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Fandom 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦 | 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺
- Thread starter deadly king
- Start date
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
"Hey, chrome dome, over here!"
Those taunting words, thrown just over the pulsing beat of a techno song's breakdown, would have been fighting words from almost anyone else under that roof. From Alvita, though, they were a greeting like any other. A slender arm tipped with blue-green nails poked over the crowd, waving down her chromed-up compatriot from across the room. If the neon green and blue liberty spikes lining the top of her head weren't enough of a giveaway, the goggles around her neck swayed and caught the light as she waved her arms, dazzling the room in arrhythmic flickering somewhere between a strobe light and a distress beacon. Despite her erratic movements and taunting words, the smile she wore was genuine. Almost too genuine.
To balance that unbridled candor, a mutual friend leaned against the wall behind her with a sly, empty smile. With the metal traces crawling over every joint and seam and the cigarette carelessly clasped between two loose fingers, it would've been easy to mistake Tsikavat for a doll. Yet, as Alvita had gotten to know by this point, they were distinctly more business than pleasure, and they were quick to remind their comrade of the business nature of their meeting with a gentle-yet-firm hand on her arm.
"Creative way to introduce yourself, don't you think? Just make sure that creativity doesn't get you shot," they mused, tapping out some ashes before pushing themself off the wall and turning their attention to the solo. "Sentinel, good of you to show up. Not that I thought you'd pass on an opportunity like this, but I was worried the competition may have gotten a jump start on you on your way into Pacifica."
They gestured to Alvita with their cigarette still in hand, a line of smoke seemingly creating an arrow towards the young woman as she glanced between her two teammates. "This is the girl I mentioned on the holo—Alvita. Might know her as J4CKR4BBIT. She's a bit new to Night City, but we ran some ops together while she was still camping out in the Badlands. Kid's a natural when it comes to netrunning though—she's more than capable of keeping your circs cooled through all this," they assured, gesturing to Sentinel next. "Alvita, this 'chrome dome' is Sentinel. Best borg my eds can fetch. He's going to keep you from having to fold your spine for the sake of the mission, so you'd better make a good impression."
"Yeah, yeah, noted. Good thing it's you instead of me, too," Alvita chuckled, tapping a small metal module on the side of her head. "Just got this chipped a few hours ago. It should help me help you and all that good shit, but it also means I'm not in any shape to take a punch to the face. Wish I could just sit outside the ring and see what that chrome can do, but biz is biz. If we make it out of this, maybe I can watch you waste someone at a bar instead. Deal?"
The chatter in the room began to shift. Sparring sessions petered off, murmurs were passed between fighters and their coaches, the subtle whooshing of inhalers formed a veritable wind machine from the Maelstromers' corner, filling the air with the chemical afterglow of black lace. Alvita barely noticed the change, but Tsikavat's smile dropped as his optics lit up, scanning the room for something, but turning up empty. "Seems they're getting ready to start," they murmured, keeping their voice low as they took a drag off their cigarette. "Alright, remember what we discussed. Sentinel, you'll be fighting in Iron Side's corner. You've got his backing, which honestly should be more than enough, but I'll make sure your chrome stays online while you do your thing. Alvita, you'll be providing Sentinel with an extra layer of ICE so he can keep up the carnage while you investigate the subnet. If anyone asks, you're just here as a spectator, and your bets are on Dum Dum. I'm still not sure if these rumors of gangoon netrunners playing foul are legit, but even if you find nothing, I'm sure the big boss will appreciate the extra eyes. Hit me on the holo if you do find someone, though. I'm gonna need to clear their identity with Iron Side before you decide to broil them. Go ahead and scope out the surveillance system, I'll let you know when the fights start."
Alvita gave a nod before hopping up on top of a crate. Her X shaped pupils lit up blue as she scanned the room, then spun in their sockets slightly as she locked onto a camera. Tsikavat kept an eye on her, only breaking his gaze once they were sure she had checked out. They took one final hit off their cigarette before flicking it onto the floor. As the smoke encircled them like fog over a harbor, they stepped forward, putting a hand on Sentinel's shoulder. Optics the color of twin galaxies pierced through the solo as that uncanny calm gave way to something dire.
"Sentinel, I need you to listen carefully," they said, their tone flat and serious. "I know you're here to win, and I don't doubt you'll get to the finals. You've got the sort of chrome that makes MaxTac do a double take when you walk past. I'm telling you now, though: you're going to need to keep a level head and know when to tap out. I've heard there's a merc with ties to the Afterlife who plans on showing up for the finals. Not sure who, I've only got whispers to work off of, but if Iron's letting him into the finals with no prior fights and no gang backing, he's either a complete gonk who he wants to see ripped to shreds for his own amusement, or he knows for a fact that putting him up against anyone below the top level wouldn't even be fun to watch. Depending on who this guy is, you might need to throw in the towel early. This isn't your blaze of glory, choom. This is just one step up the ladder."
That smile returned as Tsikavat leaned back away from Sentinel, taking the hand away from his shoulder and resting it on their hip as the severity left their expression. "Well, that's all you need to know," they noted, gesturing to the ring. "Go on, go find Iron Side and rip up some syn-skin. I'll be ringside if you need me."
Those taunting words, thrown just over the pulsing beat of a techno song's breakdown, would have been fighting words from almost anyone else under that roof. From Alvita, though, they were a greeting like any other. A slender arm tipped with blue-green nails poked over the crowd, waving down her chromed-up compatriot from across the room. If the neon green and blue liberty spikes lining the top of her head weren't enough of a giveaway, the goggles around her neck swayed and caught the light as she waved her arms, dazzling the room in arrhythmic flickering somewhere between a strobe light and a distress beacon. Despite her erratic movements and taunting words, the smile she wore was genuine. Almost too genuine.
To balance that unbridled candor, a mutual friend leaned against the wall behind her with a sly, empty smile. With the metal traces crawling over every joint and seam and the cigarette carelessly clasped between two loose fingers, it would've been easy to mistake Tsikavat for a doll. Yet, as Alvita had gotten to know by this point, they were distinctly more business than pleasure, and they were quick to remind their comrade of the business nature of their meeting with a gentle-yet-firm hand on her arm.
