The office of the junior fight promoter is a behemoth that doesn’t belong. Framed by wood in a hive of metal, proudly featuring the only carpet in the entire tower, and hanging on old-fashioned hinges instead of modern hydraulics, the darkoak door to my sister’s home away from home has slowly morphed into an object of myth since she started taking up residence behind it. To her superiors, the door is still what it always has been: a relic of bygone eras when the Metro Blockhouse was half as tall, and the capital around it half as wide. But to the hopeful, the naïve, or the airheaded fighters who have earned Jolie’s inscrutable ire, the door now goes by another, far more fitting name.

It is called the Gate to Hell, and I shoulder through it with a tidal wave of congratulations hot on my heels.

Tasteful shades of blue and silver fill my vision as I enter. Plush sapphire carpeting dampens my footsteps, stretching from wall to wall beneath the high-ceilinged workspace of the most important human in the Metro Blockhouse. While Jolie’s grandstanding boss Rebun might technically be the general manager and senior fight promoter, it’s no great secret who actually dots the arena’s I’s. Every document and report that gets to Rebun goes through her. Every hopeful no-name fighter who wants to schedule a tryout for the minor leagues, goes through her. Her mind is the conductor of the tower’s senses, touching and guiding and organizing everything she sees. And her artistry always brings a special attention to detail where it falls.

I’ll never know the true number of hours she spends in this office, but I do know the cot hiding behind the bookcase near the window has seen more use than it should. Jolie lives here as much as I live in the gym; maybe more. It’s an appropriately her space. My eyes wander the shelves along the northern wall; all furnished in designer wood imported from Section E. More of her belongings fill them now than the last time I dropped by. Stacks upon stacks of meticulously ordered binders lean beside old university textbooks of her two JOY affinities. Small romance novels from a variety of last-century authors fill the centermost shelves. Potted plants selected in very specific sizes make the bookends. Tasteful renditions of the M’s most iconic fight posters hang like medieval banners down every wall except the north, which looks out over the Electric Town through floor to ceiling windows.

All except the novels are meant for the eyes of her visitors. It’s almost impossible to notice how many items throughout the room are subtly oriented towards the central seating area on your first visit. What few objects aren’t can only be seen from the tall leather chair that resides behind her desk. A personal letter of the champion’s gratitude, for her work in dooming Shimano Heavy Industries. Two framed pictures I know perfectly from memory rest beside them. One is a photo we took of ourselves on graduation day. The other, on the right half of her desk, is of her and Ajax on the night of her first kiss. Glasses a little off kilter, hair a little messy, and an unabashedly joyful smile on her face.

Our friend’s old blade- the dull rapier he fought with in university, not the heirloom from his homeland- isn’t framed, but leans casually against her desk like an old friend just stopping by to chat.

All the celebrations outside the office fade to a dull monotony in the back of my awareness as I see her beside that blade. Two of Jolie’s absentminded fingers trace the stunning edge while she’s absorbed in a triplet of projections that glow above her desk. She’s taller these days. Lips sharper, cheekbones more defined, more a woman than the girl I always remember her voice belonging to. The tailored suits she wears might have changed, the sleeves might be more rumpled where they hang from the back of her chair, but in so many ways, she is as she has always been, even if there’s a reticence to her. A missing piece that keeps her tethered to the past and fills the depths of her eyes with subdued emotion far older than the rest of her.

Those eyes snap onto me and immediately begin to widen the instant I barrel through her office door, bringing the disharmony of a hundred mixed voices in with me. The three screens filling the air above her desk disappear in a too-quick swipe of her fingers. Guiltily quick.

“No,” Jolie warns, already pushing to her feet. “No no no no no no. Mars, do not-”

There’s a stirring movement of heavily bronzed skin and mountainous muscle atop one of the couches in the middle of the room. The huge frame of a bald-shaven man of gregarious moods and infectious humor swells in my vision as Greggus Rebun, shoutcasting king of the tower, lurches up from his seat with thick hands spread wide in welcome. He belts out a tipsy, floor-shaking cackle the moment he sees me.

“That’s twenty creds, Jojo!”

