The locker room smelled of Deep Heat, stale urine, and the copper tang of old blood that no amount of bleach could scrub from the concrete. It was a smell that lived in the back of Marcus Graves's throat. It was the smell of home.
Marcus sat on a rusted folding chair, the metal groaning under his two hundred and twenty pounds. He stared at his hands. They were ruinous things, mapped with the geography of fifteen years in the cage. The knuckles were swollen, permanently enlarged, the skin resembling dry parchment stretched over jagged rocks. He began the ritual.
Wrap. Twist. Pull.
The white tape hissed as he tightened it around his wrist. Too tight, and his fingers would numb. Too loose, and he'd shatter a metacarpal on the first hook. It was a delicate physics, a structural engineering project he performed on his own body every Friday night.
He flexed his left hand. A sharp, hot wire of pain shot up his forearm. Arthritis. At thirty-five, in the world above ground, he would be considered in his prime—a man just hitting his stride. Down here, in "The Sump," thirty-five was geriatric. He was a vintage model in a showroom of Ferraris.
He stood up. His right knee clicked—a audible snap that echoed in the small room. It wasn't pain, exactly; it was a mechanical failure. A warning light on the dashboard.
Check engine, Marcus thought grimly. Check everything.
The door banged open. The referee, a man named Roach who looked like he was made of beef jerky and bad decisions, stuck his head in. He had a cigarette teetering on his lower lip, the ash dangerously long.
"Graves. You're up. Crowd's getting pissy."
"Who is it tonight?" Marcus asked, his voice a low rumble, like gravel in a mixer.
Roach grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "Fresh meat. Kid goes by Odin. Big son of a bitch. Doesn't know a wrist lock from a wristwatch, but he hits like a freight train. Try not to die, yeah? I got twenty credits on you making it to round two."
"Always the optimist, Roach."
Marcus grabbed his mouthguard from the bench. He didn't look in the cracked mirror on the wall. He knew what he'd see: cauliflower ears that looked like knotted dough, a nose that zig-zagged down his face, and eyes that had seen too much violence to be surprised by anything.
He walked out into the hallway. The walls vibrated. The bass of the club music above filtered down through the foundation, mixing with the roar of the crowd ahead. It sounded like a beast breathing.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Marcus matched his breathing to it. He wasn't fast anymore. The twitch fibers that allowed a fighter to slip a jab by a millimeter were gone, eroded by time and concussions. He couldn't dance. He couldn't float.
He had to be a wall. And walls didn't move. They just waited for you to crash into them.
The arena was a drained industrial reservoir, the floor slick with condensation and fluids that Marcus tried not to identify. High above, on the catwalks, the crowd bayed. They were a mix of desperate junkies, low-level corporate suits looking for a thrill, and the scavengers who bet on blood sport. The air was thick with smoke and the ozone smell of illegal tech.
In the opposite corner stood Odin.
Roach hadn't lied. The kid was monstrous. He had to be six-foot-five, a slab of pale muscle that looked genetically curated. His traps rose to his ears; his thighs were like tree trunks. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing with a speed that defied his mass.
Look at him, Marcus analyzed, his eyes narrowing. Wasting energy. heavy breathing. mouth open.
Odin was high on adrenaline, maybe a little chemically assisted, though not the expensive stuff. He was pure horsepower with no steering.
The bell didn't ring; a steam whistle shrieked from the pipes above.
Odin launched.
He didn't jab. He didn't feel out the distance. He just charged, a bull seeing red. He threw a right haymaker that could have decapitated a horse.
Marcus didn't try to slip it. His knees wouldn't allow that kind of lateral movement anymore. Instead, he shelled up, bringing his forearms together in a high guard, tucking his chin to his chest.
The impact was cataclysmic.
CRACK.
Marcus slid back two feet, his boots screeching on the wet concrete. The force rattled his teeth inside his mouthguard. Pain exploded in his left forearm—a deep, bone-bruising ache. If he hadn't exhaled on impact, his ribs would have cracked.
"Is that all you got, old man?" someone screamed from the catwalks.
Odin roared and unleashed a flurry. Hooks, uppercuts, wild swinging hammer fists. He was a storm of violence.
Marcus weathered it. He kept his guard tight, absorbing the blows on his elbows and shoulders. He felt like a ship being battered by waves, the rivets popping, the hull groaning. Every impact drained his stamina bar. His lungs burned. The damp air was hard to breathe, thick with dust.
Wait for it, Marcus told himself. Wait for the inhale.
Odin was throwing with everything he had, banking on a quick knockout. But physics was a cruel mistress. Moving that much mass required oxygen.
Thirty seconds in. Odin's punches started to lose their snap. His mouth hung open, gasping for air.