"Creative way to introduce yourself, don't you think? Just make sure that creativity doesn't get you shot," they mused, tapping out some ashes before pushing themself off the wall and turning their attention to the solo. "Sentinel, good of you to show up. Not that I thought you'd pass on an opportunity like this, but I was worried the competition may have gotten a jump start on you on your way into Pacifica."
They gestured to Alvita with their cigarette still in hand, a line of smoke seemingly creating an arrow towards the young woman as she glanced between her two teammates. "This is the girl I mentioned on the holo—Alvita. Might know her as J4CKR4BBIT. She's a bit new to Night City, but we ran some ops together while she was still camping out in the Badlands. Kid's a natural when it comes to netrunning though—she's more than capable of keeping your circs cooled through all this," they assured, gesturing to Sentinel next. "Alvita, this 'chrome dome' is Sentinel. Best borg my eds can fetch. He's going to keep you from having to fold your spine for the sake of the mission, so you'd better make a good impression."
"Yeah, yeah, noted. Good thing it's you instead of me, too," Alvita chuckled, tapping a small metal module on the side of her head. "Just got this chipped a few hours ago. It should help me help you and all that good shit, but it also means I'm not in any shape to take a punch to the face. Wish I could just sit outside the ring and see what that chrome can do, but biz is biz. If we make it out of this, maybe I can watch you waste someone at a bar instead. Deal?"
The chatter in the room began to shift. Sparring sessions petered off, murmurs were passed between fighters and their coaches, the subtle whooshing of inhalers formed a veritable wind machine from the Maelstromers' corner, filling the air with the chemical afterglow of black lace. Alvita barely noticed the change, but Tsikavat's smile dropped as his optics lit up, scanning the room for something, but turning up empty. "Seems they're getting ready to start," they murmured, keeping their voice low as they took a drag off their cigarette. "Alright, remember what we discussed. Sentinel, you'll be fighting in Iron Side's corner. You've got his backing, which honestly should be more than enough, but I'll make sure your chrome stays online while you do your thing. Alvita, you'll be providing Sentinel with an extra layer of ICE so he can keep up the carnage while you investigate the subnet. If anyone asks, you're just here as a spectator, and your bets are on Dum Dum. I'm still not sure if these rumors of gangoon netrunners playing foul are legit, but even if you find nothing, I'm sure the big boss will appreciate the extra eyes. Hit me on the holo if you do find someone, though. I'm gonna need to clear their identity with Iron Side before you decide to broil them. Go ahead and scope out the surveillance system, I'll let you know when the fights start."
Alvita gave a nod before hopping up on top of a crate. Her X shaped pupils lit up blue as she scanned the room, then spun in their sockets slightly as she locked onto a camera. Tsikavat kept an eye on her, only breaking his gaze once they were sure she had checked out. They took one final hit off their cigarette before flicking it onto the floor. As the smoke encircled them like fog over a harbor, they stepped forward, putting a hand on Sentinel's shoulder. Optics the color of twin galaxies pierced through the solo as that uncanny calm gave way to something dire.
"Sentinel, I need you to listen carefully," they said, their tone flat and serious. "I know you're here to win, and I don't doubt you'll get to the finals. You've got the sort of chrome that makes MaxTac do a double take when you walk past. I'm telling you now, though: you're going to need to keep a level head and know when to tap out. I've heard there's a merc with ties to the Afterlife who plans on showing up for the finals. Not sure who, I've only got whispers to work off of, but if Iron's letting him into the finals with no prior fights and no gang backing, he's either a complete gonk who he wants to see ripped to shreds for his own amusement, or he knows for a fact that putting him up against anyone below the top level wouldn't even be fun to watch. Depending on who this guy is, you might need to throw in the towel early. This isn't your blaze of glory, choom. This is just one step up the ladder."
That smile returned as Tsikavat leaned back away from Sentinel, taking the hand away from his shoulder and resting it on their hip as the severity left their expression. "Well, that's all you need to know," they noted, gesturing to the ring. "Go on, go find Iron Side and rip up some syn-skin. I'll be ringside if you need me."
deadly king
never fade away
Sentinel, adorned in gleaming chrome and a confident smirk, effortlessly made his way through the neon-lit chaos of the underground championship venue. Approaching the duo, he took a moment to size up the wild-haired netrunner, and Tsikavat, their mutual contact. Neither of their appearances shocked the man, having grown up in the concrete jungle. However, Tsikavat's distinctive appearance dripped with sex appeal, making him the perfect candidate for the next episode of Watson Whore. Forcibly, Sentinel pried his eyes away from the clean, gleaming chrome, turning to the one that would be keeping him alive during the oncoming onslaught of chrome junkies and syn-skin.
"Good to have another pair of eyes on the grid. Let's make this show unforgettable," he remarked, his attitude undeterred. The mention of recent cyberware enhancements piqued his interest, but the proposition of a chaotic bar night captured his attention, "Deal. After we clean up this mess, I'll buy you a drink and show you how real chrome gets the job done."
As Tsikavat laid out the plan, Sentinel listened attentively, eyes scanning the room for potential threats. The directive to keep an eye out for a mysterious merc with ties to the Afterlife intrigued him. Who could it be? A competitor from a prior year? But, who had enough status to be allowed into The Afterlife, and enough straight wires to not be an asshole? No sane person would willingly throw themselves into the ring -- unless they were extremely confident in their cybernetics -- or if they were getting paid enough.
"Got it, Tsikavat. I'll keep my circuits cool and play it smart. No blaze of glory, just another rung on the ladder," lying through his teeth, and with a final nod, the merc left. Who could play it safe in a place like this? With dense adrenaline-laced air and blood already splattered across the walls, it would be impossible to hold anything back. The pulsating techno beats and the anticipatory hum of the crowd filled the air as the solo embraced the impending mayhem.
