By the time Mason gets out of staging after his second-round match, the whole arcade feels like it’s tilted toward the main ring.
It’s Kellen.
“KING K FEATURE MATCH IN FIVE,” the overhead speakers blare. “ALL VIEWERS TO RING ONE. THIS IS YOUR CONTENT BLOCK, PEOPLE.”
Kids abandon free-play mid-game. Older teens in team jerseys cut through the rows to get closer to the barrier. Even some parents shuffle forward, phones already up.
Mason has just scrawled his name on the slip for his win—barely—over the midrange Support Naomi warned him about. His hands still buzz faintly from rig feedback, throat dry, stomach undecided about food.
“Water later,” he mutters. “Watch now.”
The cooler line is already queued up. He veers toward the rail instead.
The crush near the main ring is almost body-to-body, heat and concession smells pressed up against the cool metal. The Field’s hum runs through the barrier into Mason’s ribs.
Blitz Fang Hoodie is there again, hood up. Union Cap has ceded his prime spot to a knot of middle schoolers and now leans on a post behind them, arms folded.
On the caster platform, the two commentators are back in full performance mode. Play-by-play leans into his mic, grin wide; co-caster flicks through overlays on a tablet, lining up clips.
“Folks,” play-by-play booms, “if you watch any stream from today and only remember one match, it’s probably this one. You know him. You flame him. You clip him. You boost his highlight reels. Give it up for King K himself—Kellen Royce!”
The lights around the main entrance dim. A bass-heavy track kicks in, synths skittering over the top. Fog machines hiss in short bursts near the floor.
Through the haze, Kellen walks out like he’s cutting through a fashion show.
Iridescent jacket that shifts between black and deep blue with each angle. Black jeans with subtle sigil embroidery catching the colored light. His rig is a sleek, current-model bracer—smooth contours, bright, even LEDs pulsing in time with the music.
Copper streaks in his curled hair pick up every flash. A tiny star earring glints when he turns his head.
He aims his first look not at the crowd, but at the cameras—three of them, Mason counts. One shoulder rig, one perched near the caster desk, one gliding backward on a gimbal as Kellen advances.
“Hey,” Kellen calls toward the nearest lens, lips curling. “We doing this, or did they want another ten minutes of ad roll?”
The crowd erupts—cheers, a few theatrical boos, a chant of “KING K! KING K!” from the younger kids.
He finally drags his gaze up to the stands, lifting his arm in an easy arc that shows off the rig and the jacket in one sweep.
“Is he always like this?” Blitz Fang Hoodie mutters.
Union Cap snorts. “Last month at HarborCon he tried a backflip off the steps for a clip. Media coach about had a heart attack. So, yes.”
Mason watches how clean everything looks. No tape on the strap. No scuffs. No hairline crack across the HUD. His own rig’s worn plastic and hand-inked sigils feel heavier by comparison.
A handler in an AstraForge-partner polo hovers at the edge of the ring, tablet in hand. She flashes Kellen a quick signal—two fingers, then a small circle.
He gives the tiniest nod, like he knew the beats anyway.
“And facing our reigning content prince,” co-caster chimes in, “we’ve got a challenger fresh out of district qualifiers, making a name with some nasty midrange Titan lines—give it up for Owen ‘Stonehand’ Park!”
A boy walks out from the opposite tunnel. Late teens, a bit stockier than Mason, brown hair clipped short. His tee is a clean Titan archetype print, not branded, not custom. Rig decent but standard. No handler. No music beyond the default match jingle.
His eyes widen for a heartbeat when the feature lights and noise slam into him. He swallows, forces a smile, shoulders tensing.
“He looks like he’s gonna throw up,” Hoodie whispers.
The line makes Mason’s jaw clench. He recognizes that tight, braced walk—the shift from knowing you’re good at something to realizing you’re about to be background in someone else’s story.
They step onto their platforms: Kellen on blue, Owen on red.
“Players, acknowledge,” Denise calls from the ref stand. “Rig tap.”
Bracers tap with a clear chime. The rigs lock into the official instance.
“Good luck,” Owen offers, mic just picking it up.
Kellen flashes a quick grin. “You too.”
The dome over the main ring darkens a shade as the Core Field ramps up. HUD elements bloom in the air between platforms: names, archetypes, Core bars, timers.
KELLEN ROYCE (KING K) – STRIKER
OWEN PARK (STONEHAND) – MIDRANGE TITAN
Mason’s rig vibrates lightly as spectator sync kicks in.
