I’m a rockstar, I’m a dealer

“Seventy-two…”

I’m a servant, I’m a leader

“Seventy-three…”

I’m a saviour, I’m a sinner, I’m a killer

“Seventy-four…”

I’ll be anything you want me to be-

The ominous sound of a click echoed through the empty basement room, the once heavy bass and singer's dead-pan tone stopping abruptly, leaving only the grunting sound coming from a male as he continued his seventy-fifth vertical sit up. Confused as to what happened to his music, the shirtless male relaxed his body down, allowing the metal clasps around his ankles to hold his full weight. After repositioning, he arched his back to take a look, putting his body in an awkward looking bended shape. The culprit was soon recognized as his golden-colored eyes met with the dark green orbs of his cousin, her thin arms crossed over her chest and giving him a chastising look.

“Anything I want you to be?" she asked, the toe of her heel tapping on the hard, concrete floor. "How about a maid, Deon? You’ve let my place go to shit.” she finished, looking up at the male with a dissatisfied expression.

Deon's hanging, vertical position forced the sweat from his legs to trickle down his flexed torso onto his neck and down to the very top of his head where it continued to drip off of the point of his nose as he stared the female down. With an agitated sigh, he bent his torso up, practically folding his body in half as his fingers nimbly worked the metal restraints that had been clasped over his bare ankles, thus releasing the hold on him. With a practiced twist of his body - a sort of a back-flip - Deon fell to the floor deftly onto the balls of his feet, bending at the knees to soften the fall. He slowly straightened his back up, vertebrae by vertebrae until he was standing at his full five feet, eleven inches and ran his hand through the small mess of sweaty hair he had left on his head.

The sides of his head were shaved, leaving just a thick strip on the top of his head where a patch of hair grew. Sure he could have put it into a mohawk if he wanted to, but that just wasn’t his style. He preferred the messy mop look. Hell, even if he wanted to try a different hairstyle, it was practically impossible for him to grow any hair on the left side of his head. A thick scar reaching from the back of his head wrapped around to the front, cutting just into the top of his eyebrow, the scar thick enough that it was clear medical treatment had not been issued at the time of the injury. It was a scar that probably should have had medical treatment but instead healed on it's own making it look very raw despite the incident happening over a year ago.

Approaching his cousin with his chest heaving for breath as the sweat continued to drip down his body, he reached over her shoulder, keeping his eyes on her and pushed the play button on his virtual music player, The Ozzy Osbourne song picking right up where it had left off just moments ago before the female had so rudely turned it off. A bright red light emitted from the music player upon activation, displaying a 3-d rendition of female dancer, supposedly nude, pole dancing to the beat of the music just above the player. His cousin glanced down, unable to keep her attention off the display of flashing red color and shook her head.

“Classy.”

“I told you not to interrupt me when I’m training, Katie.” Deon's voice said gruffly, a calloused tone in his natural voice sounding like he had been gargling rocks his whole life.

“Don’t be a twat Deon, I let you live here remember?” Kate sighed. She hated talking like that. Strong language was never her strong suit but she had lived with Deon long enough to know by now it was the only way to talk to him and hold his interest. Sometimes. “Look, I only came down here to remind you that I’m going to be gone this evening. I have a meeting I need to go to about project T-95.3." She explained, her arms unfolding so that she could start using them when she continued to talk, her agitated voice towards her cousin turning into excitement for the topic at hand. "I didn't actually program this one, we were invited by the Science Board as a classroom demonstration to sit in. See, there might have been some malfunction. So we might have to do a total recall-“

“Katie.” Deon interrupted her, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care.”

This had Kate clamping her mouth back shut, her arms hanging awkwardly in the air for a moment before she let them fall back down to her sides, her shoulders slouching just a bit - deflated.

“Just remember to not piss off A.D.A.M. again. I’m not about to leave this meeting just because you’ve been stuck with a neo-tranque dart again.”

Deon scoffed, picking up a dirty white rag from the floor and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck.

“You know, it might actually be cute if your little artificial security system was real, you gave it a name for Gods sake! But the way you talk about it sometimes makes me wonder if you’re into that weird-ass cyber robot porn fetish shit.” Deon countered but then waved Kate off before she could remark back at him. “But yeah, yeah, you got it. No problems from me. Besides, I work tonight, won’t be home until your hitting your snooze button when you wake up in your bed... alone.”

“Yeah, "work.'” Kate scoffed, using her fingers in quotation, unable to help rolling her eyes as she turned to head back up the stairs that would take her back to the main part of her loft. With that asshole behind her, she closed herself into the bathroom and finished applying her makeup. Some nude lipstick, brown eye-liner and black mascara; that’s just about as classy as Kate got. Flattening out the wrinkles on her small green dress with her hands, she gave herself a once-over look in her full body mirror before deciding ‘good enough.’ Leaving the bathroom, she picked up her car keys and left the safety of her home to travel the dangerous roads full of morons that didn’t know how to drive.

Deon finished wiping down his neck and glanced up at the neon colored digital clock on the wall. The entire basement of Kate’s loft had been transformed into Deon’s living space. It was dark, musty, unfinished… reminded him of his own room back in the seventeenth district actually, so he didn’t mind. Actually, Kate had asked him a number of times when he would start 'dressing it up' and making it look more like a room with carpet and decent furniture. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to. What he did know is that he didn’t have time to start up another rep so he moved to his bathroom where he did a quick rinse down and dressed in new clothes of a beat-up looking grey wife-beater with a button-up jean-jacket with no sleeves over it and a pair of beige cargo pants.

Moving over to where his mattress lay in the middle of the floor (just the mattress, no frame), he scooped out his sunglasses from a pile of dirty clothes and headed up and out of the loft to the garage where he mounted his cycle. Pressing his thumb to the sensor bar, it whirred to life and Deon was off to ‘The Spit.’

Kat:
"Nah, sugartits, I haven't seen him... But I'm sure if I could get something to jog my memory a bit... Well, that could go a vurry long way in remembering where my business partner is."
I stifle my urge to punch the fat gang boss, it wouldn't get me anything other than new dents in my armor to repair later as his goons would definitely open fire on me with their cheap Printguns. Gwinlo Yuritani, alleged human trafficker and known co-owner of the Happy Whore Cat house is sitting in a hoverchair, floating above my head with a dirty champagne flute in one hand and a ditzy, doped up whore in the other. I'm standing on the ground inside his establishment, in the special VIP section. Normally, this place is filled with drug-fuelled orgies, but Yuritani cleared the place out when his goons told him I was coming. Behind me two hulking men stand behind me, their dark pleather jackets bulging with Liquid Knuckle cans (#snowcrashfolife) and more illegal weapons. I'm hardly threatened by them, but they occasionally shift behind me, kicking my autoresponse stims into overdrive, making me more jumpy than usual. Which makes me look like I'm scared, which is weakening my position here, which is tenuous enough.
"Sure," Springing forwards faster than the guards can react, I leap onto one of the disgusting, most likely semen covered, pleather love seats and use it as a spring board, lifting me next to Yuritani in his chair. Before he can control the chair to move somewhere else, I'm already clutching the sides of it, muscles flexed to keep my perfectly level with his face. Bracing my legs against the side, I lean over to him, whispering into his ear, "Sure I can give you something.. How about a complementary reevaluation of your tax returns for the last five years? You can buy most of the anti-corruption police, but you can't buy me, and you sure as hell can't buy the tax collectors who will be very displeased with the fact that you're making nearly double the amount than you're admitting to. Does that jog your memory?"
During my threat, Yuritani began to sweat, shifting in his seat awkwardly as he tries to move to be able to face me. When he finally catches sight of my wan, tight-lipped grin, he sighs, and lowers the chair until it's touching the ground. I step off, thankful. My arms were getting a little tired.
Yuritani looks defeated when he manages to look at me again, "Mawali is... Mawali likes to watch cage fights. That's where he is now. Just, don't let him know it was me who told you, okay? Mawali's done some pretty messed up shit, but he's a good guy. He has his Ma to look after.. You can't take him away from his Ma. It would end her."
I'm already walking away, past the hulking thugs with illicit guns, past the matted velvet covered doors, down the metal revolving staircase into the smokey den of red and pink, past the trapped young girls and the hedonists old enough to be their parents, out into the smog filled street below a roaring highway. I pause outside the doorway, sagging briefly against the vinyl frame, feeling a wave of overwhelming futility roll over me.
"Aint life a fucking bitch?"
I look down, and see a dirty man without legs pushing himself along the street on a splintering plastic cart, obviously stolen from a grocery store. He's wrapped in what looks like trash bags, and his nose has been broken too many times to count. His hair is a filthy ratted mess, and his skin is sickly pale.
"Yeah, life is a fucking bitch."
I reach inside my jacket pocket, root around a second, and find one of my wallets. Without looking, I open it up, grab a prepaid card to an all-you-can-eat buffet, and hand it to him. "They'll take it if you say that Officer Wythburn sent you. I helped one of their kids out once, and they send me these things all the time now. The food isn't the best, but the place is clean."
The man clutches the card like a life-line, and reverently sticks it inside of his mouth, revealing rotted teeth.
"Thmk hooo rldee"
I nod, and summon my hoverquad. In seconds, it's roaring softly next to me in the street.
"I have to go now. Take care of yourself."
I then enter the quad and plug in a destination for the onboard computer to take me to. "The Spit, D13."
I don't enter my authorization card. The system lets me go wherever I need to.
The quad lifts off with a gentle thrust, and soon enough I'm speeding away towards my next encounter.