In his contractor's corner, stood the solo and their trusted driver, an odd pairing to say the least. Iron Side was a near-hulking beast of a man, standing nearly 8 feet tall with a full set of curly textured hair, shining metallic gold piercings, and a finely tailored suit to their muscular frame. Iron was an Animals' member by name and status only, ditching the gang's athleisure fashion, brash hormone-raged attitude, and disfigurement from steroids. Having previously lived as a monk, they are known to have few implants and a skewed perspective on life. On the other hand, their driver had a striking presence with short purple-dyed hair, framing a face with piercing, dark-colored eyes with a sea of mystery. Standing at an average height, Kaoru Masako's slender frame carried a deceivingly powerful air, dressed in a blend of edgy and high-end streetwear.
Being a seasoned solo with a track record of completing police contracts, taking down cyberpsychos, and overall thriving in the cutthroat streets of Night City, there was no doubt Sentinel would slaughter every single person in his way. Why else would Iron Side, a seasoned veteran in the Pacifica ring, choose him as one of their champions?
"Ready to kick some fuckin' ass?" spoke the driver first, grinning upon his entrance. Her hand rested upon his shoulder, chatting as Sentinel continued to observe his opponents, "How're ya feeling? Like you can take on the world, right?"
"You beat your ass I am, gonna make those chooms regret even looking at me," Sentinel threatened with a chuckle. Despite the chaotic atmosphere surrounding them, his mind began strategizing the best approach to the impending melee.
"That's the spirit! We're here to make some waves!"
With a final impatient nod, heavy footsteps echoed as he descended the steps back towards the arena. However, just before he could fully escape his sponsor's powerful gaze, Kaoru approached from behind, voice barely above a whisper, "Hey, Sentinel . . . just a little heads up," she leaned further in, inches from his helmet, as she stood above him. Dark eyes pierced through his own, a silent warning echoing in their depths, "I need you to understand something. There's more than just your pride on the line here. I've got ten thousand eddies riding on your head, and I won't lose a single dime tonight." After a brief pause, her stern look pulled into a grin, stepping away, "So good luck! . . . You're going to need it."
The pulsating beats returned as Sentinel stepped out to the hallway, heavy footsteps matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts as the anticipation brewed within him. Each step he took echoed with a sense of purpose, his cybernetic limbs moving with rushed grace, afraid the fight would leave him behind. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding against the crowd's excitement and cheers as the area came into view.
Pulling up his holo, the man began to ring the netrunner, quickly establishing their connection to lay out their plan.
"Hey, almost inside -- in position? Dyin' to get all started,"
"Good to have another pair of eyes on the grid. Let's make this show unforgettable," he remarked, his attitude undeterred. The mention of recent cyberware enhancements piqued his interest, but the proposition of a chaotic bar night captured his attention, "Deal. After we clean up this mess, I'll buy you a drink and show you how real chrome gets the job done."
As Tsikavat laid out the plan, Sentinel listened attentively, eyes scanning the room for potential threats. The directive to keep an eye out for a mysterious merc with ties to the Afterlife intrigued him. Who could it be? A competitor from a prior year? But, who had enough status to be allowed into The Afterlife, and enough straight wires to not be an asshole? No sane person would willingly throw themselves into the ring -- unless they were extremely confident in their cybernetics -- or if they were getting paid enough.
"Got it, Tsikavat. I'll keep my circuits cool and play it smart. No blaze of glory, just another rung on the ladder," lying through his teeth, and with a final nod, the merc left. Who could play it safe in a place like this? With dense adrenaline-laced air and blood already splattered across the walls, it would be impossible to hold anything back. The pulsating techno beats and the anticipatory hum of the crowd filled the air as the solo embraced the impending mayhem.
In his contractor's corner, stood the solo and their trusted driver, an odd pairing to say the least. Iron Side was a near-hulking beast of a man, standing nearly 8 feet tall with a full set of curly textured hair, shining metallic gold piercings, and a finely tailored suit to their muscular frame. Iron was an Animals' member by name and status only, ditching the gang's athleisure fashion, brash hormone-raged attitude, and disfigurement from steroids. Having previously lived as a monk, they are known to have few implants and a skewed perspective on life. On the other hand, their driver had a striking presence with short purple-dyed hair, framing a face with piercing, dark-colored eyes with a sea of mystery. Standing at an average height, Kaoru Masako's slender frame carried a deceivingly powerful air, dressed in a blend of edgy and high-end streetwear.
Being a seasoned solo with a track record of completing police contracts, taking down cyberpsychos, and overall thriving in the cutthroat streets of Night City, there was no doubt Sentinel would slaughter every single person in his way. Why else would Iron Side, a seasoned veteran in the Pacifica ring, choose him as one of their champions?
"Ready to kick some fuckin' ass?" spoke the driver first, grinning upon his entrance. Her hand rested upon his shoulder, chatting as Sentinel continued to observe his opponents, "How're ya feeling? Like you can take on the world, right?"
"You beat your ass I am, gonna make those chooms regret even looking at me," Sentinel threatened with a chuckle. Despite the chaotic atmosphere surrounding them, his mind began strategizing the best approach to the impending melee.
"That's the spirit! We're here to make some waves!"
With a final impatient nod, heavy footsteps echoed as he descended the steps back towards the arena. However, just before he could fully escape his sponsor's powerful gaze, Kaoru approached from behind, voice barely above a whisper, "Hey, Sentinel . . . just a little heads up," she leaned further in, inches from his helmet, as she stood above him. Dark eyes pierced through his own, a silent warning echoing in their depths, "I need you to understand something. There's more than just your pride on the line here. I've got ten thousand eddies riding on your head, and I won't lose a single dime tonight." After a brief pause, her stern look pulled into a grin, stepping away, "So good luck! . . . You're going to need it."
The pulsating beats returned as Sentinel stepped out to the hallway, heavy footsteps matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts as the anticipation brewed within him. Each step he took echoed with a sense of purpose, his cybernetic limbs moving with rushed grace, afraid the fight would leave him behind. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding against the crowd's excitement and cheers as the area came into view.