His hand swallows mine like a bear paw as we clasp and bump shoulders, ruining the meticulous ironing of his too-tight suit. “What a night, hey?” Rebun rumbles. “Looking damn good up there on the big stage, Mars. Good speech too. Though I thought Jojo was going to pull her hair out when she saw your tie was missing.”

“Just my brain,” my sister mutters. Her eyes flash at me behind her glasses.

“Spent a little long on that improv about the Vents, didn’t you?”

I shrug as I release the big man’s hand, rocking back on my heels. “Someone has remind the streams there’s more to the capital than just E-Town.”

Politely clearing the sudden tension and his throat, Rebun gives an acknowledging nod to Mori when she slips in behind me, closing the door until just a sliver remains cracked. “My darling, looking very fancy in the… leggings.”

“Hullo, boss.” Waving back with four fingers, Mori saunters over to Jolie’s desk to give her a cordial peck on the cheek. She slides into sitting on the edge of the desk, feet tracing idle swirls in the air as their own conversation picks up and Jolie rolls back in her chair, playing with her JOY in her lap while they talk.

Shaking his head, Rebun shifts to match my view of the office and the partying city beyond. Streams of visitors pour out of the Metro Blockhouse’s two-story entrance in a constant stream as they filter into the rings of streets closest to the M. Every rooftop in sight is jammed with hanging lanterns and flittering with the iconic color of activated stream screens. Celebrations spill out across the thoroughfares from sidewalk to sidewalk.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The shoutcaster’s voice sinks to a conspiratorial low while the women talk.

“Been keeping up with the bracket reports?” he asks, nonchalantly rubbing a thumb over one huge index finger. “Every news stream in the city is talking about that gap coming up on the weekend. They’re all saying you’re gonna have a surprise match to kick off the new season…”

I cross my arms with a chuckle. “I told you a month ago that I was taking this entire week off.”

“Bhah! You’re saying that every month, kid. I really can’t sway you?”

We glance towards the desk in sync when Mori coughs at me and surreptitiously crosses her legs an entirely knowing fashion. One raised, expectant eyebrow flirts across the distance between us. Then a massive hand slaps the small of my back as another one of Rebun’s laughs shakes my stomach like an earthquake.

“You enjoy the break, Mars. You’ve earned it. Hell, you’ve earned a whole year off if you want it! Things have never been looking more up for us. Record breaking crowds every single weekend, merch out the gazzoo. People are pouring in by the thousands. Even coming from outside the Section just to see if you’re all that.”

“I’m not going to be taking the whole year off, man. I’ll be back soon.”

My eyes flick towards my pocket as a sudden rumble reverberates down my leg. Rebun nods for me to check it. Fishing my JOY out, I swipe open the incoming message and skim it in a second. Winter has Fang roped up in a private lift. Perfect. Means I have sixty seconds to finish getting what I came here for.

“Speaking of, don’t you have a party to get to, Mars?” Jolie wanders close with Mori, oblivious to the conspiratorial exchange of body language between me and my wife. “I appreciate you stopping by, but it wasn’t necessary…”

“Not necessary for you,” I correct, raising a finger. “But I have a sister I need to kidnap.”

Gears turn in her head for a moment. “I don’t think-”

Whatever she was going to say dies to a yip of surprise as I sweep her off her feet like a bride. Blushing, flustered and trying to fix her glasses, she clings to me like a life ring as I shoulder the door open and take us back into the tumult of the halls. Whistles and cheers follow us through the crowds. Rebun shoulders a path forward, grabbing three bottles from lower level staff on the way. One of them finds its way to my sister. Somehow Mori convinces her to start drinking. She’s bumping against my chest all the while, face shot through with red. Something spills down my arm. I laugh and push on.

At the end of the nearest hall, one of the M’s backend service lifts swings open with a flourish, spilling fireworks light across the walls. A mob of friends waves our party of five inside. Long-legged Winter claps my shoulder and helps lower Jolie out of my arms. Champion Fang grumbles and steps to the side, trying to hide his amusement behind his mustache. He greets me with a curt nod. A smile, not a scowl, creases the aging lines of his face when Rebun forces himself in last of all, sucking in his massive chest to fit with us.