There.
Odin drew back his right hand for another massive blow, telegraphing it like a billboard. He left his ribcage exposed for a fraction of a second.
Marcus didn't snap a punch. He didn't have the "whip" anymore. Instead, he stepped in. He planted his back foot, twisting his hips, engaging his core, his glutes, his back. He turned his entire body into a single, solidified unit of kinetic energy.
He drove a left shovel-hook into Odin's liver.
It wasn't a fast punch. It looked almost slow, a heavy, laborious motion. A "child's throw," some might say. But it carried the weight of thirty-five years of gravity.
The sound was wet—a sickening thud like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef.
Odin froze. The scream died in his throat. His eyes bulged, the pupils dilating in shock. The liver shot shuts down the body. It sends a signal to the brain that the system is critical, that the reactor is melting down. The legs go first.
Odin crumbled. He didn't fall backward; he folded forward, dropping to his knees, clutching his side, his face turning a shade of grey that matched the floor. He made a sound like a leaking tire. Hssssssss.
Marcus stood over him, chest heaving. He didn't celebrate. He didn't raise his hands. He just looked at the kid, watching him dry heave on the concrete.
"Breathe," Marcus whispered, though only he could hear it. "Just breathe, kid."
Roach stepped in, waving his arms. "It's over! The Piston takes it!"
The crowd cheered, but it was a hollow sound. They had wanted blood, a long drawn-out spectacle. They got a technical dissection.
Marcus leaned against the chain-link fence, the adrenaline fading. The pain rushed in to fill the void. His left forearm was definitely bruised, maybe a hairline fracture. His right knee was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He felt heavy. So incredibly heavy.
He had won. But it felt less like a victory and more like he had just survived a car crash.
----
The "office" of the promoter, a greaseball named Silas, was actually a converted shipping container behind the reservoir.
Silas sat behind a metal desk, counting credit chips onto a scanner. He didn't look up when Marcus limped in.
"Boring fight, Graves," Silas mumbled. "Kid was green, sure, but you didn't have to fold him so fast. Crowd likes a show. They like a struggle."
"He left his liver open. I took it," Marcus grunted, peeling the tape off his hands. His knuckles were raw and red.
"You fight like a machine. A rusty, slow machine." Silas slid a credit stick across the desk. "Here."
Marcus picked it up and checked the balance on his datapad. He frowned. "This is six hundred. The purse was agreed at eight."
Silas shrugged, lighting a synthetic cigar. "House fees. Cleaning fees. And a 'boredom tax.' You want prime money, you gotta give me prime entertainment. You gotta bleed a little, Marcus. Or make them bleed more."
Marcus tightened his grip on the stick. He could reach across the desk and snap Silas's jaw before the man could blink. He could squeeze until the arrogance leaked out of his ears.
But he didn't. He couldn't. Silas was connected to the Syndicate. You touch Silas, you end up in the river with your lungs filled with concrete.
"Eight hundred next time," Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Sure, sure. If there is a next time. You're looking tired, Piston. The new season starts next month. New talent coming in. Fast talent. You might want to think about retirement."
"I retire when I'm dead."
"With the way you fight? Might be sooner than you think."
Marcus turned and walked out, the meager credits burning a hole in his pocket. Six hundred. It wouldn't even cover the rent and the meds.
The city above ground was a different world. The mega-structures pierced the smog layer, glowing with holographic advertisements for off-world colonies and designer genetics. But Marcus lived in the shadow of the spires, in Sector 4—"The Gut."
It was raining, an acidic drizzle that tasted of sulfur. The neon signs flickered, reflecting in the black puddles. Marcus pulled his hood up, favoring his right leg.
Everywhere he looked, he saw the signs of the new age. A billboard flashed a video of a fighter—Kian Rask—moving at impossible speeds, dodging bullets in a demo reel. THE IRON PULSE: EVOLVE YOUR LIMITS, the tagline read.
On the street corner, two junkies were slumped against a vending machine. Their veins were blackened, visible through their pale skin like spiderwebs. "Iron Lines." The side effect of the cheap knock-off Pulse serums hitting the streets. They twitched in their sleep, their hearts beating out of rhythm.
Marcus looked away. He hated this city. He hated what it did to people. It turned them into batteries, used them up, and discarded the casings.
He walked three miles to save the cab fare. By the time he reached the tenement block where he and Leo lived, his knee was screaming.
The building was a monolith of crumbling concrete, covered in graffiti that moved and shifted—digital tags left by hacker gangs. Marcus took the stairs; the elevator had been broken since the war.
Fourth floor. Apartment 402.
As he approached the door, his instincts flared. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
The door was unlocked. It was slightly ajar.