AUDREY

District 2 - 12:15PM

"Good afternoon, citizens. That was Let it Die by Ozzy Osbourne. We've got more oldies for you, coming up on your favorite station in just a hot second. Don't go away..."

"More like ancients if you ask me, T-"

A pale, slender arm reached out from underneath white sheets to silence the mild-mannered radio alarm personality. At the root of that limb was a nest of dark chocolate hair, clean and elegant while splashed sharply against the linens like a stain on a baker's apron. After a moment of silence, Audrey emerged. As her body stretched and twisted to break from night's stiffness it made a sound akin to a pinched balloon releasing air. The purposely over- sized shirt she wore was hanging off at the shoulder, obscuring the ridiculous name brand on the front. For the shortest moment she was allowed to marinate in frumpy, uncombed heap.

One shower and a handful of yawns later, Audrey was in the kitchen enjoying her second cup of coffee and reading The Zone Alpha Daily. The hefty aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans was one of her favorites. It had a way of filling the emptiness in her family's spacious glass home. The decor, while beautifully ornate and antique, was minimal. It was her mother's attempt to appease Mr. Webner. He'd always wanted land to raise a family on, grass for his children to play in - the kind politicians and presidents monopolized. Audrey didn't complain, though. She was happy to live in a second tier home that others in Zone Alpha only dreamed about.

"Good morning, my precious gift."

Audrey lifted her speckled blue eyes from the finance section to greet her mother, who'd already been up for hours and out of the house at least once to visit her father's office.

"Good morning, Mother. How is father?"

"His hair is getting whiter by the minute with the new Finance Initiative passing. That's nothing new, I suppose."

Audrey only chuckled into her cup.

"Did you hear about the Happier Homes charity event in District 13? Michelle Carnaby mentioned it was today."

Outside ears would've heard an innocent comment made in passing, but Audrey knew it was an artful attempt at manipulating her schedule. Michelle Carnaby was Audrey's pre-destined nemesis, after all.

"Yes, ma'am. I actually planned on stopping by for a couple of hours," she lied, sacrificing her free day on the spot.

Subway D12:D13 - 2:43PM

The trek from District 2 to District 13 was tiresome and boring, and the farther she travelled into the districts the more uneasy she became. She had never been beyond District 13. Even in adulthood she'd only visited the area once, alone, for a much larger event similar to the one she was commuting to. D13 was hardly a threat to be concerned about, but for a sheltered woman like Audrey it was enough to put her on edge.

What she disliked most were the eyes. More passengers stared at her as she drew closer to her destination, not really bothering her until she reached D10 - where she needed to have her Access Card handy. They oggled her dress-tops, her layered ensembles and designer jeans, mentally undressing her, examining the clothing as if they could purchase it right off of her back! One brash woman actually asked if she could "try on" her Debbie Plakington flats, badgering Audrey until a decent gentleman shooed her away. How her mother handled the trips was a mystery...

District 13 - 6:09PM

"Have a good night, Cheri. You, too, Michelle."

"Good night, Audrey. Thanks for doing what you could today. Maybe next time you'll stay a bit longer... We love your company!"

"I'll try, Michelle."

After a final wave - which was one more than that pious charlatan deserved - Audrey left for the subway, tugging the leather shoulder bag at her hip to make sure it was secure. The streets were crowding with bodies dressed for nightlife, so she couldn't be too careful. All she had to do was keep her nose down for a couple blocks, following the weather beaten cracks of the dirty sidewalk. She'd be fine - if it weren't for the faults of hot tempered young men.

Up ahead, two men were arguing. One was tall and lean, his veins effortlessly present under his taut tan skin. His face was dirty, and his buzz cut was glittered with sweat that was as easy to see as morning dew on grass. The other man, inches shorter and dark-skinned, had an angrier face with nostrils flared to the size of dimes. Thick raven tendrils hung down to his beefy shoulders, reminding Audrey of snakes resting on a log. They couldn't have been much older than herself, but they glared at eachother with a seemingly ageless hatred. Suddenly, the heated gabble erupted into bestial shouts that made Audrey's throat raw just listening to them. The herd of passing bystanders came to a hault, pushing back to create room for the violent match that had evolved. Most were able to detour away from the conflict, but like a rip tide, Audrey was swallowed by the rabble-rousers and disoriented masses.

"Excuse me. Pardon me! Exc- hey!"

Uncaring elbows and shoulders shoved her weak body this-way-and-that until her back met the cold metal frame of a large door. Her weight shoved it open which sent her stumbling backward into an establishment that smelled like sweat and bad habits. The air was thick with smoke. One breath led to a short fit of coughing, drawing judgmental eyes her direction.

"Need a hand, princess?" An older man with stained facial hair and a groggy voice asked. "I got a shoulder you can cry on," he added with a menacing grin.

The dark-haired Alpha cowered away from him, falling further into the loud music that filled the bar.

"Look who's far from home," another stranger with a neck tattoo shouted in a blatant attempt to gather attention.

"Need a place to stay, sugar lips? You could warm up my bed tonight!"

"She could warm up other things!"

The atmosphere burst with mean-spirited laughter. Hands were everywhere, combing through her hair, pinching her clothes and grabbing indecently. Escape felt impossible while she ricocheted from one smelly chest to the next, wishing someone could hear her cries over the dull roar of the crowd.

Thud! Rattatataa!

She tripped, twisting to grab anything that might save her from the fall. Then, all at once the world seemed to slow. Hands clasped to the metal rings of a giant cage, Audrey felt a wet, sticky spray paint her cheek, and a brutual weight jerk against her. Muted cheers and rude applause followed for several seconds until she realized what had happened. Beneath her was a bloodied man knocked unconscious, his face so swollen and marred that he was unrecognizable. If he was still breathing his chest didn't show it.

Towering over the defeated warrior was a man who wasn't in much better condition. His bare chest heaved from exhaustion, beads of sweat dripping downward despite the cool temperature of the bar. His eyes pierced the space between them like a wild animal, or maybe a monster, needing more blood than was already spilled. But she'd never forget the scar across his shaven head... like red lightning. For one reason or another, she couldn't tear her wide eyes away.

1:30pm

Normal people awoke to an alarm clock.

Vander was awoken by a sharp ache coursing through her body. A quiet groan escaped her lips, and she curled up tightly on the old mattress. Through the dirt-streaked window of her messy studio apartment, hazy sunlight poured in. She closed her eyes tightly as the light threatened to trigger a headache. Still, the hateful sunlight pierced through her closed eyelids. Raising a hand to cover her face, Vander felt her fingers trembling.

Shaking hands. Aching muscles. Headache. Peering through her fingers, Vander looked across the room, where a digital projection of the time flickered on the wall. Sleep had evaded her last night, until early morning when she crashed, hard, into a haze of dreams she could no longer remember. It was now the afternoon. She wasn't sick. It was just a withdrawal. Rolling off the mattress, Vander stumbled her way to the kitchen. A syringe sat on the counter, ready and waiting. She grabbed the hypodermic and rolled up her sleeve. With the practiced motion of someone who had done this too many times before, Vander slid the tip of the needle into the crook of her elbow in spite of her shaking hands. Relief came quickly. The ache faded away, and the shell of a woman leaned back against the counter in relief.

---------

6:15 pm
Lucid makes everything more real. Colours are brighter. Sounds more distinct. Your feet are planted more solidly on the ground. But when the high wears off, the world isn't the same. Everything is grey and dulled in comparison, until you take the next hit. Addicts have a tendency of seeking out sensation as they come down from the high. Sounds, lights, scents and flavours. Anything strong enough to register in their dulled minds.

Vander's day had taken a turn for the worse when she realized that her stock was running worryingly low. The little vial of Lucid she had last acquired was drained. A few drops remained at the bottom, but it was a quantity that barely qualified as a tease. She'd torn her apartment apart, even more so than it already was, scrounging up what little money she could. Enough to afford a few drinks. A hit of Lucid? Maybe one. Enough for a few more days? Not likely. But she could always pray for charity. Or luck.

It was early evening now, and she was walking slowly down the street. The neon lights of bars and shops, on the tail-end of a Lucid high, looked as bleached out as a fluorescent bulb. The traffic on the street beside her was a dull roar. It was a trek to District 13 from her apartment, but that was her destination. The Spit. Her ears craved the loud music and the heavy scent of cigarettes, alcohol, and humans. It opened early, it was always busy...and even at this hour, someone was likely drunk enough to leave their wallet lying around. She was, at heart, a good person. But in a choice between thievery and an agonizing withdrawal, Vander would always choose the former.