Pulling up his holo, the man began to ring the netrunner, quickly establishing their connection to lay out their plan.
"Hey, almost inside -- in position? Dyin' to get all started,"
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
Tsikavat rolled their eyes the moment Sentinel's back was turned. The up-and-coming solo was a force to be reckoned with, that much was certain. Even with all the gangs that had come to congregate at this arena, they were still confident that their chromed-up connection would take it to the finals. Still, as they slipped through the crowd to get closer to the ring, they knew there was still a very present risk of failure. Oiled-up steel weighed on the air almost as heavily as the liquor and body odor did. A lot of these gangs were putting forward their best goons, and with that their most well-oiled weapons of war. Sentinel was definitely able to take the almost full-borg c-psychos of Maelstrom, the Sandevistan-wired swordsmen of the Tyger Claws, the gold-plated bruisers of the Valentinos, the military veterans of 6th Street, the dirty tactics of the Scavengers, and even the pure brute strength of the Animals. However, each round would wear him down. That was an inevitability faced by both man and machine: wear and tear.
They turned their head to stare at Iron Side and Kaoru for a moment as they passed by, watching as Sentinel interacted with them. It was good they had a getaway driver. This place was a powderkeg. Too many elements in one place. It was a miracle no gang wars had broken out—but then again, eddies were on the line. Perhaps it wasn't a shock, then. Still, they had to return their gaze to the path ahead after a short time. They were getting too many side-eyes. It was practically impossible not to feel red optics burning into their skull. They swore they could hear synthesized voices murmuring their name—and maybe even names they no longer claimed. Swiping an old plastic crate, they sat down and pulled a small roll-up storage case off of their belt and unrolled it to reveal a small array of tools. Nothing professional-grade, but enough to adjust and recalibrate some cyberware in a pinch. Behind an expression calm as the morning bay, their anxiety showed only through their thin fingers which refused to stay still, polishing miniscule amounts of dirt and rust from between the ridges of a drill bit or the threads of a screw. The metal in the air clung to them, too. It clung to everything.
As Tsikavat began inspecting their tools for the rounds ahead, they wondered not if Sentinel could defeat each individual opponent, but if he could last until the end. When that mystery fighter from the Afterlife arrived, would he still have the steam to take them? Would he even care? At what point would it even be their problem? Really, all they had to do was make sure no netrunners crashed the party. Beyond that point, if Sentinel died, it might just be considered substandard work. Not that they wanted the solo dead, but it was a factor they had to consider. A factor they could accurately predict for, unlike the mysterious combatant in the shadows.
Just before they could get completely lost in thought, a bright green holocall icon flickered to life in the corner of their vision. It was a cartoonish depiction of a decapitated Rabbit's head with crossed-out eyes—the telltale calling card of Alvita. Putting on a calm smile, they answered the call, meeting the glowing eyes of the netrunner. "Testing, one-two," she hummed. "Am I coming in clear, Tsikavat?"
"Clear as crystal," they responded, putting their tools away. "I take it you've browsed all the cams on the subnet. How are we looking?"
"Yeah, about that—a millisec, let me patch Sentinel in," she responded, pausing for a moment before opening the line to Sentinel as well. "Hey, hear you loud and clear. Yeah, I'm in position. Clear eyes on the ring right now. Some 6th Streeter's strutting around yelling about how he served four different deployments, like anyone gives a fuck. Guess that'd be your first mark."
Tsikavat squinted through the crowd and initiated a cursory scan of the ring. Sure enough, a 6th Street sarge was pacing around the center of the ring, hyping up his fellow ringside gangoons with some spiel about American might and the strength of a soldier. Maybe it was fortunate that Sentinel was on his way into the ring—the Claws were beginning to look fed up with the rambling veteran. What an interesting position to be in where getting your lights knocked out by a borg was the preferable option. They pondered the predicament of the 6th Streeter as they lit up a cigarette, letting the smoke filter through the flesh and metal in their throat. "There's a lot of interference keeping me from getting a clear feed on cams five and eight," Alvita continued. "Looks like I'm not the only runner who wants to peep the joint. Nothing to worry about though, I'll have that snag taken care of before the bell rings. In fact... There! Cam five is back online! Not much activity on it so far, just a couple of Scavs drinking beer around the side of the building."
"Copy that," Tsikavat affirmed. "Keep us posted. I want to know when you're able to get eyes on eight or if you see any unusual activity over the subnet. Oh, and remember what I said earlier about the entrances and exits."
"Yeah, yeah—anyone in or out, you need to know. Just because I spend a lot of time buzzing wires doesn't mean my brain's been broiled yet."
"I've found it's the best option to leave a little doubt in all things. Now, let's get down to biz."
"Right. Sentinel, I'm requesting access. Let me in and I'll apply the ICE. Once it's installed, you're clear to go."
As Tsikavat and Alvita both muted their ends of the line, he pulled another drag from the cigarette to drown out the other chemicals in the air. Tar and nicotine was much more preferable to the fumes of s-keef and spray paint, though the scowls he received from a few Maelstromers told him this opinion wasn't universal. This close to the ring, other smells could be detected as well, and their optics picked up details in the ring's construction. It wasn't just built for boxing like the one in the GIM. If it were, there might have at least been an attempt at the visage of professional sportsmanship. This arena was little more than a poured concrete slab with the bleach-stained padding of an old ring rivited to its surface and rebar affixed to each corner, caution tape string between each metal post serving as a rope. The scent of bleach was still heavy this close to the ring. It must've soaked through the padding. Stools had been welded to the rebar in two of the corners—and if the weld quality was any indicator, it wasn't the first time this had been done in an attempt to keep the stools from being weaponized. The other two rebar posts seemed slightly eroded. A detailed scan revealed elevated iron oxide levels near the tips. Blood, rust, did it matter? In a place like this, combatants were well-aware of the dangers.
Or, at least, they were aware enough to feel confident.
