Untitled Story: Chapter 1 - Streetwise Hercules

The lights flickered ever so slightly in the workshop on the gray November day as the row of solid-state generators were taxed just beyond their limits. This in and of itself wasn’t much of note; the light industrial complex buried in the remains of New Jersey wasn’t connected to the main grid, so people had to make do. Originally, local capacity was designed to handle a woodworking shop here, an auto shop there - light stuff, hence the zoning, parking, and cafeteria options.

Over the years, things changed. The auto shop remained, but light weapons manufacturing and high-altitude thrillcraft manufacturing had moved in next door, the cafeteria was replaced with a row of vending machines - sorry, a “U-serve Diner & Cafe” - and as New Jersey was a no man’s land the local grid was never updated for the now changed power draw.

Hence the row of generators making up a low wall down the middle of the mixed use space. They hummed atop the bare concrete floor, which was spiderweb cracked and splotched with decades of use, abuse, spills and thrills. Mac was certain that it had been cleaned well enough that errant cigarette ash wouldn’t light it on fire, again, but he couldn’t be too sure.

Not like that would stop him from smoking, mind. Sure, the lung transplant every decade was a bit of a bitch, but outside of that the smooth, toasted flavor of Lucky Strikes was just something he couldn’t live without. Not that he had an addiction! It was a lifestyle.

Speaking of.

“You good, kid?” Mac growled, his voice like a kindly avalanche of gravel. He patted the open chest of the contender, the half-smoked cigarette wedged between his index and middle fingers dropping said ash on the back of his leathery hand. The contender nodded in distracted approval.

Mica was spread-eagle on a deranged operating table, the inch-thick composite-aluminum slab the only thing strong and sturdy enough in the workshop to support the weight of his frame. He was securely fastened to the slab with magnetic locks, manual clamps and a couple of cargo straps for good measure; the power, pneumatic fluid lines, oil lines and various other liquid exotic material pumps run through small grooves within the table’s face to the contender’s bot, plugged into his body in a chaotic spiderweb of cludged-together yankee know-how. The flickering overhead lights would be distracting if his protective hood wasn’t locked in place, the diagnostic HUD faithfully rattling off various statuses of his rig. “M’fine. Systolic pressure seems to be flat though - am I topped off?”

“I thought you said you were fine.” Mac said, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his smile as he took a drag of his cigarette. “Besides, I’m much more concerned about testing your arm actuators than figuring out whatever the hell is wrong with your spine.”

“Systolic pressure along my spinal column is going to reduce my turning speed. I have to stay light on my feet.” Mica replied, naturally turning his head to face his mentor, who started to walk around the table and out of Mica’s sight. “I was late to those left hooks last match.”

“You certainly were, but that has to do with footwork and not twist torque.” Mac said, grunting as he gripped a hanging loop of chain and began to pull. Slowly, as the pulley chains rattled, Mica’s right arm extended and lifted from the table as far as the straps would allow - just a few inches above the bare metal. “If you’d be more confident in your footwork, you could start flat dashing-“

“The last time I flat-dashed I jumped sideways through the first safety cage.” Mica said, reaching up within the larger mechanical frame to pull up and away his diagnostic screen, his small but well-beaten hands flicking a few switches on the console near his collar bone. “I’d rather take the hit before a DQ within two rounds.”

“Arena awareness, kid.” Mac said, the hiss and snap of a pneumatic tube disconnecting from Mica’s underarm. “If you aren’t paying attention, maybe we should go back to basics? Dodgecraft?”

“I am not dodging another fucking wrench!” Mica yelled, making his point emphatically known. “I’d rather do tire therapy than that again!”

“Ah. Your face was like that when you got here; the wrench didn’t do you no harm.” Mac retorted, moving back to Mica’s head, his own beat-up console flickering back to life from sleep mode. Although it was more robust than anything Mica had at his disposal, at the moment it was simply copying the feed from his on-board diagnostics. “Now. Test actuator one, please.”

Mica slipped his hand back down his chest and into the open arm-hole of his rig, his hand gripping the familiar controller and completing the touch-sensitive electrical circuit. Within a  few seconds internal airbags inflated to an uncomfortable pressure before suddenly releasing, molding a thousand tiny pouches perfectly to the contours of his arm. He wiggled his hand in the pressurized glove, it’s larger metal counterpart rotating freely just a few feet away. He turned his hand to the right, and his metal wrist completed a 360 degree rotation; Mica repeated the gesture to the left for another full rotation.