She entered the club. A wave of sound and scent greeted her, powerful enough to break through the haze. Guitar, yells, laughs, and the clamour of the Spit's metal cage fight. Cigarettes, booze, sweat. She hated herself for liking it. Vander moved along the wall, keeping to herself, and observing the gathered individuals. She simply watched. A part of her hoped to see a misplaced wallet, a lonely purse. But truthfully, she was content to simply observe. And observe she did. It didn't take long before something caught her eye. Watching from the shadows, Vander saw an individual who looked thoroughly out of place. Pale, dark-haired. Completely put-together. Amongst the leather jackets and torn jeans of The Spit, her clean clothes and fancy-looking leather purse stood out. And, even stranger, she looked alone. As she watched, a handful of men circled the poor woman with grasping hands and undoubtedly vulgar taunts. Vander split away from the wall, moving across the room, her dark eyes never leaving the scene. The woman broke away from the small group as Vander reached her, falling back against the wall of the fighting cage just as the fight finished.

The crowd erupted into cheers. The fighter was a favourite, undefeated in the ring. Vander seized her chance in the sudden din of excitement. Without a second of hesitation, her hand reached out. Bony fingers encircled the Alpha woman's hand, pulling her firmly away from the center of the club's attention. "Come on, this way," Vander coaxed her, gentle voice barely surpassing the crowd's noise.

She pulled her to the side, and prayed that she wouldn't be as terrifying to the young woman as the desperate men or the brutal fighters. Audrey would be greeted by the sight of a woman who was everything she was not, straight out of Zone Beta. Ripped black jeans and a raglan sweater, the front adorned with the name of an obscure punk band, and the sleeves long enough to hide the track marks on her forearm. But despite her appearance, her words and demeanor were kind as she guided Audrey away from the cage. Vander had lead her to the base of a disused staircase at the side of the club, the door at the top leading to an empty Manager's Office. "You okay? The Spit gets rough sometimes, sorry," she apologized sincerely.

A hint of a smile played on her face as she looked once more at the woman's clothing. "It helps to try to blend in a little bit. I mean, don't get me wrong, people from Alpha come to slum it all the time. But you look like you're dressed for Dead Ce-..." her words trailed off as she registered the woman's expression, and the blood of the poor soul in the ring that was still on her cheek. The lightheartedness was once again replaced with sincerity. "Hey, you all right?"

The lights of the District 13 rock club went out; every last one. The sudden change caused a few people to gasp in surprise, but before anyone had time to panic, a new set of lights came on, though these ones were colored and moving from side to side, making the innards of The Spit look more like a laser light-show. The regulars knew exactly what this meant, and the gasps of surprise suddenly turned into anticipating cheers, nudging the new people in waited anticipation, the volume growing even louder when the music started up again.

The first song that played was a real oldie, but had a good enough beat to keep the awaiting crowd cheering on as the double doors of the restricted section swung open and a lean man standing at about 6’4” came out, putting in his mouth guard and giving the crowd a small show with a few warm-up punches as he jogged to the cage. Through the music and cheers, the announcer could barely be heard, introducing the man simply as ‘Spike.’ The crowd seemed to like him enough, since the rest of the announcer’s words were completely shut out by the growing roars and screams as Spike removed his shirt and handed it off to a much shorter man that had followed him to the cage, but stayed just outside the cage by the corner that Spike had gone to.

Spike’s music was then abruptly cut off, which didn't look as though it had been a part of the initial plan as even the announcer himself didn't seem to know what was going on. The crowd eased into a revered quiet, waiting on bated breath and then erupted into a fit of cheers, twice as loud as before as the next song played; a song everyone would recognize to be Deon’s theme song he picked out personally every time he entered the arena.

He didn’t come out the double doors that Spike had as was expected, however. No, Deon was all about breaking the rules. The crowd began to split as Deon made his way from his hiding place in the back of the room, walking with arrogance in every step as he relished in the crowd’s cheers and women reaching out to touch him as he, in no particular hurry, made his way to the cage. Once he broke free from the crowd, he turned to face them and gave a couple air-pumps with his fist, getting a response from the crowd of deafening screams. He paused to chuckle to himself a bit and then made his way up and down the front row of the crowd, giving out high-fives and even stopped to hug a woman who nearly fell down from the shock.

He went up and down the line one more time, handing out more high-fives before ‘dancing’ himself into the ring to take up his corner of the cage. He didn’t even give Spike a second glance as Deon kept his eyes on the crowd and put his fingers between the buttons of his jean vest, ripping it open so that the buttons popped off from the force and into the crowd. He had removed his wife beater at some point, leaving his chest completely bare to the air-conditioned air of The Spit though he bore no shame in showing off his muscled body. If at all possible, the screams grew louder, though this time it was more of a female audience. Deon wadded up the now ruined piece of clothing and threw it out to a group of practically crying women through the bars, smirking as he watched them pull each other’s hair and flying their fists in an effort to get the shirt (and buttons) all to themselves.

Deon let out his own scream, filling the air with even more testosterone in an effort to amp up the crowd once more before he finally faced his opponent. He looked Spike over and smirked, jerking his head and body forward mocking a cobra in its strike and then couldn’t help but to chuckle at his own arrogance, the majority of the audience sharing his laugh. He raised both arms in the air, a symbol of victory, and took another look at the crowd, flashing everyone and no one a confident smile.

He turned his head back to his opponent once more, his mind becoming numb and now completely oblivious to everything that was happening outside of the ring. The announcer, having found himself, introduced Deon with great vigor, calling him by the stage name given to him a year ago, Darth. With the two males ready, he began the count and on count two, rather than three, Spike charged Deon, determined to get the first hit in. He swung a right hook but Deon saw it coming from a mile away and ducked his head down with a smile on his smug face. Spike tried again with a come-back left hook but Deon put up his arm as a barrier, however the moment Spike's left hook made contact, he swung his right arm into another right hook and clipped Deon's jaw straight-away with his fist. The smile never left Deon's face though as Spike continued throwing right and left hooks, and all Deon did was back up a few steps watching the man swing his arms like an angry gorilla, miles away from it's mark. Finally when Deon had enough playing around, he caught Spike's left elbow with his hand and used his foot to trip the taller man to the ground and forced him to land on his hands and knees. Deon's opposite hand swung around and held Spike by the back of the neck, keeping him in a position there.

"Nice hook." Deon taunted Spike and then let the grip on the back of Spike's neck go and backed away into the center of the ring where he had once been. Spike jumped up and charged Deon like an angry rhino and buried his head under Deon's arm, wrapping his arms around Deon's waist in an effort to lift him up and slam him down onto his back, but Deon's dense muscle gave him the advantage over the bigger guy and just had to push his body weight down onto Spike's bent-over back to collapse Spike down onto his chest on the mat. Deon pushed Spike's face into the mat even harder after that, rewarding the taller man's futile efforts with a simple bitch slap across the face that the crowd seemed to love.

Spike got back up though, and saw that one of the people in the crowd had their arms through the bars. It wasn't too much, they were just holding themselves there with a red solo cup half-full of some kind of liquid in it, but it was just what Spike needed. Instead of attacking Deon straight on again, he slapped the cup out of the man's hand, spraying Deon's face and chest with the warm beer and in the couple seconds that Deon couldn't see, began hooking right and left once more and beating the hell out of Deon's face.

Deon just backed up a few feet though and pointed at Spike, laughing and licking his lips in a moment of enjoying the alcoholic drink,

"Ahhhh..." He shook his head and smiled, giving him kudo's for playing dirty. "...that, that was a cheap one..." He went around the cage and slapped high-fives to those close enough to put their hands through. "...but you are good; you've got a good center of gravity." he commended. "But that old school boxing shit...that, that just doesn't fly around here...not with me. You gotta mix it up." Deon had circled back to Spike and just as he finished speaking, he ran the couple of feet towards Spike and like a football punter, brought back his right leg and kicked the weak point of Spike's knee on the side, nearly causing the tall man to fall back down.

"Stings right? I bet it does." Deon threw his fist forward and Spike brought up his hands to block, but that was only a distraction and Deon sent his leg kicking at Spike's leg once again, hitting the same spot but on the opposite side. Spike managed to keep his balance, but it was obvious that he was now favoring that leg and had to hop around a bit to keep from toppling over.

"Aww, your leg's all jacked up. Can't put any weight on it maybe?" Deon charged again, clotheslining Spike around his center which brought Spike down hard onto his back. Deon circled Spike as he tried to get up, and by the time he was able to get onto one knee, he noticed that Deon was standing straight above him and looking down on him.

"And now for the bad news... it's gotta end... with you looking like a bitch." Deon smiled broadly. Rage infused, Spike shot up onto his good leg, using the momentum to swing his arm around to get in a good shot but again, Deon saw it coming and grabbed Spike around the arm and twisted it, sending Spike flipping over Deon's arm and back onto the ground. Now like a turtle stuck on it's back, Deon hopped over to get on top of Spike and swung both arms, alternating punching out Spike's face in eerie similarity as Spike had done to him beforehand.

The crowd went wild and Deon got off of Spike, giving the man a chance to get back up.

"Oh c'mon. It's not over, get up! Get up!"

Spike tried to get up, but again Deon only gave him the chance to get onto his knees before Deon sent out a round-house kick straight into Spike's face sending him flying a good few feet, his mass connecting with the cage door and falling through, into the crowd in a bloody heap, knocked completely unconscious.

Deon turned back to his crowd and lifted his arms up high in victory, shouting and screaming with them, reveling in both the glory and the knowledge that there would be no round two.