The 6th Streeter in the ring turned his attention from the crowd to Sentinel as the solo entered the ring, sneering as he flexed his metal arms. As if there were anything to flex in an armature. "Well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a civvie who thinks they can take me on," he laughed, pantomiming cracking his knuckles as he stood ready in his corner. "I'll warn you right now—war couldn't kill me, and it's tried four times already. You think you can outdo that, or do you need to run home and change your thermal paste?"
Tsikavat slipped over to Sentinel's corner of the ring, leaning against the rebar and smiling at Sentinel through a halo of smoke. Though it was hidden beneath layers of leather and glass, they knew that war experience wouldn't have prepared anyone for what was coming. They could remember patching him up in the field on previous missions, clearing dust and blood from between the gaps, feeling the microrotors whir to life as the effects of a MaxDoc kicked in. They had felt that machine inside and out, and it was a sight just to see him operate. Above all, though, there was one thing that the cocky veteran across the ring hadn't factored in. The one missing piece to his plan.
War had rules. War had honor. This wasn't war.
"Armware seems outdated," they mused to Sentinel, tilting their head. "Never understood why 6th Street types got so attached to their prosthetics..."
A small laugh slipped out as they backed away from the rebar, almost melodic in tone. "Well, his loss. Try not to have too much fun with him."
They turned their head to stare at Iron Side and Kaoru for a moment as they passed by, watching as Sentinel interacted with them. It was good they had a getaway driver. This place was a powderkeg. Too many elements in one place. It was a miracle no gang wars had broken out—but then again, eddies were on the line. Perhaps it wasn't a shock, then. Still, they had to return their gaze to the path ahead after a short time. They were getting too many side-eyes. It was practically impossible not to feel red optics burning into their skull. They swore they could hear synthesized voices murmuring their name—and maybe even names they no longer claimed. Swiping an old plastic crate, they sat down and pulled a small roll-up storage case off of their belt and unrolled it to reveal a small array of tools. Nothing professional-grade, but enough to adjust and recalibrate some cyberware in a pinch. Behind an expression calm as the morning bay, their anxiety showed only through their thin fingers which refused to stay still, polishing miniscule amounts of dirt and rust from between the ridges of a drill bit or the threads of a screw. The metal in the air clung to them, too. It clung to everything.
As Tsikavat began inspecting their tools for the rounds ahead, they wondered not if Sentinel could defeat each individual opponent, but if he could last until the end. When that mystery fighter from the Afterlife arrived, would he still have the steam to take them? Would he even care? At what point would it even be their problem? Really, all they had to do was make sure no netrunners crashed the party. Beyond that point, if Sentinel died, it might just be considered substandard work. Not that they wanted the solo dead, but it was a factor they had to consider. A factor they could accurately predict for, unlike the mysterious combatant in the shadows.
Just before they could get completely lost in thought, a bright green holocall icon flickered to life in the corner of their vision. It was a cartoonish depiction of a decapitated Rabbit's head with crossed-out eyes—the telltale calling card of Alvita. Putting on a calm smile, they answered the call, meeting the glowing eyes of the netrunner. "Testing, one-two," she hummed. "Am I coming in clear, Tsikavat?"
"Clear as crystal," they responded, putting their tools away. "I take it you've browsed all the cams on the subnet. How are we looking?"
"Yeah, about that—a millisec, let me patch Sentinel in," she responded, pausing for a moment before opening the line to Sentinel as well. "Hey, hear you loud and clear. Yeah, I'm in position. Clear eyes on the ring right now. Some 6th Streeter's strutting around yelling about how he served four different deployments, like anyone gives a fuck. Guess that'd be your first mark."
Tsikavat squinted through the crowd and initiated a cursory scan of the ring. Sure enough, a 6th Street sarge was pacing around the center of the ring, hyping up his fellow ringside gangoons with some spiel about American might and the strength of a soldier. Maybe it was fortunate that Sentinel was on his way into the ring—the Claws were beginning to look fed up with the rambling veteran. What an interesting position to be in where getting your lights knocked out by a borg was the preferable option. They pondered the predicament of the 6th Streeter as they lit up a cigarette, letting the smoke filter through the flesh and metal in their throat. "There's a lot of interference keeping me from getting a clear feed on cams five and eight," Alvita continued. "Looks like I'm not the only runner who wants to peep the joint. Nothing to worry about though, I'll have that snag taken care of before the bell rings. In fact... There! Cam five is back online! Not much activity on it so far, just a couple of Scavs drinking beer around the side of the building."
"Copy that," Tsikavat affirmed. "Keep us posted. I want to know when you're able to get eyes on eight or if you see any unusual activity over the subnet. Oh, and remember what I said earlier about the entrances and exits."
"Yeah, yeah—anyone in or out, you need to know. Just because I spend a lot of time buzzing wires doesn't mean my brain's been broiled yet."
"I've found it's the best option to leave a little doubt in all things. Now, let's get down to biz."
"Right. Sentinel, I'm requesting access. Let me in and I'll apply the ICE. Once it's installed, you're clear to go."
As Tsikavat and Alvita both muted their ends of the line, he pulled another drag from the cigarette to drown out the other chemicals in the air. Tar and nicotine was much more preferable to the fumes of s-keef and spray paint, though the scowls he received from a few Maelstromers told him this opinion wasn't universal. This close to the ring, other smells could be detected as well, and their optics picked up details in the ring's construction. It wasn't just built for boxing like the one in the GIM. If it were, there might have at least been an attempt at the visage of professional sportsmanship. This arena was little more than a poured concrete slab with the bleach-stained padding of an old ring rivited to its surface and rebar affixed to each corner, caution tape string between each metal post serving as a rope. The scent of bleach was still heavy this close to the ring. It must've soaked through the padding. Stools had been welded to the rebar in two of the corners—and if the weld quality was any indicator, it wasn't the first time this had been done in an attempt to keep the stools from being weaponized. The other two rebar posts seemed slightly eroded. A detailed scan revealed elevated iron oxide levels near the tips. Blood, rust, did it matter? In a place like this, combatants were well-aware of the dangers.
Or, at least, they were aware enough to feel confident.