We’re squished in like sardines. Martial artists like Winter and Weston, who rose to fame by my side. The others an eclectic collection of duelists, elementals, and other minor league fighters of my own generation. A few major league veterans and arena staff make up the less rowdy faction. Bishop, years retired from the public eye, stretches an arm over the lift to bump fists with me. There’s only one person missing. Tonight’s triumph dulls the hurt of his absence, but as I look over the rest of the friends I’ve made, I know he wouldn’t want me to be looking back, not now.

The streets are in an uproar when we spill out of the Metro Blockhouse’s fifty-foot front entrance, descending the arced front steps on a warpath towards the chop-shop noodle bar across the street. I can already feel the tipsiness spreading from my stomach. The melting pot of hormones filling the air. I can’t suppress the grin that makes its home on my face. The others are no less immune to the festival air, even the Champion. Jolie covers her ears when Winter throws her hands up and lets loose a victory howl at the full moon. I take Mori by the waist and swing her off the ground for a brief moment, kissing her hard on the lips.

Electronic music rams through the old brick roads underfoot, blasting from Cayman’s tarp doors. The orange neon sign of the noodle-eating dragon burns bright as ever. The place gets packed more and more every year. Standing room out into the alleys two blocks down. A line opens up for our pack to pass by the bar. The music doubles in volume the moment we cross into the blue-lit interior of the bar’s floor level. Low ceilings and flame lanterns compress the roar until it drowns out everything else, like I’m diving underwater.

So many congratulations, fist bumps, slaps of approval wait inside. Weapons and armor clattering and clanking. Streams blast highlight footage over our heads. I still remember the combo playing to my right. That knee smash finisher? It earned its own nickname by putting me in the minor leagues. I still practice it in the gym, even if the people I fight these days are far too skilled to get hit by it.

Everyone wants to talk to me when I pass. Fang is grumbling something I’m sure I don’t want to hear. I barely recognize when Weston, hololenses filled with blue barlight, yells in my ear about getting more drinks. He points to the one empty table in the center of the main floor. Raging candles lit by fire elementals beckon us to the fifteen empty seats there. The rickety chair at the head of the table stays empty in silent remembrance as we slide in in a haphazard line, the bar roiling around on every side.

I lose myself in the blurring rush of happiness that follows, so much so that a point comes when I just have to sit back and watch the evening happen. Watch these people I love talk amongst themselves, rib each other, and live life as it’s meant to be; surrounded by friends. If only things could stay this way forever. The clinking glasses, the scraping silverware, the pauses for sips, the excited elbows leaned against the table. Jolie sits across from me with a bittersweet smile on her face and an untouched Nirvalian in hand, the liquid glowing neon blue. Mori alternates between leaning against my side or getting in progressively more spirited disagreements with Fang, who her temper somehow inspired to start drinking. Two of my major league superiors yell for shots. Winter and Rebun chat while our other minor league peers interrupt them with commentary. Weston comes back with more mugs to a round of applause, his waistcoat lost to the crowd.

Emotion stirs my heart as I try my damndest to lock everything about this moment in memory. I don’t want to lose this night, this feeling. It’s so easy for it to slip away when I’m not paying attention. Time moves faster and faster. The days bleed into each other until a whole week is passing when I blink. It’s nights like these remind me again that there are more important things than the stage; the moments that slow life down again. Sometimes I just have to sit back to see them.

Someone’s calling me to stand up for a toast. Before I do, I lean across the table and pour half of my sister’s drink into my own, raising the glass up in salute. I catch her eye with a smile. She returns it and taps her cup against mine. And together, in honor of the empty seat beside us, we make the amateur mistake of swallowing the vitriolic liquid.

Jolie splutters and coughs so loudly that Winter comes over and starts slapping her on the back. I rise from my chair to applause. The first toast is generic, boring. I finish the rest of the Nirvalian in one go and toss the glass to the crowd, driving them into a frenzy. Off comes the stuffy, formal shirt. Just in a compression shirt, I wave for another toast and dive headfirst into the celebration with a laugh and a smile forever on my face.

To the delight of absolutely everyone, I don’t hold anything back. Because I’ve got one more place to be before the night is over, and I sure as hell don’t want to be sober when I get there.