Darkness. All around, nothing to see, nothing to trace. Just black emptiness. Then there. In the corner. A flash of some light, almost miniscule. Then again, and again... Voices. There are voices in the bleakness, mumbling, muttering, indiscernable, yet just barely. Suddenly, the whole area flashes with lights... red, white, blue ...and there is screaming, a raged yell. Shots. And silence.

With a sudden snap, teal irises stared up at the ceiling of Elizabeth's apartment, wide as she switched from the dream world to reality. Seconds passed, and steadily, she began to adjust to the morning. It was dark, that much she could tell. A sign that the nightlife had turned off, mere moments before dawn. The city was transforming. Blinking away the sense of tiredness that always worked to trick the mind, she felt the muscles in her body tense, then stretched, extending her lithe figure across the matress.

Rolling over, her gaze fell on the alarm clock positioned next to the headboard. Six twenty-seven. As always, a few minutes before her alarm went off. A symptom of her paranoid lifestyle. A sigh, long and relaxing, escaped her lips as one, slow blink calmed her nerves. And with a sudden burst of movement, two bare feet hit the floor as Elizabeth's shoulders rolled. Last night had been a work night. Simple job, especially compared to the earlier days. A simple syringe of Hand of the Devil had set the man off. Cops had finished the job for her. Simple, clean... untraceable. The law didn't think to autopsy the men they shot. Only those without a clear murderer.

For the next twenty minutes, Elizabeth moved from station to station, getting ready for the day. A shower, the mirror, her closet, the kitchen... By the time she left her building, she was ready for the day ahead, her leather jacket over the lime green tanktop, a belt in the loops of her dark jeans, her teal bandana around her neck... and a large sum of money in her breast pocket.

6:00 P.M.

Even outside, Elizabeth could hear the roaring cheers of the crowd inside the Spit as another fight started, dragging in patrons from the streets as the real entertainment began. Slipping between the rush of eager bodies, she found herself cast out into a hectic scene of motion and lights, shouts buffeting her from all directions. She felt oddly at home. A sense of exhileration, powerful, intoxicating, seeped into her as she released a puff of air. She was in a hunt. And like every job, she reveled in being predator.

By the time the actual fighting started, the teal head of hair had already disappeared from the dance floor, weaving through drunkard men and punks on high. She slipped by the couple with no shame, and the whispering group of tattooed bikers. Until she finally reached the shifty man in the corner.

"Here to make a bet?" His voice rasped with the trace of too much smoke and shouting.

"No, I'm hear for the small chat."

"Comedian. Typical. Which fighter and how much?"

He didn't even finish his sentence before she slammed the wad of cash on his desk, eyes boring into his with a disturbing intensity.

"Darth's next enemy."

Even the cool gambler couldn't keep his eyebrows from flying up questioningly. No one betted against the champion of the Spit. It was a waste of money. Kissing the coin goodbye. In his opinion, the woman was drunk, but hey, he wasn't going to waste an opportunity to earn... As his eyes met the size of the wager, they seemed to bulge in surprise, and the bug eyed look he had made the slightest smirk twitch at Elizabeth's lips.

"I'll be back for my money after the fight."

He didn't even respond as again the woman vanished into the crowd, popping up minutes later right at the entrance to the cage as poor Spike was removed after his humiliating defeat. But she wasn't... herself. It was a lazy stumble that brought her out of the masses, catching herself just in time to grab the cage and support herself. Looking up, two hazy orbs stared at the man that stood at the cage door, before he lopsided smile was flashed and she moved into the cage.

Across from her, she could see Darth as a shaky hand was raised, two fingers pointing off to his right as the other supported her, holding the cage.

"You... you're all mine." As the slurred words left her lips, Elizabeth stood to her full height, shoulders angling back as she pulled off her jacket, before a casual toss sent it the corner of the arena. Or would have, if it didn't hang on her sleeve. It took a few more moments to actually get it where it was supposed to be. But her eyes never left the man across from her, and once the jacket finally fell, two unsteady hands were raised in what was supposed to be a defensive position.

"Come on, showboy."

7:32 am - District 16, Rent-a-Room

Petra was risen from her slumber by a siren.

It was just another day. She opened her eyes to the cracked ceiling of her decrepit apartment, shrugging her sour sheets onto the dusty floor. Groggily, she sat up on the creaky boxpring, mentally reminding herself to do laundry before she began to smell like a demon's armpit.

The young woman swung her feet over the side of the bed, and began her morning ritual. After a cold shower in a mildewed bathroom and a quick meal of nutritional cardboard, she pulled on a pair of mismatched socks and was out the door.

As she ambled down the street, she wondered where the tide would take her today. One of the benefits of living in poverty was the amount of money it saved. Work was not a necessity, leaving almost too much time to engage in her passions.

An old man sat on the side of the street, rattling a can with annoying enthusiasm. Petra shoved a crumpled hundred in his container, putting an immediate end to his one man orchestra. He stared at the bill in disbelief. She didn't care. He was probably going to spend it on drugs, or alcohol, or prostitutes...

But it made him happy. For that short moment, it made him happy.

Turning the corner, she slipped discretely into a grimy bar. Inside, acrid smoke permeated the air, and the occasional shouts of hustlers in the back pierced the otherwise stoic silence. She sat at the bar, placing a metallic card on the table.

"Who'll it be today? We've got our fair share of early knockouts." the bartender asked, rubbing a spotted cloth n the inside of a cracked glass. Petra pointed at a slouched lump a few seats down, passed out drunk on the wooden counter. The bartender nodded.

"Aye, that's Felix. He comes in here every day, but I've never seen him so wasted, or this early. He says his wife left him."

Petra stared at the unconcious man dispassionately.

"Will it be the whole tab, as usual?" Petra nodded.

As the bartender hurried away to swipe her card, she walked over to the drunk, and shook him gently. He mumbled incoherently. She shook him harder.

"Wassit?" Felix raised his head, bloodshot eyes searching for the disturbance.

"I'm taking you home." Petra's voice was hollow, robotic. The bartender returned with her card, pressing it into the woman's open palm.

"Yer in good hands now, Felix. Whatever this woman says to you people, I never see your faces in this sorry shithole again. She's an angel, that one. 'll get your life straightened up fast. Hell, I'd be afraid she's driving me out of business if she didn't pay you fools' dues." The bartender gave a hearty laugh as Petra guided the confused Felix out the door.

They walked in silence, drunk and helper, down the busy streets and unswept alleys. With no help from his alcohol addled brain, Felix eventually found his apartment. His shaking hands, steadied by Petra's own, shoved the key into the lock, and he stumbled into the dark room. The woman followed after.

The dying light of the setting sun irritated the digital receptors in his eyes as he stoically gazed over the main throughfare in District 16. The Roman glared at those that scurried their daily lives as he propped himself against the window his psudeo muscular structure glistened in the heat of the furnace that he called an office. Taking a moment to look at his reflection caused him to visibly flinch at the monster that he had become. The cold and dark metal plugs where electronic equipment was supposed to be plugged in always did that to him and as he followed them along his collar bone he eventually came to his fully cybernetic arm on either side.

It wasn't until he lost the arms God gave him that he fully understood what it meant to 'touch' something. The condensation running down the three liter bottle whiskey in his left hand, the rough grainy wood that his right hand was perched on, all of these things were lost on him now. Taking another three chug swig of his whiskey before setting it down on his desk, which was covered in paper work, Alex walked over to his Victorian-esque couch and began dressing himself for an evening of torture that he had been dreading for a week now.

About a month ago, in an attempt to get more connections and money, began dating one of his clients from a previous case. A rather stunnening blonde in her late thirties had taken quite a strong liking to him, the fact that he had caught a pusher that had been trying to black mail her probably helped with that, and invited him to a social gathering in District 4. To be honest he wasn't relishing the fact of Zone Jumping let alone rubbing elbows with high society. In a nutshell, that was how he gained all of these 'nifty' new features. If there wasn't the possiblity of expanding his clientele he would have told the broad to kick rocks.

A buzzer came from his desk and a voice quickly followed it,

"Roman...ya suga momma's here.

"That's not how that works Raynelle. Besides I'm older than her."

"Whateva...she's here."



This 'reception', if it could be called such, was the exact reason that why he didn't want to come here. The broad, he had forgotten her name already, had ditched about ten minutes into the affair to go covort with her hoite-toite friends leaving him alone with a room full of egg heads and high nosers looking to make it to District 0 one way or another. To top it all off the clientele pickings were slim, and that was a charitable wording. Taking a moment to steal away from the 'enlightening' conversation and take a smoke break outside.

After lighting and taking a drag of the strong menthol death stick Alex took a moment to read what was actually supposed to be happening here. A lecture on something called robopsychology from a prodigy student, Saunders he believed it was. He was appreciative of those far more intellegent than him, he was better off letting them do what they do best and let him do what he does best.

"...and it is because of that and that alone that project T-95.3, on the market now known as the toaster, should be recalled."

Kate had made it to the meeting in one of the industrial buildings inside of District 4. It was a large building, filled to the brim with elected officials, scientists, and just about anyone else who had anything to do with robotics and the making. Sitting with a small squadron of her own classmates, Kate pulled her tablet into her closer as she continued to take notes. Her head was shaking, clearly disagreeing with what was being decided but she kept her opinion silent, instead putting her thoughts into a more digital form on the screen in front of her. This was merely something that she and her class had been invited to. If she had been graduated, perhaps she would have had some standing to have a voice in the matter, but she was still in school and prodigy or not, no one wanted to hear from a 'child.' Not that she would have spoken up anyway. Her social skills were completely incompetent; even she knew that. No, what she was, was facts and numbers. If anything, she would have hired someone to do the talking for her. She, unlike her cousin, was never one for the spotlight.