The 6th Streeter in the ring turned his attention from the crowd to Sentinel as the solo entered the ring, sneering as he flexed his metal arms. As if there were anything to flex in an armature. "Well, well, looks like we've got ourselves a civvie who thinks they can take me on," he laughed, pantomiming cracking his knuckles as he stood ready in his corner. "I'll warn you right now—war couldn't kill me, and it's tried four times already. You think you can outdo that, or do you need to run home and change your thermal paste?"
Tsikavat slipped over to Sentinel's corner of the ring, leaning against the rebar and smiling at Sentinel through a halo of smoke. Though it was hidden beneath layers of leather and glass, they knew that war experience wouldn't have prepared anyone for what was coming. They could remember patching him up in the field on previous missions, clearing dust and blood from between the gaps, feeling the microrotors whir to life as the effects of a MaxDoc kicked in. They had felt that machine inside and out, and it was a sight just to see him operate. Above all, though, there was one thing that the cocky veteran across the ring hadn't factored in. The one missing piece to his plan.
War had rules. War had honor. This wasn't war.
"Armware seems outdated," they mused to Sentinel, tilting their head. "Never understood why 6th Street types got so attached to their prosthetics..."
A small laugh slipped out as they backed away from the rebar, almost melodic in tone. "Well, his loss. Try not to have too much fun with him."
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deadly king
never fade away
Sure enough, there was something about the veteran's arrogance that set them off as well. The man was a walking scrapyard, more chrome than flesh. He'd already fought to the death several times and been patched up again and again. Was he as tough as he claimed? Or had it simply been his luck so far? As if on cue, the veteran finally decided to make the first move.
With no warning, the man burst out of his corner and lunged across the ring, arms swinging in wide arcs meant to bash Sentinel down, and the solo responded flawlessly, ducking beneath the swings and delivering a swift kick to the veteran's stomach. As the 6th Streeter doubled over, Sentinel's fist flashed forward, catching the veteran right in the jaw and sending him stumbling across the ring.
The sudden burst of speed surprised both Sentinel and Tsikavat. However, the cyborg's reaction time was unmatched as the veteran clumsily backpedaled to dodge. Taking advantage of the veteran's momentum, Sentinel quickly closed the distance and delivered a right hook to the jaw. The solo's enhanced strength sent the bulky man spinning and slamming onto the canvas as Sentinel prepared his follow-up.
The 6th Streeter struggled to regain his feet as Sentinel circled him rapidly, moving like a predator in the hunt, looking for the best angle of attack. As the veteran rose to his full height, his jaw was still reeling and his vision was just beginning to clear. Before he had time to react, Sentinel was on him again, a punch striking the side of his head just above his left eye. The man hit the ground with a thump, rolling a couple of times before lying lifelessly near 6th Street's corner.
The crowd erupted into a mix of boos and cheers as Sentinel's relentless assault continued. They could see he held no mercy and would not stop until the vet was a bloody mess. He stepped over to the veteran and gave him a hard kick to the side of the head before reaching down and grabbing him by the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet quickly, and slamming him down for a brutal backbreaker. He dropped the vet like a bag of rags onto the canvas and began approaching the corner where 6th Street was gathered. However, they quickly scattered away from the rampaging solo in sheer panic, leaving their vet to his fate.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, the solo blinked, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he surveyed the aftermath of his handiwork. The crowd's frenzied reactions, the distant echoes of shouts and cheers, the lingering scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he remained focused, his cybernetic enhancements calculating every move with precision.
"Kick the shit outta one guy then they all go runnin'," he shook his head, further marching. "Spot anythin' interesting yet up there?" he asked, momentarily turning his attention towards the ceiling, hoping to make out the shape of the hired netrunner.
With no warning, the man burst out of his corner and lunged across the ring, arms swinging in wide arcs meant to bash Sentinel down, and the solo responded flawlessly, ducking beneath the swings and delivering a swift kick to the veteran's stomach. As the 6th Streeter doubled over, Sentinel's fist flashed forward, catching the veteran right in the jaw and sending him stumbling across the ring.
The sudden burst of speed surprised both Sentinel and Tsikavat. However, the cyborg's reaction time was unmatched as the veteran clumsily backpedaled to dodge. Taking advantage of the veteran's momentum, Sentinel quickly closed the distance and delivered a right hook to the jaw. The solo's enhanced strength sent the bulky man spinning and slamming onto the canvas as Sentinel prepared his follow-up.
The 6th Streeter struggled to regain his feet as Sentinel circled him rapidly, moving like a predator in the hunt, looking for the best angle of attack. As the veteran rose to his full height, his jaw was still reeling and his vision was just beginning to clear. Before he had time to react, Sentinel was on him again, a punch striking the side of his head just above his left eye. The man hit the ground with a thump, rolling a couple of times before lying lifelessly near 6th Street's corner.
The crowd erupted into a mix of boos and cheers as Sentinel's relentless assault continued. They could see he held no mercy and would not stop until the vet was a bloody mess. He stepped over to the veteran and gave him a hard kick to the side of the head before reaching down and grabbing him by the shoulder, hoisting him back to his feet quickly, and slamming him down for a brutal backbreaker. He dropped the vet like a bag of rags onto the canvas and began approaching the corner where 6th Street was gathered. However, they quickly scattered away from the rampaging solo in sheer panic, leaving their vet to his fate.
Taking a moment to catch his breath, the solo blinked, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he surveyed the aftermath of his handiwork. The crowd's frenzied reactions, the distant echoes of shouts and cheers, the lingering scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he remained focused, his cybernetic enhancements calculating every move with precision.
"Kick the shit outta one guy then they all go runnin'," he shook his head, further marching. "Spot anythin' interesting yet up there?" he asked, momentarily turning his attention towards the ceiling, hoping to make out the shape of the hired netrunner.
simulationanomaly
Abort, Retry, Fail?
