Parties across the Electric Town are in full swing by the time I finally manage to extricate myself from the stage. My jaw hurts from smiling so much. My fingers are sore from signing hundreds of autographs. I’ve barely had time to take in a single breath between all the people coming up to congratulate me. But damn if I won’t sign one more. And then another still, when a young mother finds me waiting at the Metro Blockhouse’s elevator core and encourages her fledgling daughter to give me a child’s enthusiastic drawing of the showstopping combo that put me in the major leagues.
“With skills like this, you’re already off to a good start,” I chuckle, ruffling the little girl’s hair. Her tiny hands are swaddled in red tape colored just like my hair. I take one of them inside my own as I crouch in front of her, tucking the drawing into a back pocket. The lift dings behind me. A river of humanity and noise flows past us to fill the civilian elevators, heading to celebrations in the neon city below. Stream cams score my side with flashes. I ignore them.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
Her eyes somehow manage to widen even further. “Sasha,” she stammers.
“Do you want to be a fighter when you grow up, Sasha?”
Her head bobs furiously. “I do! Just like you!”
I grin. Taking Jolie’s unused tie from my pocket, I wrap it around the girl’s head and cinch it tight, then tap the palm of her taped-up hand with a single finger. “An old friend once told me that every victory comes from the hands,” I say, voice softening. “Keep drawing. And don’t let anyone stop you.”
Something, perhaps my tone or my smile, falters for a moment before I rouse the unfaltering mask of a hero once more. The girl’s mother thanks me again and guides her gaping daughter away. The girl’s hands stay stuck to her head like glue. I doubt she’ll remember the words. But she’ll remember that tie forever.
Someone shouts my name from back at the fighter’s lift. Shaking my head, I turn from the hall and return to the press of bodies, apologizing profusely as I sidle my way through and slip between the doors right before they close. Thankfully, the rest of the well-wishers see the purpose to my steps and decide to save their congratulations for later. The whole Section knows where I’ll be in an hour, anyways.
Hydraulics hiss and seal in my wake as I escape the flushed-cheek chaos of the main stage. A long whistle escapes me as I lean against the glass walls. Outside, loud fireworks splash starbursts of color across the low-roofed streets closest to the M. If I squint, I can even make out the individual people pouring into the iconic chop-shop noodle bar across the street. But that would mean blinding myself to the reflection slinking its way up behind me.
While I watch the city, two knowing nails graze up the back of my leg and steal the drawing from my pocket with a gunslinger’s grace. I glance over to see the paper flapping out sideways like a fan, hiding full eyelashes, a starburst ored-orange hair, and slim, smirking lips behind the margins.
“And I was just about to congratulate you too,” says the most famous Venter in the capital. Her head tilts casually to one side, eyes taunting me above the paper. “Looks like the entire Section already beat me to it, unless you’ve got room for one more gift.”
More fireworks hammer the glass behind Mori’s back with staccato explosions of neon color. Matching her smirk, I lean an arm against the glass, framing her in my shadow. She’s blocking half her own vision with the drawing. Doesn’t even see my reply coming, really. It’s almost unfair. One flick to the nerve cluster in her wrist drops the paper right into my fingers. My shoulders lift in a small shrug as I slip it back into my pocket.
“I can always make room for a fan,” I say.
I lean in close with an eyebrow cautiously arched, eyeing her over like I’m inspecting some prized jewel for flaws. There’s not many to find. Hers have only ever made her more beautiful, anyways. Especially tonight, and she didn’t even dress up for the ceremony. Designer leggings wrap her legs in stylized iconography of Venter districts, trailing to Abyssal black at the heels. A small shirt covers the top of her chest with a stylized image of her own face. Absurdly large rose-tinted glasses balance on the edge of her nose, reflecting a rainbow flashbang as the city’s celebrations scatter through the lenses.
Mori watches the drawing disappear with an arched eyebrow. “I’ve heard there’s a line for the meet-and-greet.”
“Always is, for the best things.”
“I’d hate to skip. I’m such a stickler for the rules.”
“You can shut up now, Emmy.”
The grin takes over. “Don’t say it twice.”
We kiss quiet and quick and passionate in what seconds we have alone. Mori makes her pride for me known in heated breaths and forceful lips. Five stories pass in a grease fire blink. Nails rake through my mane. Then the hydraulics thump as our descent begins to slow, jarring a frustrated groan out of her as she falls back against the glass. Her mouth curves in a frown before she tries to start again, only to be foiled by a second jostle.
Mori finally relents and tries to strike up a lighter. I fish around in my pocket for a stick of gum and toss it to her without looking while I roll my back against the wall, watching the final floors scroll by.
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“Put something else in your mouth before Jolie kills you,” I sigh.
Mori rolls her head and pops the gum in. Blows a bubble the size of her face, then pushes it just far enough to blow it like a flashbang. Loud chewing resumes in the aftermath. “Babe, she’d kill me twice if I had what I wanted instead of a lighter.”
While she’s distracted with chewing, I steal her glasses and slip them over my forehead for an impromptu hairband. “Someday, you’re going to run out of ways to keep flirting.”
“It’s cute you think that,” she replies, bumping my shoulder. “Got any plans tonight?”
“One or two previous engagements.”