Her attention was quickly pulled as her instructor, who had been pacing back and forth behind the small group of students, approached her from behind and placed a hand on her shoulder. Kate noticeably flinched, halfly from being startled and the other half not quite used to physical contact. Tucking a stray strand of her brunette hair behind her ear, she quickly steeled her emotions to glance up at her professor with a look of question on her plain face.

"Are you ready?" she asked, though the instructor kept her head held high, eyes on the elected official currently speaking at the podium.

Kate's brows furrowed. What was once a very questioning look on her face intensifying, the creases folding in on her brow making her facial structure unrecognizable for a few moments.

"I'm... I'm sorry? Ready?" Kate asked, feeling her throat going suddenly dry.

This got her instructor's attention, as the older female looked down on Kate, a look of sympathy across her face.

"Oh... they didn't tell you?" her instructor asked, and Kate in response shook her head no. The instructor heaved out a great sigh, and rather than explain, pulled a pamphlet out of her pocket and placed it in front of Kate, smoothing out the wrinkles until the words 'Debate: Robotics Recall against Katherine Saunders. Who Knows What Is Best For Your Toaster?' became loud and clear on the thin paper. There was much written underneath; an entire article dedicated to the current problem they were facing with the new model and then another article about Kate herself and her previous experience with robotics. But this... it made no sense. Why would she be invited to something like this and not be told that she-

"I'm... speaking?" Kate asked, though it came out more of a statement than a question. Where was her whiskey now? Not only was she unprepared, she had never spoken to a mass this big before and she was absolutely not dressed for the occasion. Had she known, she would have thrown on a pant-suit rather than the short, khaki green dress and black pumps she had on now. She wanted to vomit - to disappear and claim she had been home sick all night and never came to the meeting in the first place. But reality quickly set in. This was no meeting, it was a debate - and she was the receiving end.

The person who had been speaking previously had closed their statement and another took the podium, making a few short remarks. Vaguely, Kate heard her name being mentioned over the loudspeaker and something about her experience within the field before her ears betrayed her and focused more on the thumping of her heart than what was being said. Her instructor gave her a quick squeeze on her shoulder in assurance, holding a quick nod.

"Kill them out there. I know you can do this. Win." was all her instructor said before wandering off to the opposite end of the student section.

She wasn't even sure how she got there, but the next thing Kate knew, she was in front of the podium, adjusting the microphone to her taller than normal height (given the extra few inches from her heels). The spotlights on her were practically blinding, but at least they kept her from being able to notice the sea of people sitting right before her. People that would be more important than her than she could ever even dream of. She cleared her throat awkwardly, then realizing that she had to say something... anything as the crowd seemed to grow somewhat impatient with her hushed murmurings. She could even faintly hear a comment of "She's just a student, after all..." That got Kate's jaw setting firmly. They were doubting her already. It was one thing for her to doubt herself, but when someone else was convinced that she couldn't do something, that's where she lost it.

"I disagree." Kate said into the microphone with more power and dignity than she even knew she possessed. It was, perhaps not the greatest way to start an introductory line as what was customary, but Kate didn't care. She was going to get straight to the point. "Project T-95.3 is showing no signs of hostility towards the human race by no means other than poor programming. The issue in which we are faced is only a slight malfunction that can be addressed simply by a software update transmitted via satellite. Not only is this method more effective, but it will also take less time than issuing a mass recall on the model leaving countless thousands without a reasonable product to provide their breakfast favorite."

This was all starting to sound so incredibly stupid. A debate over a toaster of all things! But these words were what had been written into her notes for a later grading. Never in a thousand years did she think she would have to address the entire public with it. The problem was, though, that people were getting hurt. Spontaneous explosions upon activation, house fires, short circuits. As simple as the bot may be, it was still a growing problem, and Kate found her passion there.

She could hear the cameras in the room rolling towards her direction, some even zooming in. She was even faintly aware that her live image was being shown upon a large screen behind her that took up most of the entire back wall; visible to those towards the back who were unable to see the real thing. Not only was this meeting being held live, but also broadcasted to other districts, somewhat as a sort of news update to those who where unable to make it to the meeting. She was about to go on when a man, sitting in one of the chairs that held a handful of scientists up on the stage with her, stood, and Kate, upon quick recognition, knew him to be the president of robotics within all of New Ancora. Under any other circumstance, Kate would have swooned upon meeting one of the most influential men in science. But now, as he stood to address her personally, she felt her blood turning into ice.

"My dear, your reasoning's, though admirable, are quite unjustifiable. What proof of the matter have you that will back up such a profound statement? Who is supposed to fund the research for this update and the computer means? I certainly won't be taking any money from my own pocket for a matter that is just as well taken care of by the people."

Kate could hear the camera's all panning back towards her, though she tried to ignore it, desperately trying to pretend that it was only her and this man who were holding a conversation; not the entire city.

"But the people are at no fault your Lordship." Kate interjected, earning a few murmurings among the people within the stands. It was this sort of 'meeting' that was best run-through by the high-council with their per-determined speech. The congregation was just expected to nod their heads and go with the decision that had already been made, but Kate had just enough about that, and was unafraid to voice her own opinion, to hell with formalities. If she was to speak without any prior knowledge, then she was going to make sure that it was her voice that was heard.

"Miss... Saunders..." the man said, a small bite of humor in his voice in the way he was addressing her, as though trying to adhere to a child in an effort to explain to them why Santa Claus was real. "I shall then hand this matter over to you then. Come up with this 'update' you are so sure about by no later than tomorrow evening. If your efforts prove fruitless, then I have no choice but to place you under arrest for your severe lack of judgement within something held so important. Your degree is being held upon a full-ride scholarship. Prove to me that it is not a waste of my money. Case dismissed."

The room bellowed out in an uproar, not to mention a rather shocked looking expression on Kate's face. Her jaw hung open, her eyes wide and unbelieving of what the man who she had once declared a personal inspiration had just suggested.

"Your Lordship, that is not what I meant!" Kate shouted out, unable to hold herself any longer but her own words were drowned out by the mass of others shouting objections and decorations of their own. It was then that the security had breached into the room, taking crowd control into their own hands as they pushed people towards the exit, firing a couple warning shots to ensure that the mass understood that they meant business.

"Fucking diplomats..." Kate grumbled as she was quickly issued back outside.

AUDREY

"Oh c'mon. It's not over, get up! Get up!"

Audrey's face, if it were possible, was contorted with even more horror than before. Her shaking pupils shrunk away from the cage fighter's hostile demands, burying themselves further into sunken eyes. The skin of her fingers reddened where metal met flesh, reflexively gripping the steel wire closer to her body - until the man's downed opponent stirred. Spike's muscles twitched to life like a mad scientist's bloodied atrocity reborn. Audrey barely heard the frightened yelp that escaped her lips, or the shriek that followed when Spike was K.O'd into the crowd.

"Come on, this way."

A skeletal hand wrapped around hers, pulling her from the scene. She fumbled behind the boney appendage, weakly resisting its hold on her. It wasn't until then that the young Alpha acknowledged the tears pooling in her eyes. Their stressed distortion made Vander, garbed head-to-toe in dark colors, resemble the Grim Reaper or some other nightmarish ghoul. I've died, she thought. I fell through a door and landed in Hell!"

"Let- Let go of me," Audrey objected cowardly. "Don't.. touch me."

The young woman - she figured out - didn't seem to hear her, but continued through the distracted throngs until they could sit down in a 'quiet' area of the bar. Audrey happily took a seat on the shabby staircase with little guidance from Vander. Once seated, grounded, the dark-haired woman hurried to compose herself. Spike's blood had mixed with the hot tears on her cheek. Together they stained her long white fingers, and the woman couldn't help but stare, speechless.

"You okay? The Spit gets rough sometimes, sorry. It helps to try to blend in a little bit. I mean, don't get me wrong, people from Alpha come to slum it all the time. But you look like you're dressed for Dead Ce-... Hey, you all right?"

Audrey only gawked at Vander, something her mother would scold her for doing. But who was she? Rationale told her that she didn't know. Reality reminded her that - while obvious dangers were gone - she was still in the bar and not on the subway, heading home. Dirty fingers slowly clutched the leather opening of her purse to protect the contents inside. Something inside told her that Vander wouldn't steal from her, but something about the girl also made her very uncomfortable... like looking into a funhouse mirror, finding a distorted and grotesque reflection.

"I'm... fine. What do you want?" She asked defensively.

CERBERUS zipped and darted between the swelled crowd of citizens in District 4. Currently not taking notice or care of anyone's initial direction or speed. It didn't matter anyway, any pedestrian who took notice of the large wolf synthetic quickly moved out of the way, granting him a clear pathway. It had only been a few days since he fled the Sundowner Science Facility on the outskirts of District 4, seeking his creator, the woman who knew his AI better than even he did. The search was initially fruitless, leading him to dead ends. But this signal here was traceable, not far away. Maybe she could help him find his purpose, reason for remaining active.