In between hints of clove and vanilla, Tsikavat took in the scent of the violence before them. Chrome against chrome, that piercing, crunching contact made between the two combatants. It filled the air with a metal taste only matched by the blood that poured from the mouth and nose of Sentinel's target, and the techie stepped to the side slightly to avoid the spray that misted the air as the veteran's face took another powerful hook. They could hardly even keep track of the blows being dealt, seeing little more than a pitch black blur at times before the sickening crack of chrome to bone. For a brief moment, they were able to look into the glassy surface of the merc's helmet. Sometimes there would be emoticons displayed on it—silly little pixelated faces to make up for the lack of a visible real face.
At times like these, no such graces were given. There was no light behind that darkened surface, and the only color on display was the red smear of blood. Their calm smile briefly wavered, showing synthetic teeth if only for a moment. The scientists must've been wrong, they figured. Adrenaline was as contagious as any disease.
As the patriot was broken, broken further, and unceremoniously dumped onto the tattered canvas of the ring below, Tsikavat approached the ringside once more, being careful not to lean against the spit and block that now slicked part of their corner. They could hear the heavy breathing of the solo over comms, the subtle whirring of his cyberware making microadjustments. Now that the rest of the gangers had scattered—true-blooded NUSAmericans they were—the techie wondered with a tilted head if that earlier arrogance would be punished any further. Sure, it would be overkill, but what were they there for if not a show?
Alvita's voice over the shared comms line served as a stark reminder: biz. That was their purpose. The nomad's response was accompanied by a subtle halt in the movement of a security camera above the ring—her only giveaway. Surely the girl herself was tucked away near an access point by now, jacked into the subnet completely out of sight. "What, apart from you dumpstering that puffed-up patriot like he was a busted, out-of-date training bot?" she quipped, the camera above performing a quick sweep of the room. "Still working on getting cam eight online. I've almost got a lock on the runner who's blocking access, and I've got a nice little surprise planned for them if they decide they want to stay jacked in. Beyond that? The scavs from cam five left as soon as your fight ended, I can see Iron Side and Kaoru on cam three handling the creds from that absolute wash and 6th Street does not look pleased about the losses, there's a corpo on cam six taking the fattest rip off of an inhaler I've ever seen—swear he looks familiar too. Did I do a gig for him once?"
"Focus," Tsikavat chided, scanning the room around them for any changes. "It's strange that the scavs only moved once the fight ended. I would understand if they came inside once it began, but... Can you check all available cams and relay information about the scavs in the building?"
"Alright, on it. Maybe you could stand to take a hit from that corpo too."
A moment of silence interspersed by thoughtful humming followed. It was a tune unfamiliar to Tsikavat's auditory processors. No song title or artist generated. Maybe it was something more underground that hadn't been logged in their database yet? Or maybe it was an old folk tune from her ex-family? They made a note to ask once the biz was taken care of. It wasn't often they encountered gaps like that, and the stress of the unknown manifested in a thicker cloud of smoke overhead.
"Alright, back," she said, the camera over the ring flicking back into her control. "Scavs are definitely acting strange. There's only one placing bets, and he's clearly on comms with someone else. There's a bunch of them near one of the emergency exits, not even close to the arena. I just saw one sprint towards my blind spot on cam eight—and I'd bet anything the runner blocking my view there is a scav runner. I can't be sure that they've actually done anything yet, but they're definitely acting strange. Sentinel, Maelstrom's getting ready to send up a fighter. Guess your chrome impressed the borg fuckers. Give the crowd a show, keep them occupied. I'll keep you posted."
"Copy that," Tsikavat answered, tapping the ashes off the end of their cigarette as their eyes went to the floor. They didn't want to see or be seen by the aforementioned Borg fuckers. It was unavoidable being in such close quarters, but they really couldn't find any enthusiasm in the concept of being studied by the chromed-out gangoons of Northside—even at a distance. The scav issue was even more cause for alarm. It wasn't necessarily unexpected given the area, but it made them thankful they were on comms and would be easily noticed were they to suddenly vanish.
"Oh, hey, one more thing you should know," Alvita's voice buzzed over the comms again, a slight unsteadiness to the cool optimism she'd displayed thus far. "There's... Someone approaching the building out front. On foot. Alone. Doesn't seem to be in a rush, either. I don't know if he's going to enter or not, but I'm not getting a good vibe from him. He looks way too calm for someone walking the streets of Pacifica by himself at night. I can't get a good bead on him yet since he's too far away and this camera is kind of shit, but I'll let you know if he walks in."
"You can't pick up any details right now?"
"Like I said, not really. It's dark and this camera's covered in scop and ten years out of date, I'm doing my best with this pile of scrap. I can only see broad strokes. He's on the shorter side, stocky, long hair, wearing... A cowboy hat? I can't tell if that's a cowboy hat or a smudge on the lens."
As a fighter approached from Maelstrom's corner to challenge Sentinel—arguably more machine than man with a distinct lack of a bottom jaw for the solo to punch—Tsikavat's mind went into overdrive trying to figure out who that lone cowboy could be. A late arrival from 6th Street? An Aldecaldo wandering in from the Biotechnica fields to test their luck? But who would be so cavalier about strutting through any part of Night City after dark like that, especially alone?
"Update me as soon as he gets inside," Tsikavat mused, staring up at the camera. "Primary focus is the scavs, but if you think this man's bad news, trust your instincts. They could save us."
"Gotcha. I'm going to get back to cam eight for a bit—oh that is one ugly motherfucker. Fuck me. Good luck with that, dude. I'll be in touch."
With that, Alvita's comm line fell silent once more and Tsikavat draped their arm over the lower rope as they leaned in to get a better look at Sentinel. He seemed fine apart from the momentary loss of focus from the adrenaline high—barely even warmed up. Still, the thought of that potential Afterlife merc lingered in the back of their mind. If that gladiator showed up, would the fresher-faced solo even stand a chance? People didn't just get into that club based on low-level klep jobs and the occasional busted lip in an underground fight ring. They were there because they had legendary feats under their belts—and the stains of blood both synth and ganic permanently staining their hands to show for it.
Would this demolition derby become an endurance test? A true test of survival skills rather than a show of chrome?