Mac idly scratched his bald scalp underneath his black beanie, the data stream showing nothing out of the ordinary. “And two.”

Mica flexed his wrist, his servo-hand pulling back to almost 90 degrees and pushing down the same. “Full movement.”

“Mm. Prime to prime, please.” Mac said, taking another drag. He watched the data stream in meticulously, watching the various pinch points in Mica’s arm with interest as twisted cabling flexed, electrical cabling jolted and hydraulic fluid tensed as his protege individually flexed every finger within his gauntlet, the corresponding digits moving faithfully.

Mac exhaled, blue-gray smoke quickly dissipating to blend in with the blue-gray walls and the blue-gray sky peeking through the yellowed skylights. “Well, at least that damn snake didn’t break anything.”

“I didn’t know grappling like that was allowed!” Mica replied, the lights flickering again as the power went back to the local grid and the generators slipped into idle. “I would’ve kept well out of reach-“

“-If you had known, and you didn’t review any of the footage I told you to because you were too busy fuckin’ around.” Mac finished the though, tapping his cigarette ash onto the console.  “If you had, and if you stopped relying on your natural reflexes so much, you’d be developing the skills to put you into C-league.”

“I’m an A-league player.” Mica said, matter-of-factly, as he anticipated the next test. Squeezing his hand into a very tight fist, he pushed forward, his suit responding only a half-second later with an incredibly loud bang. Mica’s mechanical fist extended with pent-up mechanical force a good additional three feet, the loud metal-on-metal clang of the safety stop the only thing halting his 80kg gauntlet from rocketing off of his arm and into the wall.

Mac whistled as his diagnostic screen showed all green. “Of course you are, of course you are. That’s why we’re in Camden instead of the diamond ring of Olympus Mons, mmm.”

Mica’s expression soured as Mac’s words sank in; He was right. Mac had a knack for punching far above his weight class - both in and out of the ring, with his fists and his words. Although the line wasn’t delivered with any sort of malice, it hit right between the eyes: If Mica was good enough to be A-league, he would be. If he was good enough to be B-league, he wouldn’t be in the exclusion zone. If he was even in C-league, he could afford more than ramen, third-hand pneumatics and Mac’s generous salary.

As it was, he didn’t even perform in the all-Terran league; he could never make the cut with his show performances, no matter how big the crowd he pulled. His parents would disown him if he truly left his cradle world, so the transportation costs to the exo-solar venues ate into two-thirds of anything he did bring in. He was on track to spend the best decades of his life doing bullshit fighting for bullshit pay.

Mica wanted it… But he didn’t want it bad enough, and that thought caused him to clench his jaw.

Sensing the tone shift, Mac coughed - not due to the smoking, never due to the smoking, but because he got something stuck in his throat; it just so happened to also snap Mica out of his depressive funk, which was something Mac couldn’t ever understand.

“Ah well. Exosolar is a great way to get good training on large, fast targets.” Mac continued, one-finger tapping the plastic-coated keyboard, the “pristine” well-worn keys underneath clacking dutifully as new commands were issued, various pumps and capacitors kicking on. “Since we’ve got a few weeks until your next bout, why don’t we junkyard dog it for a while?”

“I don’t want to risk the hoses.” Mica replied, the fire out of his voice. 

“Mmmm. Kid, come on.” Mac pulled out his softpack, tapping it on the top of the terminal screen to pop out a fresh cigarette. Pulling it out of the pack with his teeth, he used the cherry of his previous, dying cig to light the new one, putting out the red coal with a pinch of his calloused fingers. “You’re not about to get better by sitting around feeling bad for yourself. I told you I’m not training any cowards, cunts or continentals - so suck it up.”

Mac stared down at the top of Mica’s head, watching the kid’s expression from a one-way angle. Mica sighed before his expression softened, and he nodded softly.

“Yeah. Sorry, I just started to feel bad for myself there. I need to want it more.” Mica said, using his cheek to flip a switch on his collarbone console, the airbags slowly deflating around his arm.

“You can do that all day long when you’re not in my ring or my rig.” Mac said, rolling the fresh cigarette to the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “Don’t dwell on the punches you didn’t dodge. Burn it as fuel for your journey, kid.”

“Yeah. Bill’s tomorrow?” Mica said, pulling his arm out of the inflated cuff, reaching down to unlock the safety cage that held him in his operator’s pod.

“6AM.” Mac replied, and Mica groaned.