Dr. William Mars strode through the lobby of the facility, access keycard in hand. Walking slightly behind him was a young girl, wearing a simple beige dress. With bright auburn hair that seemed to catch the sun in its locks and smooth pale skin the color of alabaster, the girl would have been considered beautiful by many. But she looked so...so sad. It could be seen in her dark brown eyes, a heavy sadness that made all who looked into it fill with guilt - even if they had done nothing at all.

The girl's almost angelic features collided with Dr. Mars's own visage, hard and unyielding like stone, marred with creases and frown lines. Yet when their gazes met, he would offer her a small, uncharacteristic smile. The scientist waited an extra moment before scanning the keycard across a small panel, a heavy steel door sliding open with a thunk.

The duo stepped through the threshold into a steel-lined corridor, walking through the various hallways until reaching a large, open room, lit by various lights and a massive window on the ceiling, casting sunlight down on a small garden set up in the middle of the room. The room was empty, almost, aside from the occasional researcher, janitor, or intern to walk past in search of another door.

"This is the hub of the facility. It leads to nearly every other location in the building. We're early enough to avoid the big rushes, however." Dr. Mars explained to the girl beside him, who merely nodded silently in response, looking somewhat shelled-in and uncomfortable. "Now then." Dr. Mars continued, "we're expecting a visitor that should be here any moment."

As if on cue, one of the various doors lining the wall slid open as the K-9 Mk. 1 AI stepped out, turning its head in the direction of Dr. Mars. The machine approached the duo with slinking, very organic movements, as though it were an actual dog or wolf. Stopping just two feet in front of the doctor, the Mk. 1 sat on its back haunches, looking up at Dr. Mars.

"Greetings." It said simply, growing eerily silent once more. "Good morning, K-9." Dr. Mars responded in a tone that was less than wholly polite, as though the last thing he wanted was to be holding a conversation with a robot wolf.

Clearing his throat and adopting a stern look, Dr. Mars continued, this time in a commanding tone. "K-9, this is my daughter, River," he motioned to the girl beside him. "I'd like you and her to get to know each other. Follow her around, talk to her, protect her. Do you understand your new directive?"

"Affirmative." The K-9 acknowledged in a deep, growling voice, sounding as though it belonged to a heavily augmented human man as opposed to a machine.

"Good. Off you go then." Dr. Mars bid before turning on his heel and heading towards one of the other doors in the hub, leaving River and the Mk. 1 alone.

"I am the K-9 Mk. 1 Prototype, formal designation: CERBERUS." The Mk. 1 broke the silence, now looking up at River.

"Hello." She responded simply, sounding incredibly nervous, her voice quiet enough that it required Cerberus to heighten his audio receptors to calculate he had picked up the right words.

Without warning, River crouched down, meeting Cerberus at eye-level. "You don't think you're a dog, do you?" She asked, slightly louder than before, though her general tone and demeanor was still uneasy.

"My platform was built to resemble an organic canine creature, and certain facets of my programming reflect this. However, my neuro-AI was created to resemble a human brain to grant me further independence and awareness." Cerberus explained, not wavering in tone whatsoever.

"My father treats you like a pet." River replied, not moving from her spot.

"Correct. Dr. Mars's perception of me is that I am a domesticated synthetic pet. Whether this is a manifestation of his desire for a companion, or simply a reflection of his distaste for me is disputable." Cerberus replied, tilting his head about slightly when looking at River.

"Well..." she reached a hand out, slow at first, as though expecting Cerberus to snap. But when he remained still, she let her fingers run along the top of his head. "I won't treat you like a pet..."

After walking for another mile-and-a-half, Cerberus found where the radio signal had come from. A large industrial building, currently being vacated by hundreds of people.

Spotting a security booth only a few hundred yards away, Cerberus quickly sprinted in its direction, the guard in the window currently too busy reading a clearly pornographic magazine instead of actually doing his job.

Suddenly, Cerberus reared up on his hind legs, slamming his front half into the booth window, running his knife-like claws along the glass and snapping his jaws. The guard dropped the magazine in shock, almost falling out of his chair as he could only stare back at the wolf robot on the other side of his booth.

"Uh...can I, can I help you...sir?" The guard asked, honestly unsure of what else to say in the current circumstances. Cerberus let his mouth hang open as he tilted his head to the side.

"I am looking for Katherine Saunders." Cerberus replied aloud, earning another shocked expression from the security guard (who looked like he'd need a new pair of trousers).

"Uh, uhm...ch-check outside. The debate is over, I'm s-sure she's leaving with everyone else." The guard explained, blinking rapidly for a few moments as if to check that this was indeed real.

"Thank you." Cerberus responded before lowering himself from the window and sprinting off in the direction of the crowd, leaving an incredibly confused security guard in his wake.

Bringing his knuckles together and cracking them with a series of loud pops, Deon simultaneously rolled his shoulders, releasing the tension in the muscles there. He kept himself busy while his last competitor was being collected by walking over to the far edge of the cage where a small group of women were located. Thin arms grasped through the metal bars, fingers outstretching to touch him, their pretty faces pressed as close against the cool, bloodied metal as close as possible with tears streaming down their eyes in utter anticipation as he came closer and closer. Finally, he made a small effort by lifting up his hand, gracing outstretched fingers with a simple touch of his own. The hand shuddered, there was a small scream of unbelief and then the hand withdrew, the owner of which falling back into the crowd in an unconscious heap though those she fell back into simply laid her down on the floor and then closed the gap back up, uncaring for the females condition.

There were more hands, however, and more women. Deon took a particular interest in a woman in a red dress. Blonde, top-heavy in proportion, and with a rather mischievous look on her face. She wore a bit too much makeup for his personal liking, like a teenager making an attempt to look older but really, he could care less.

"Wassup baby? You enjoying the fights?" Deon asked, propping himself up against the side of the cage and folded his arms across his bare, sweaty chest. Other, female arms began to snake through, touching him, groping him, caressing him as one would to a lover, all along his arms, around to his chest - his legs... anywhere they could reach but Deon didn't even seem to notice as his full attention was on the woman in the red dress.

"You certainly are one hell of a fighter, Darth. And thanks to you, you just made me a bit richer tonight." the female responded with a soft, airy giggle as she extended out her own hand to run down his chest, causing Deon's arms to unfold and return to his sides.

"Yeah? Well that ain't all I can make you tonight." came Deon's snarky comment, his eyes on her hand as she began to trace the corded muscles of his abdomen.

There was a slight rise in volume and movement on the opposite side of the cage, getting Deon's attention away from the red-dressed-lady and towards the opening of the cage and had to suppress a bursted laugh as he watched a female enter into the cage.

"You... you're all mine."

"Hey now, baby. Calm down. There's plenty of Darth to go around." Deon replied, not quite understanding that the female was there to fight him - and it didn't help that she was beginning to (try to) take off her jacket. She was rather attractive, the more he looked at her. Though she had a strange taste in tattoos upon her face, he decided that it simply made her all the more interesting. Though his interest in women typically fell in line with how many rounds he was willing to give them in the bedroom. "Hell, you and red could team up. That'll really show you what a champion cage fighter is capable of."

The female raised her hands in what Deon had to assume was a defensive position. This got his eyebrows raised fully and this time, he could not hold back the laugh.

"Come on, showboy."

He was not alone with his amusement. Plenty others within the crowd roared and bellowed, the men wiping tears from their eyes as this was truly the most humorous thing that they had seen in The Spit for a long time.

Deon, still laughing, shook his head and excused himself from the woman in the red dress as he crossed over to the female.

"You have a strange way of trying to get my attention, baby. But you got it." he said, stopping just a foot or so away from her, not at all posing any sort of threat in the way he was standing. "You really wanna do this? There are plenty of... other things I'd rather do to your body. To destroy something so... entirely enticing and not in my preferred way... well that would just be a shame..."

His left hand was raised, his fingertips playing with the ends of her hair, almost lovingly. But there was something dark in his eyes, even more-so than usual. The music in the club changed as if on cue and Deon smirked. With the blink of an eye, his right hand was raised and let it fly to connect with her jaw in a powerful blow.

"Lock the fucking gate!" Deon yelled to the men stationed on the outside of the cage. A roar from the crowd was initiated, the promise of another fight getting their blood pumping to extreme levels and Deon looked around, smirking and smiling with them in their excitement before his unnatural golden-colored eyes looked back to the teal haired woman and let his face fall back into that of a warrior. "I got to teach a bitch a lesson."

