Veltroch's eyes scanned the list slowly, his expression unreadable. Sixteen-and-ups from the dojo, all throwing their names into the blood-soaked combatant trial. Some names he lingered on longer than others.
"Big turnout this year," he muttered, tapping the sheet. Monarch Dojo had close to eighty trainees, but only a handful were old enough or desperate enough to make the leap. Combatant trials were very dangerous.
He looked up, eyes catching the three in front of him. "Get out of here. Go home. Sleep. You'll need it."
"Yes, Master," they echoed. Aldrich. Herman. Julia. Voices uneven, but steady. They turned to leave, boots thudding softly over the threadbare rug.
"Wait," Veltroch said, not even looking up. "Aldrich, Herman, drag Bernard out of Coco's before he drinks himself into a coma."
The two froze mid-step.
Bernard? At Coco's?
They didn't ask questions. Just nodded and left.
Coco's wasn't a bar, it was a bad decision with sticky floors. The grimiest spot in East Lowlands, barely ten minutes from the dojo if you were sober. Less if you ran. It reeked of rot, rust, and broken ambition.
Inside hit like a punch. Garbled music from a hacked box in the corner, glasses clinking, drunk laughter and swearing thick as the smoke fog. Coco's Pulse, the house special, was everywhere. Neon-blue vials glowing on cracked tables, being poured, dropped, shattered. The scent alone burned Aldrich's throat.
A tray droid zipped past, teetering with glowing drinks.
"There," Herman said, pointing through the blur.
Bernard was slumped at the bar like a sack of laundry, one elbow on the counter, a half-empty vial of Pulse wobbling near his fingers. The bartender, a wiry guy with dead eyes and a synthetic jaw, nodded like he was half-listening. Or half-counting credits.
Aldrich elbowed through a couple swaying Lowlanders, brushing off someone's curse. "Bernard!" he called over the noise.
The big guy's head lolled back.
"Wha—? Aldrich?" Bernard slurred, his grin slow and crooked. "Pull up a stool, man. I'm celebratin'."
Herman grunted. "Yeah, you're done."
He moved in, hand on Bernard's arm, but Bernard yanked it away, nearly toppling his stool in the process.
"Leave me 'lone," he muttered, eyes unfocused.
Herman leaned on the bar, trying again. "C'mon, big guy. We got a trial tomorrow."
Bernard didn't budge. At nineteen, he was massive, a living wall of muscle and callus. But at that moment, his eyes weren't fire. They were cracked glass. Fragile.
"Let a man have one last drink before he dies," Bernard muttered.
"You're not dying," Aldrich snapped, moving closer.
Bernard slammed his hand on the bar. The entire counter shook. Music hiccuped. Conversations paused. Then resumed, louder than ever.
"You're nineteen, you idiot," Aldrich continued. "You survive this trial, you get a core. We leave this dump."
Bernard laughed, bitter and rough. "You know the odds. Sixteen percent. That's what we get. You know what that means, Aldrich? We're not meant to survive."
Herman rolled his eyes. "Since when do you care about math?"
Bernard snorted and yanked up his sleeve.
Everything stopped.
There, along his wrist, was the dull gray mark. Creeping. Infected. The beginning of the end.
Gray disease.
Aldrich's stomach dropped. That image, so familiar, too familiar. His mom's last weeks. The coughing. The way she wouldn't let go of his hand. The way her body rattled right before the end.
He pushed a scratched tael across the counter. "Four Pulses, Mako."
The bartender nodded, sliding over four glowing vials of electric blue liquid. The vanilla-scorch hit like lightning. His throat burned, his head fuzzed, and time melted.
Sixth round? Seventh? Didn't matter.
"Bernard," Herman said, barely holding himself upright, "you are a freaking beast. How many of these have you had?"
Bernard swayed on his stool, blinking slow. "Ten… eleven? Doesn't matter."
His laugh was wet. But his eyes were clearer now. "Gonna die anyway. Might as well go out on a high."
"Shut up," Herman said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You're not dead yet. Trial's tomorrow. We're getting you that core."
"Sixteen percent," Bernard muttered. "Lowlanders are cannon fodder."
"Then screw the odds," Aldrich snapped. Too loud. He didn't care.
"Damn right!" Herman roared, lifting his vial and spilling half. "To screwin' the stats! We get those cores, or I'm punching a Highlander in the face!"
Bernard grinned and clinked glasses. "You're a moron."
"Proud of it," Herman grinned.
They stumbled out past midnight, the street's dry wind hitting like a slap. Laughter spilled with them, big and messy and real. For a few seconds, the three of them felt invincible.
Their estate blocks were spread out, but they walked together toward the strutter station, boots crunching dust.
Above them, two moons floated in the gray sky. One full, one slivered. They cast pale light across the cracked pavement.
"Veltroch's gonna string us up when he finds out we're just now getting home," Herman muttered.
"Feel great, though," Aldrich said, stretching.
Bernard chuckled low, looking between them. "Thanks. You two didn't have to do this."
"Yeah, well," Herman said, shrugging, "you're annoying. But you're our annoying."
The moment shattered with a voice.
"Well, well. Look what the drunk dragged in."
Five shapes stepped out from the alley shadows. Streetlight caught the shine of bruised knuckles and too-tight leather jackets. Snakepit boys. Their dojo's rival. East Lowlands' worst.
Alvin stood in the front. Smirking. Chewing a half-lit cigar. A cut on his lip still healing from the last time Aldrich cracked him.
"Well, look who it is," Herman said. "Alvan."
"Pretty sure it's Alvon," Aldrich muttered, wiping his eye.
"Don't be dicks," Bernard said. Honest, even drunk. "Evenin', Alvin."
"Go to hell," Alvin snapped, flicking his cigar onto the pavement. His scowl deepened. "You've been lucky so far. All of you. But tonight? Tonight, I finish this."
Aldrich tilted his head. "Let me guess. You want my autograph?"
"Run it," Alvin growled. "All of you."
"Alvin," Herman sighed, "we've beaten you six times. And you're outnumbering us by what…two?"
"Three," Alvin snapped. "You're drunk. You're slow. You're mine."
Aldrich rubbed his temples. "Only one move left."
"Oh?" Herman grinned.
Aldrich cracked a smile. "Run."
And they did.
Laughter burst like wildfire as they bolted down the street. "After them!" Alvin roared.
Behind them, the chase was on. And for once, Aldrich didn't feel like the odds were against them. He felt fast. Alive.
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, they ran.