Marcus didn't call out. He shifted his weight, ignoring the pain in his knee. He pushed the door open silently with his fingertips and stepped into the darkness of the hallway.
Voices. From the living room.
"...a simple matter of arithmetic, Leo. You understand math, don't you?"
The voice was smooth, cultured, and utterly out of place in this rot-infested apartment.
Marcus moved down the hall, his footsteps silent despite his heavy boots. He rounded the corner.
The living room was a wreck of circuit boards, vials, and computer monitors—Leo's workspace. But today, it was crowded.
Leo was sitting on the battered sofa, his head in his hands. He looked small. Too small. He was twenty-five, but he had the frail, hunched posture of someone who lived inside a screen. He was shaking.
Standing over him were two men in dark suits, their hands clasped in front of them. Enforcers.
Sitting in Marcus's favorite armchair was Vargas.
Vargas was a short man, barely five-foot-six, but he projected the density of a neutron star. He wore a white suit that was impossibly clean, a silk scarf, and polished shoes that cost more than Marcus made in a year. He was peeling an orange with a small, silver knife.
"Ah," Vargas said, not looking up from the fruit. "The gladiator returns."
Marcus stepped fully into the room, his fists clenching. "Get out of my house, Vargas."
The two enforcers shifted, their hands moving toward their jackets. Vargas raised a single finger, stopping them. He finally looked up. His eyes were like polished obsidian—dead and sharp.
"Hospitality isn't your strong suit, Marcus. We were just having a chat about investments."
"We don't have business with you," Marcus growled. He looked at Leo. "Leo, are you okay?"
Leo looked up, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead. "Marcus... I..."
"Leo is a bright boy," Vargas said, popping a slice of orange into his mouth. "A genius, really. Biochemical engineering. Top of his class."
"He's on a scholarship," Marcus said, stepping between Vargas and his brother. "He earned his way."
Vargas laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "Scholarship? Is that what he told you?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Oh, Leo. You didn't tell big brother about the tuition hikes? The lab fees? The... extracurricular materials you needed for your experiments?"
Marcus turned to Leo. "Leo?"
Leo flinched. "I... I couldn't ask you for more money, Marcus. You were already bleeding for the rent. I thought I could pay it back once I got my degree. Once I got a job at the Labs..."
"He came to me," Vargas said softly. "I appreciate ambition. I loaned him the credits. A substantial amount. But, as it turns out, the interest rates in this sector are quite... volatile."
"How much?" Marcus asked. The cold dread was settling in his stomach, heavier than any punch Odin had thrown.
Vargas pulled a datapad from his jacket and tapped the screen. He turned it around and held it up.
Marcus looked at the number.
Fifty thousand credits.
The air left the room. Fifty thousand. Marcus had just fought a man nearly to death for six hundred.
"That's impossible," Marcus whispered.
"Compound interest is a miracle," Vargas said, standing up. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his white lapel. "Principal plus late fees. Leo here has missed three payments."
"I'll pay it," Marcus said. The lie tasted like ash in his mouth.
"With what?" Vargas sneered. He looked Marcus up and down, his eyes lingering on the swollen knuckles, the cheap clothes, the slight tremble in the left leg. "You're a plow horse in a world of bullet trains, Marcus. You're grinding for pennies in the sewers while the world spins on above you."
Vargas stepped closer, invading Marcus's personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne and ozone.
"You can't punch your way out of this one, Piston. Not at the rate you're going. You're obsolete."
Vargas snapped his fingers. The enforcers opened the door.
"I'll give you one week to come up with the interest payment," Vargas said, pausing at the threshold. "Five thousand. If you don't... well, Leo has very dexterous hands. It would be a shame if something happened to them. Hard to mix chemicals with broken fingers."
"Don't you touch him," Marcus stepped forward, a low growl erupting from his chest.
Vargas just smiled, a cold, reptilian expression. "Then pay me. One week."
The door clicked shut.
Silence descended on the apartment, broken only by the hum of the hard drives and the sound of Leo weeping softly into his hands.
Marcus stood frozen. He looked at the closed door, then down at his hands. The tape was gone, revealing the scars, the bruises, the swollen joints. They were strong hands. They had crushed bones and broken wills.
But Vargas was right. They were tools from a bygone era.
He walked over to the window and looked out at the city. The rain was falling harder now, blurring the neon lights into streaks of blood and gold. He felt the ache in his knee, the throb in his forearm, and the deep, hollow exhaustion in his soul.
He was thirty-five years old. He was tired. And he was fifty thousand credits in the hole.
Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out the credit stick. Six hundred credits.
He squeezed it until the plastic cracked.
The rust wasn't just in his joints anymore. It was closing in around his heart.