(Edited so Kat doesn't have a small army with her)
Kat
6.20 PM Outside the Spit

I've been contacting and coordinating the assault during the flight over, calling in favors with the police to set up a surreptitious guard around the entire city block, all of them able to prevent people from escaping on foot. Unfortunately, this isn't my district, and the police don't like me anyways, so they're loathe to do much to help me. All I've gotten is to have the airspace cleared of all hovercars. I had requested at least 10 riot police, but they laughed at me, and said I was being ridiculous for wanting to take that many people with me on a single raid. I had been shooting a little high, but I could work with what they gave me. Two police to go in with me, both of them rookies. They'd be little more than useless in a firefight, so I'm going to have to be a bit more strategic about this than I would like. Mawali shouldn't be expecting this, but you don't become one of the largest drug lords in Beta district without being paranoid. He'll have a contingent of bodyguards with him, all of them watching the cage matches.
As my quad descends, I hop out early, booted feet hitting the ground.
I see the lone police vehicle idling across the street, with the pedestrians clearing a wide circle around them. People don't trust the police much in places like this.
Sighing, I cross the street to where the two rookies are. They don't see me coming, and are focused on playing a card game on the dashboard.
Knocking on the window, the two rookies jump in their seats and scramble out of the car, awkwardly straightening up in the street while I wait patently, a pained smile etched onto my face.
Both of them are young, with patchy facial hair and their hair shaved to exactly the length protocol recommends. I'm guessing they grew up here in one of the nicer habitation stacks, and were taught to believe that the police were the biggest, scariest gang in New Ancora. I like to think that's true sometimes.
"Uuh, I, hullo officer Wythburn?"
"At ease, boys, I'm not going to bite your head off."
"Uh, I know you asked for the riot police, but see, they're all busy wi-"
"I know the excuses they gave me. Still, whether or not they forced you to come with me tonight, or you volunteered, I appreciate that you'll be working with me tonight."
They glance at one another, the taller one scratching nervously at his curly blonde goatee, while the shorter one just looks down at his shoes.
"Listen, boys. I know the types of sims you're familiar with,"
The short one pales when he hears what I say, and is about to stammer something, and then realizes that I'm talking about training sims.
"And I can tell you that this will be nothing like that. All I need you to do for right now is to wait in the car, keep your transponder on, and be ready if I call for you. I'll be calling for you either for backup in a firefight,"
The taller one seems excited with this possibility.
"Or it'll be because I need you to take the prisoners away."
He deflates softly.
I nod briefly,
"Alright, gentlemen. Wish me luck."
I step away from the car, and walk across the deserted street to the Spit. My hands are shaking, and I shove them into my jacket pockets. I've been in a lot worse situations than this, but my body treats them all the same.
Making sure that my pocked white armor is hidden underneath my coat, I step into the pulsating bar, head low and eyes up, scanning for my target.

Under a different set of circumstances, Vander's actions may have been interpreted for what they were; a concerned woman trying to make sure another person was all right. But as she took in the expression on Audrey's face, the deeply unsettled stare, she realized that her efforts had not been perceived as an act of concern. The Zone Alpha woman's hand moved up, instinctively protecting the opening of her purse, as if she was worried Vander would reach into it right then and there. [B]"I'm...fine. What do you want."

Make no mistake, there was a small part of Vander's mind that wondered just how much money there was in that purse. Had Audrey unthinkingly set it down in the club, how much was inside? Enough to buy more than a single day's supply of Lucid? Probably. But that part of Vander's mind was small in comparison to the much more human side of her. And that part was far more concerned with how she was currently being perceived. Instead of a fellow human concerned for her well-being, Audrey saw a grotesquely woman from the Beta districts. Someone not to be trusted. Vander took a step back, giving Audrey her space. "Nothing," she answered sincerely. "Just checking that you were okay..."

She trailed off, distracted by a sudden change in the noises of the crowd. Audrey likely would have picked up on the shift in the mood before Vander's dulled senses caught it. The cheers of those nearest the cage quieted, and laughter came instead. Pushing the longer half of her hair out of her face, Vander turned to look.

There was a new opponent for the fighter in the ring. A teal-haired woman was making an effort to remove her leather jacket, gearing up for a fight. Even at this distance, Vander could see that she looked sloppily drunk. But the champion wasn't about to back down. He yelled for someone to lock the cage shut. The fight was happening, and the crowd was excited.

Vander glanced back at Audrey. Raising a thin hand, she pointed to a dimly illuminated 'exit' sign on the opposite wall. "I can show you out and help you hail a ride if you like." Her offer was gentle. She wasn't pushing Audrey to leave, she was simply offering help. "If not, I'll clear off," she added with a smile.

11:30am district 4


The song erupted into the once quiet bedroom stirring Ada from her late night slumber. Tired groans and a series of back popping and arm stretching ensued. Numb flesh for hands found their way up to her glazed eyes and rubbed away whatever sleep that still lingered.



Click!

The song was shut off as Ada dismissed her alarm. No longer lying down, she swung her legs over her bedside her bare feet resting against the cool surface of the synthetic wood flooring. The motion alerted the room and lights illuminated the area automatically. The room was small with minimalist furniture to fill the room. A small but decently sized studio complex. Ada padded over to the plain dresser across from her bed which held all her clothing. She rummaged through the neatly piled clothes while pulling out what she will dress into for the evening. Once in the tiny bathroom, Ada showered and pondered about last night.

Last night 2:37am District 17

Ada had finished up busting another dealer who gave her no useful information to further investigate the drug trade. She was on her way home when she heard the scream of a woman in a nearby apartment complex. She rushed over while arming herself with her glock that she usually hides away within her jacket, trying to figure out which apartment it had come from only to find a disheveled looking boy who looked no older than 8 alone and out on the street kneeling on the ground. Tears dripped down his dirty cheeks and when he noticed Ada, he reached out to her with pleading eyes. Just then, a man in his late forties ran out the complex wild eyes searching as he yelled obscenities she dared not repeat. It was evident to her that this man was the child's father, a concept the man will never understand. He beckoned for the child to return home, to him, only to be angered when the child cowered behind Ada.

"Please.. don't let him take me.. It hurts..."

Ada's eyes widened as she realized what kind of man no.. beast this is. The hunger in his eyes were no different than those of a predator.

"Get back here!"

The beast of a man had pounced upon her only to crumple down to the ground at her feet. She had fired her police issued gun into his gut. Blood seeped out of him forming a pool larger by the second. It was when the child tugged at the woman's shirt did she snap out of it and radioed in to the nearest police department's channel.

"Officer Fix of District 4's CID police force calling in for assistance."

The local police came with the emergency paramedic unit trailing behind. They found the woman who screamed earlier and was identified as Circe Page, the child's mother and a woman known for sharing beds in exchange for drugs and money. The man was taken into district custody where he will be tried for assaulting an officer, he was identified as Shaun Page, the local drunk and all around asshole. The child was also taken into custody and had been placed into the foster care system due to not having any known living relatives.

Present Day 5:45pm District 13

Ada had recently boarded off the subway and already she was on the receiving end of stares of ill will. Her lace up boots clacked against the dirty pavement as she strolled around the district. She tugged at her cropped leather jacket to keep her glock hidden while holstered to her tank top. Her ensemble was complete with a pair of black stockings beneath her faded green cut-off shorts. She carried no purse or clasp, it only served her as nothing more than a hindrance. Her pockets were sufficient enough to carry her valuables.

It was only a matter of minutes when Ada found her way to The Spit. As she neared, her step gained a swagger as she masked her once serious complexion with vibrant confidence and a lopsided smirk. She entered The spit with an altered ID that identified her as Evelyn Dion of District 9, the border district as some have called it. The bouncer had recognised Evelyn with her trademark smirk and dyed tipped hair. He waved her in not caring if she was alpha or not as long as she paid for her drinks that may or may not be overpriced.

Evelyn had entered just in time to catch the infamous Darth knocking some other man out cold. Just as she sat at the bar to order herself a drink, the man next to her eyed her up and down before he chuckled taking a sip of his beer.

"Aren't you a little young to be here sweetie?"

Evelyn scoffed at the man and called out to one of the bartenders.

"Hey! Lemme get that Adios Motherf*cker!" She smirked even wider as she glanced down at the man's drink. Of course it was beer as it was the designated goto drink but Evelyn had tastes for the harder shit.

"I'll also be taking some shots with my new friend here! Straight vodka." She smirked at the man as he raised a brow at her. "Looks like daddy's little girl is all grown up now huh?" she chimed before laughing obnoxiously and a tad bit too loud.

He was laughing. The arrogant son of a bitch was laughing. It took all Elizabeth's effort not to crack a smirk, her determination on keeping up her lopsided stance overpowering the confidence she felt inside. He was arrogant, and she'd been able to play off it perfectly. Granted, she could have walked in their as graceful as ever, and he still wouldn't have taken her seriously. She was a woman. But the drunk bit, with the fogged contacts and everything, made it that much better.

She kept her gig up as the champion fighter approached her, his monologue doing nothing but giving her a reason to look him dead in the eye. She could feel her heart racing, pulsing at the prospect of what was to come. Her prey was getting closer. Pounding, constant and steady, filled her chest, blood rushing everywhere as adrenaline shot through her limbs. He stopped, in perfect reach, but she waited just a bit more, feeling as his hand reached out to toy with her hair. A blink shut her eyes for the smallest of seconds, her head leaning into his touch, almost as if she craved him, wanted his texture. But all he'd done was given her the perfect view of his other hand, her eyes tilting down as if to relish in the moment. A shiver was allowed down her spine. She'd watched him fight. And learned his style. He wanted the big swing; his left hand wasn't the threat. So when the right hand hooked up, she was ready.

All at once, instinct grasped every inch of Elizabeth's body, her heart beating in sync with the jerk of her torso, as her jaw escaped the swing's arc. Before the next beat, her forehead was already whipping forward, and with the momentum of her forward step as well as the muscles in her neck, back, and torso, she made to headbutt him right in the nose, just as the word "gate" let his pretty little mouth.