The countdown hangs in the air: 3…2…1…
GO.
Beat one.
Charge climbs from three to four on both sides.
Kellen spends instantly.
Rank-2 Blitz Fang flashes on his rig display. Mason catches the art—the sleek wolf-thing with twin energy trails—before it dissolves into light.
Charge on Kellen’s HUD drops to two.
A crack of pale blue rips open along his half of the arena. Blitz Fang lands in a low crouch, pads dimpling the Field surface, cyan arcs snaking along its back and shoulders.
Owen lets Charge tick, staying on four. No early wall yet.
“Interesting,” co-caster notes. “No Rank-1 scout, no cheap wall. Respecting the opener.”
Beat resolves.
Blitz Fang streaks forward, stopping just shy of the center line, claws digging in.
Beat two.
Kellen drops one Charge on Quickline Advance, a simple acceleration Tactic. It lets Blitz Fang cross the neutral tiles without burning its command.
On the other side, Owen finally commits. His Charge dips from five to two as Ironcarapace Bulwark flashes—Rank-3 Titan, big shield, thick armor.
Bulwark slams into existence just ahead of his Core line, shield raised.
Blitz Fang arrives a fraction later and smashes into that shield, claws showering sparks. Numbers flare—seven attack into ten defense. Owen’s Core nudges from twenty to nineteen.
“Stonehand soaking that opener,” play-by-play says. “This is why you bring a wall.”
Beat three.
Kellen uses the rebound.
Two Charge into Razor Loop. Blitz Fang’s next attack re-angles mid-motion.
On the Field, Blitz Fang bounces off the shield, twists in midair, and rakes across Bulwark’s flank instead. Damage bleeds past armor. Owen’s Core dips again, nineteen to seventeen.
Owen answers with a face-down Trap, glyph sinking behind Bulwark’s right shoulder.
“Crush Zone or Counter Net,” Union Cap mutters behind Mason. “If it’s Crush, he wants K’s second body.”
Beat four.
Kellen’s grin goes sharper.
He spends three Charge. Crossline Raider’s silhouette—humanoid Striker with twin blades—is on his HUD for a breath.
Charge meter drops hard.
Crossline Raider flashes into being one tile behind Blitz Fang, blades low, knees bent.
Owen uses the rest of his Charge to bring in Stonebreaker Jugger behind Bulwark. Big hammer, mid defense, heavy swing.
Beat resolves.
Blitz Fang edges toward the Trap tile, weight coiled.
The glyph pulses faintly.
Kellen’s thumb cuts a quick arc on his rig. Blitz Fang jinks sideways at the last instant, leaving the tile open.
Crossline Raider steps into it instead.
The glyph flares.
Red-orange lines lash up, coiling around Raider’s legs.
TRAP: CRUSH ZONE – HEAVY, DISABLE DODGE, -2 DEF.
“Got him,” Union Cap says, satisfied.
Stonebreaker lurches forward, hammer swinging in a brutal overhead blow. It connects square with the slowed Raider. Health bar shears off a chunk; the UI pings warning colors. Kellen’s Core stays at twenty, but the threat is obvious.
For the first time, Kellen’s smile flickers. It’s not panic—more like annoyance that a script missed its cue.
Beat five.
His free hand adjusts an earbud, buying a half-second. Then Charge spends: three into Flicker Step, movement Tactic that lets a creature phase a tile with reduced damage.
Crossline Raider’s outline splits as Stonebreaker’s next swing comes in. The hammer passes through one ghost image and only grazes the real one. Damage still lands, smaller this time.
Blitz Fang darts around Bulwark’s far side, slashing Stonebreaker from behind. Titan armor flares; Owen’s Core drops to sixteen.
The next few Beats blur into traded blows.
Bulwark and Stonebreaker grind down Kellen’s Strikers bit by bit. Kellen returns fire with sharp, low-cost Tactics—small stuns, forced mispositions—keeping his board alive longer than stat lines alone allow.
By Beat eight, Bulwark’s health bar hovers at half, Stonebreaker lower. Blitz Fang’s is a little over half; Crossline Raider clings on in the red.
Owen’s Core: twelve.
Kellen’s: eighteen.
“Owen is hanging in there,” co-caster says. “This isn’t a walkover.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Beat nine.
Kellen leans into risk.
He leaves Blitz Fang aggressive, burns Charge on All-In Lunge. Attack up, defense down; trade-heavy.