"Your chrome seems fine for now," they mused, their eyes lighting up as they ran a scan on Sentinel. "I'm guessing Alvita's ICE is holding up well, too. Still, I'm not in your body. If you feel something off, let me know. I'll try to fix it up before you get in too deep."
At times like these, no such graces were given. There was no light behind that darkened surface, and the only color on display was the red smear of blood. Their calm smile briefly wavered, showing synthetic teeth if only for a moment. The scientists must've been wrong, they figured. Adrenaline was as contagious as any disease.
As the patriot was broken, broken further, and unceremoniously dumped onto the tattered canvas of the ring below, Tsikavat approached the ringside once more, being careful not to lean against the spit and block that now slicked part of their corner. They could hear the heavy breathing of the solo over comms, the subtle whirring of his cyberware making microadjustments. Now that the rest of the gangers had scattered—true-blooded NUSAmericans they were—the techie wondered with a tilted head if that earlier arrogance would be punished any further. Sure, it would be overkill, but what were they there for if not a show?
Alvita's voice over the shared comms line served as a stark reminder: biz. That was their purpose. The nomad's response was accompanied by a subtle halt in the movement of a security camera above the ring—her only giveaway. Surely the girl herself was tucked away near an access point by now, jacked into the subnet completely out of sight. "What, apart from you dumpstering that puffed-up patriot like he was a busted, out-of-date training bot?" she quipped, the camera above performing a quick sweep of the room. "Still working on getting cam eight online. I've almost got a lock on the runner who's blocking access, and I've got a nice little surprise planned for them if they decide they want to stay jacked in. Beyond that? The scavs from cam five left as soon as your fight ended, I can see Iron Side and Kaoru on cam three handling the creds from that absolute wash and 6th Street does not look pleased about the losses, there's a corpo on cam six taking the fattest rip off of an inhaler I've ever seen—swear he looks familiar too. Did I do a gig for him once?"
"Focus," Tsikavat chided, scanning the room around them for any changes. "It's strange that the scavs only moved once the fight ended. I would understand if they came inside once it began, but... Can you check all available cams and relay information about the scavs in the building?"
"Alright, on it. Maybe you could stand to take a hit from that corpo too."
A moment of silence interspersed by thoughtful humming followed. It was a tune unfamiliar to Tsikavat's auditory processors. No song title or artist generated. Maybe it was something more underground that hadn't been logged in their database yet? Or maybe it was an old folk tune from her ex-family? They made a note to ask once the biz was taken care of. It wasn't often they encountered gaps like that, and the stress of the unknown manifested in a thicker cloud of smoke overhead.
"Alright, back," she said, the camera over the ring flicking back into her control. "Scavs are definitely acting strange. There's only one placing bets, and he's clearly on comms with someone else. There's a bunch of them near one of the emergency exits, not even close to the arena. I just saw one sprint towards my blind spot on cam eight—and I'd bet anything the runner blocking my view there is a scav runner. I can't be sure that they've actually done anything yet, but they're definitely acting strange. Sentinel, Maelstrom's getting ready to send up a fighter. Guess your chrome impressed the borg fuckers. Give the crowd a show, keep them occupied. I'll keep you posted."
"Copy that," Tsikavat answered, tapping the ashes off the end of their cigarette as their eyes went to the floor. They didn't want to see or be seen by the aforementioned Borg fuckers. It was unavoidable being in such close quarters, but they really couldn't find any enthusiasm in the concept of being studied by the chromed-out gangoons of Northside—even at a distance. The scav issue was even more cause for alarm. It wasn't necessarily unexpected given the area, but it made them thankful they were on comms and would be easily noticed were they to suddenly vanish.
"Oh, hey, one more thing you should know," Alvita's voice buzzed over the comms again, a slight unsteadiness to the cool optimism she'd displayed thus far. "There's... Someone approaching the building out front. On foot. Alone. Doesn't seem to be in a rush, either. I don't know if he's going to enter or not, but I'm not getting a good vibe from him. He looks way too calm for someone walking the streets of Pacifica by himself at night. I can't get a good bead on him yet since he's too far away and this camera is kind of shit, but I'll let you know if he walks in."
"You can't pick up any details right now?"
"Like I said, not really. It's dark and this camera's covered in scop and ten years out of date, I'm doing my best with this pile of scrap. I can only see broad strokes. He's on the shorter side, stocky, long hair, wearing... A cowboy hat? I can't tell if that's a cowboy hat or a smudge on the lens."
As a fighter approached from Maelstrom's corner to challenge Sentinel—arguably more machine than man with a distinct lack of a bottom jaw for the solo to punch—Tsikavat's mind went into overdrive trying to figure out who that lone cowboy could be. A late arrival from 6th Street? An Aldecaldo wandering in from the Biotechnica fields to test their luck? But who would be so cavalier about strutting through any part of Night City after dark like that, especially alone?
"Update me as soon as he gets inside," Tsikavat mused, staring up at the camera. "Primary focus is the scavs, but if you think this man's bad news, trust your instincts. They could save us."
"Gotcha. I'm going to get back to cam eight for a bit—oh that is one ugly motherfucker. Fuck me. Good luck with that, dude. I'll be in touch."
With that, Alvita's comm line fell silent once more and Tsikavat draped their arm over the lower rope as they leaned in to get a better look at Sentinel. He seemed fine apart from the momentary loss of focus from the adrenaline high—barely even warmed up. Still, the thought of that potential Afterlife merc lingered in the back of their mind. If that gladiator showed up, would the fresher-faced solo even stand a chance? People didn't just get into that club based on low-level klep jobs and the occasional busted lip in an underground fight ring. They were there because they had legendary feats under their belts—and the stains of blood both synth and ganic permanently staining their hands to show for it.
Would this demolition derby become an endurance test? A true test of survival skills rather than a show of chrome?
"Your chrome seems fine for now," they mused, their eyes lighting up as they ran a scan on Sentinel. "I'm guessing Alvita's ICE is holding up well, too. Still, I'm not in your body. If you feel something off, let me know. I'll try to fix it up before you get in too deep."
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