The hunter was ready to strike. She'd let his own cockiness give her the advantage. The swing he'd made towards her had blocked his left arm from reacting. And with her left hand raised and pushed towards his chest as she moved forward, his right fist would be pinned while she struck. Behind the foggy tinted contacts, a predatory glean shown in her eyes. This was what she lived for, the exhileration, the adrenaline, the plan coming together. She was about to get her revenge, and in just the way she wanted it.

The headbutt was just an attempt to disorient him, and as her body whipped back again, her left arm pulled away just as her right knee flew up towards his stomach. That was the next heartbeat. And as the striking leg moved to regain footing, two arms shot forward to push the hopefully stunned champion back. That didn't even take a pulse. By the time the flurry was over, distance would be put between Darth and Elizabeth, the entire last second, almost, spent countering his simple swing and setting up the fight.

Meanwhile, with room to breath, Elizabeth would drop in a similar stance to only moments before, this time her arms steady, fists placed correctly as each muscle tensed in preparation. Two eyes, full of energy and fire, glared at the man opposite her, and inside her mind and soul were pumping with life. Outside the cage, any traces of laughter had stopped, muffled by the shocked oohs and cries of surprise as the "drunk bitch" reverted to a whole other woman, whose very being, sarcastic, cold, and taunting, were embodied in the tone of her next words.

"Have I got your attention, baby?"

Three men stood outside of the fighting cage, one leaned against it, the other two standing behind him. As Darth entered the match, the young man leaned against the cage spoke, his green eyes had been following the man as he entered the ring. Derrick Noel had dealings with him before, while he never was one for the brutal fights that took place in the Spit, they were a great way to make money off others.

"Twenty on Darth. Guy's a monster."

"I'll match that, but on Spike. Heard only good things about him." One of the two men behind Derrick said, his head shaved, a tribal tattoo on the side of his neck. He nodded at the third man who locked eyes with him and spoke as well.

"Yeah, sorry Dee, don't think Darth's got it this time." He stated.

Derrick didn't say anything, a grin just came across his face as the fight began and one fighter launched himself at the other. He had no thought of agreeing with his friends and not taking Darth, he was always a smart gambler, only took bets he knew he was going to win. He didn't say another word until Spike was KO'd, though he heard the two behind him slowly realize they had lost money as the fight had gone on. He turned around towards both of his friends, a cocky grin on his face.

"So sorry guys, but I won. Fair is fair." Derrick said, then casually extended his hand out as both men forked over the winnings. As the crowd went ballistic the two moved away from Derrick, who waved the hand with their money at them as the walked, then pocketed the cash. As he turned back to the cage he saw a woman had entered, he didn't really want to see her pretty face get pounded in, the ladies man that he was. He moved away, over towards the bar and took a seat.

"Glass of whiskey." He said to a bartender, he took a long drink from it, then his eyes shifted to his side to fine a woman had approached it, hollering something about being a daddy's girl and ordering the heavier drinks. All to the surprise of another man to her side. Derrick smirked, then spoke up.

"Depends how well she can hold her drink, doesn't it?" He asked her with a smile.

‘Jokers!’ The pair of them Wikus thought to himself, musing on his current predicament. Some justice seeking detective trying to make a name with the brass, and some BoD cynic trying to prove a point. Facetious fools the both of them. Hauling him across the District for a conviction-less interview. If the they were going to go to the effort of perpetually perturbing his work they could at least pull some iota of a prosecution together. Their incompetence was actually irritating.
‘Maybe we’ve just gotten this thing nailed down.’ He decided briefly.
Now was not the time for resting neither on laurels or failures; as always, it was a time for action. He’d lost the entire afternoon and evenings worth of business. He’d missed two scheduled sit-downs to discuss the position of a fledgling lieutenant, barely more than a hyped up cap’ making shapes. The boys upstairs knew the deal though, his absence wouldn’t cause any major concerns.

Rain feathered down from above. It was not heavy, instead it almost seemed to just be resting downwards. Scratching his head slightly, Wikus continued moving to the nearest transit hub. At the very least he could make up for some lost time. Presenting his left palm out in front of himself, a neat haptic-adaptive interface whirred into being above it. 11:47pm. A flurry of notifications flashed on, which Wikus read briefly before dismissing them all with a flick of his wrist. Navigating briefly through its index his arm dropped after a while, and a minor buzzing began humming in his ear.
“You’re out?” quizzed the voice in his earpiece, cold but friendly.
“Yes. No troubles. Same detective though.” Wikus replied, calmly.
“Bigger issues than that. BoD is breathing down our necks much more than normal. That guy you dealt with today, he can be worked with. We’ve another though, one of those occasional ‘Joans’ we get.”
“What cleaning up the districts in the name of justice? Gimme a fucking break? Where do these clowns get off?” Sniped, Wikus.
“Yeah, essentially. ‘Katherina Wythburn’ is her name. Self professed white knight. She shouldn’t be much of an issue on her own but if any elements of the police decide to start following her lead it won’t be pretty. We’ll be keeping close tabs on her. For now, we think it’d be a tad impetuous to just off her.”
“Noted.” Grunted Wikus. “Anything more immediate or should I just presume to continue the schedule?”
“Actually, quite a bit.” Chirped the correspondent. “We’ve gotten a lot of private citizen info as of last week, and updated some side observations.”

Tsst.
A short rasping sound split the blanket of drizzle induced noise as Wikus entered the transit station. The main foyer was rather void of people. He’d arrived during that seemingly imperceptible time between late night outward travel and early morning drug-infused home-ward travel. A teenage couple sat on a bench inside smoking cigarettes and not saying much to each other in the dim relentless silence that ensues after a public fingerbanging session. The couple eye him oddly as he clinked his way across the glassy floortiles, descending down the staircase to the subway below.

“Go on.” Beckoned Wikus.
Staring up at the display, the transit for the Nisha-Tano borough was ten minutes away. Arriving in half that time was a transit with final stop in the opposite direction, at the far end of District 17. ‘The Asylum it is’ he concluded.
“Well there’s a pusher making some waves. We put his turf about five kilometres north side of Roxxies’.”
“Isn’t that Panacho territory?” piped Wikus.
“It’s that fuzzy grey zone. And we need more proxies. The proxy cells are doing things we could only have hoped for ten years ago. We need more outside pushers as well. Name is Derrick, uses the incredibly original name ‘D’. His file will already have been sent to you by now. Do it sometime in the next two days. You’re wanted for a meeting next week. We’ve also got someone taking hits in the Districts who doesn’t crop as a contact for anyone we have channels with. Young female. Info on whereabouts and movements is limited. If you can track her down and suss out the situation; do.”

Moving to the ticket machine, Wikus held an eye to its biometric scanner. After a few moments of internal processing, his face appeared on the machine along with the name ‘Donald Menson’, an incorrect date of birth and social code. A ticket quickly popped out of the machine.
The transit rattled into the stop, squealing to announce its arrival. A smooth, sleek machine, only clanking due to the sudden braking under its own power.
“Good. I’ll get down to things tomorrow. That cell had me cagey. I need a drink.” Wikus’ response was a curt one.



The Asylum. The letters were emblazoned above the warehouse entrance. Two burly looking doormen were laughing to themselves in a jovial manner, dealing with a group of particularly attractive young women aiming to get in. Reaching where they stood, Wikus gave that look that is given between acquaintances of unequal social standing; one wanting to the other desperately to like them. Strolling straight past the queue and into the club, it was evident in which was which.
Tonight was the classics, tracks from the first two decades of the 21st Century, the cultural rebirth of House music of all kinds. A massive B minor piano riffing soul track was climaxing as he entered, and in it was replaced with a tech house classic. Inside was a fervour, a cacophony of sound and circus of colour. Occupants danced and thrashed and shuffled feeling like gods with the help of their favourite substances. Muddling his way through the crowd, Wikus got to the bar with a gentle smirk.
“Jameson, no chaser and a pint of blonde.”

AUDREY

”Nothing…Just checking that you were okay.”

Likely story, Audrey thought narrow-mindedly. Father told her about people from Beta, people like her and the lower district rabble. They were addicted to their drugs and their situation, he would say. She didn’t want to admit that her father’s stereotypical portrayal was correct. As an economics student, interested and genuinely concerned with the financial recovery of the lower districts, she wanted to believe that Beta’s were prey to their environment – not the predators.

”I can show you out and help you hail a ride if you like,”the matted girl offered from a distance Audrey didn’t realize she created. “If not, I’ll clear off.”

The wooden floorboard creaked under Audrey’s shifting weight. Any suspicion quickly fizzled away in the presence of Vander’s generosity. She felt a sickness creep inside of her, tasting its sour tang on her tongue – if that was possible. It suddenly felt like a rude and embarrassing reaction, and Audrey was glad that Vander’s gaze was averted. More bodies filtered into the murky backdrop of the bar without care for the conversation on the stairs. Their applause boomed near the caged arena and carried over the constant hum of boisterous conversation. The previous slaughter, only minutes old, hadn’t fazed The Spit’s patrons even slightly.

“What kind of awful place is this? That man – he’s butchering people like meat! Why don’t you stop him?” The girl asked with a misplaced accusatory tone.