Half lidded eyes try to spark another fire in mine, but I can feel how close we’re drawing to our destination. I can’t help the stupid grin that crawls across my face as I continue. “I was supposed to meet my wife after the ceremony, actually,” I tell her, lowering my voice like it’s a secret shared. “It’s a shame I can’t find her. We were going to meet some friends and kidnap my sister from her office to celebrate.”
“Sounds exciting. Let me know if you find that wife. I bet she’s cute, knowing you.”
“She is. And she loves Cayman’s almost as much as I do.” I let out a loud sigh, running an aimless hand over the lift’s holographic controls. “Shame she’s decided to go missing.”
Mori’s stomach growls loudly at the slightest mention of food. Grimacing behind bared teeth, she blows one final bubble and taps a thumb against her sternum. “Oh, look.” She snorts out a smile. “Found her.”
Her fingers slip between mine and squeeze once while the doors slide open. Crackling stream audio and clinking glassware replace the humming of the lift as we’re deposited facefirst into a bustling slice of the entertainment world that most of the Section never sees.
Regular visitors and pilgrims only ever scratch the surface of the iceberg. Behind the walls of the Metro Blockhouse, a termite hive of low-ceilinged tunnels winds its way through the bones of the entire arena. The true home of the Section’s top warriors is a switchback mountain of locker rooms and storage halls, shipping docks and administrative offices. Usually, the M only has two moods: busy, or empty. Tonight presents a chance for a rare third to show its face. Interns shrug jackets and crack open bottles elbow-to-elbow with janitorial staff, paper-running teenagers, and the tower’s administrative elite. Stream screens projected from personal JOYs blanket the metal tunnels with the same highlight reels of my most iconic fights that’ll be running all night long on the news. Their tipsy celebrations bring fresh energy to my steps. My promotion to the major leagues is their reason to celebrate, and no shortage of toasts and shots are thrust my way while Mori and I wend through the packed corridors separating us from Jolie’s office.
Shoulders are clapped, rousing cheers are given, I take a few of the shots, and Mori takes the rest. It feels like every one of the people I pass knows me like family. I try my best to remember every single one of them, adding names and faces to the infinite list that already sprawls through my mind. I have a talent for it, I think. Details and odd facts of the people we pass dart into my head right before they congratulate me. How their faces light up when they realize I remember them is always worth it. There’s Nabuna, a boxing coach who gives every minor leaguer a crash course in the chops of martial arts. Jin, a flustered highschool Tamer whose tubby pets are always running messages up and down the admin levels. Eddo, still working on filling Rebun’s shoutcasting shoes. Isa runs Jolie’s favorite coffee stand on the fifteenth floor. Carlo designed the poster for my most recent fight.
Each of them is important to me, and I remind them of that every time I see them. I can’t thank them all, but even the ones who only have a chance to salute with raised cups know. One man can’t be everywhere at once. So I be where I can, and I let my reputation fill in for the rest.
I catch Mori’s ear in between groups. “Did you even see Jolie leave the ceremony?”
Mori shrugs and downs a mouthful of mint-colored liquor that gets thrust into her hands. “She dipped as soon as the meet and greet started.” She tosses the shot glass over her shoulder, trusting someone to catch it. There’s a roar of applause when it shatters against the ground instead. “Honestly, your sister has the right of it. I’m fucking sick of the lights.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” I mutter.
“I’d rather have you to myself.” Her feet arch as her head swings close to mine. “Away from all the cameras. All these people. None of them even matter.”
I shake my head, eyeing how her hair falls over my broader shoulders. “Maybe not to you. But they matter to me.”
“And that’s why you’re the hero, and I’m the philanthropist.” Mori rolls her eyes hard enough to knock the moon from orbit. “You know that’s what they call me on the streams? A fucking philanthropist. I grew up in the concrete. It’s my home. I’m out here trying to make a difference with my name and all the news streams will talk out their asses about is my charity, like I’m some greasy corpo schmuck. And that’s when they’re not busy dissecting your life or trying to figure out if we’re really hooking up.” She laughs at the thought, accidentally brightening the mood. “God. If they even had a clue, there’s probably a hundred thousand women who would have their hopes and dreams shattered overnight.”
Our relationship of the past five years is one of the worst kept secrets in the capital. Even after we finally tied the knot two years ago, a combination of our discretion and Jolie’s sway has barely managed to keep us flirtatiously separated in the public eye. I’m the rising star of the Section, the solo hero. Mori is the gunslinging heartthrob of the minor leagues, living proof that Venters can keep the overcity’s best on their toes. It’s a match made in fighting heaven, and there’s a plethora of reasons to keep up the ruse. Accusations of collaboration, favoritism, tied reputations, and popularity, just to name a few. There’s a growing image of me as the spiritual successor of Champion Fang’s legacy that will be entirely different whenever our pairing finally gets out to the public.
Personally, I can’t wait for the day. There’s nothing wrong with being a champion like Fang. Mountainous, impervious, guiding from afar as powerfully as he does near. But I think there’s just as much room for a new kind of leader, too. I’m proving it one day at a time.
None of the Metro Blockhouse’s backstage personnel pay any mind to the small hand I hold or the playful sway to Mori’s hips, bumping against mine every few steps. Like I said- worst secret in the capital. Everyone here already knows the half of it if not the full. They don’t care enough to leak it. And even if they did, I’m starting to suspect they’d keep it a secret anyways.