing waiting motionless behind the projection.

“My sister would kill me if we accept this,” I say. “Dynasty would try to kill us if we don’t. If I’m choosing the easier fight, I’d rather not piss off Jojo.”

“Dynasty is an inter-Sectional crime syndicate. They have a reputation to uphold. Murdering two extremely popular university students isn’t in their modus operandi.”

“So you think we’re safe to take it.”

“No.” Ajax shakes his head, braid shifting down his back. “Nothing is safe when it comes to the syndicate. They are criminals. Killers. Slavers. The lowest of humanity. But that this Executor Tanis wants to meet us at all piques my curiosity.” He stifles a cough. “We came here stirring enough feathers to garner a clue back to Prazen and Bishop. This could be it.”

I nod along, buying time to consider my options. The half-lidded exhaustion weighing down Ajax’s eyes. The SHI-sponsored news streams railing against Champion Fang in a corner of the gym. Our world is turning on without us. Every day we waste hunting for leads is another day Vex Shimano has to move more pieces, finalize his designs with Prazen. I’m not one to sit around twiddling my thumbs when there’s a war going on behind the curtains of the Section’s largest stage. And there’s no telling how long it will take Jolie to dig up anything useful on her own, or if she even can. I don’t doubt my sister. But time is a finite luxury, and we’re running out of it.

Ajax is right. This could be our break. I won’t let it slip away.

“I’ll go check it out,” I tell him, making eyes as I do. “You go back, make sure the girls are ready for a fight. Just… try not to tell them why.” He’s about to disagree when I raise a hand, cutting his reply off before it can sway me. I flash him the same grin I give the crowds when I’m taking to a stage. “What’s the worst they’ll do? I’m a popular guy, even down here.”

That he even considers folding tells me he’s so much more exhausted than even I can discern. For a moment, I think he realizes it. He knows I know. His lips part to say something, then slowly close again as he rescinds the thought. Instead, he pats me on the shoulder like we’re actually friends and not two idiots who have been fighting each other from the day we met.

Ajax’s voice softens when he examines me, hand lingering on my shoulder. “You would have beaten me, given another year.”

“You’d sharpen up before I ever could. You always do.”

His brow lowers as he shakes his head. “Not this time. I said we were two sides of the same coin earlier. But the more I learn of you, the more I know that isn’t all of it. People believe in you. They don’t believe in coins.” He blinks and takes his hand back, curling the callused fingers in one at a time. “How you make friends so naturally has always evaded me. Perhaps that’s why I keep so few.”

I catch him by the wrist before he can leave. “You have more than you know.”

A wistful smile crosses his face. “Perhaps.”