Blitz Fang slams straight into Stonebreaker’s chest. Stonebreaker swings back, hammer colliding with Blitz Fang’s ribs.
Damage blooms both ways.
Kellen’s Core plunges from eighteen to nine; Owen’s from twelve to six.
“King sacrifices life points like it’s nothing,” play-by-play crows. “Sets up the threshold.”
The Final Drive icon on Kellen’s HUD blinks, not fully lit—Core still above five.
He doesn’t push it further. Not yet.
Beat ten and eleven are relentless exchanges. No Drive, just tight resource play.
Blitz Fang collapses under a final hammer swing. Crossline Raider avenges it with a quick twin strike that finally breaks Stonebreaker down to shards of light.
Bulwark hangs on with a sliver, reinforced by one last Armor Plate. Owen scrapes two points off Kellen’s Core in a desperate chip, nine to seven.
Control metrics flash even. Damage slightly Kellen’s way. Style already deep blue.
Beat twelve.
Kellen spends his last bit of Charge on Overclock Cut, a small, high-precision buff to Crossline Raider’s next strike.
Raider dashes, blades crossing at Bulwark’s exposed seam. The Titan’s health clicks to zero. Owen’s Core takes the overflow—six to three.
Time expires mid-motion.
HUD freezes.
ROUND ONE: KELLEN ROYCE – DECISION.
“Owen looked good there,” co-caster says. “Held his lines, landed counters. But you give Kellen that many touches, he bleeds you out.”
On the rail, Blitz Fang Hoodie exhales. “Thought he’d steal it for a sec.”
“Boy didn’t fold,” Union Cap says. “That matters.”
On the platforms, Kellen rolls his shoulders, grin back at full wattage. Owen stares down at his rig for a couple of seconds, then takes a breath and resets his stance.
Mason flexes his fingers around his own bracer, feeling the low rumble of the Field settling between rounds. No spikes. Just a steady, heavy thrum.
Round two starts after a short break. A tech jogs in bottles; Kellen accepts his with a flourish, takes a token sip, hands it back with a wink at the nearest camera. Owen drinks for real, eyes on HUD.
The timer restarts.
Beat one.
This time Owen spends first, dropping Rank-2 Rampart Runner—a compact Titan with decent attack and movement.
Kellen surprises the desk by leading with Edge Lynx instead of Blitz Fang. Another Rank-2 Striker—sleek, catlike, knives of light along its shoulders.
“Seen this in his online sets,” co-caster notes. “Lynx chews armor if it gets behind you.”
The early exchanges are sharper than round one. Owen lands a read on Beat four that almost clips Edge Lynx under an Overhead Slam, forcing Kellen to burn a rare defensive Tactic, Guarded Pace, to avoid losing it outright.
Control ticks back and forth. Owen scuffles Kellen’s Core down to sixteen; his own sits at fourteen. Board presence slants slightly his way.
For a few Beats, the feature match actually looks…fair.
Mason finds himself silently rooting for Owen. Not to ruin Kellen. Just to prove that access isn’t everything.
Beat six.
Blitz Fang joins the fray on Kellen’s side, summoned as Kellen’s Charge spikes. Edge Lynx swings wide, looping behind Rampart. Blitz Fang drives center.
Owen answers with a Sticky Mire Trap in Blitz Fang’s lane. Glyph flashes the instant Blitz Fang crosses it; viscous Field-rendered muck clamps around its paws.
Blitz Fang strains, stuck mid-sprint, muscles coiled.
“Stonehand’s got some teeth,” play-by-play says. “That’s a premium answer to Blitz.”
Kellen’s grin shrinks by a millimeter.
He glances up—not at the audience, but at the small sponsor logo etched near the base of his rig. His fingers brush it once, then go back to the controls.
Beat seven.
Charge ticks to eight for him. Four for Owen.
Kellen spends big.
Rank-4 Crimson Duelist blazes across his HUD. The crowd reacts even before the summon resolves—gasps and cheers for the familiar poster-boy art.
“Here he is!” co-caster yelps. “Crimson on the locals stage.”
Charge drops; the Field answers.
Crimson Duelist manifests in a flare of red and silver, long coat flaring, sword resting on his shoulder at a showy angle. The entrance animation hangs a second too long, but when he plants his boots, it’s dead center on a lane that lines him up for both Rampart and the bogged-down Blitz Fang’s path.
The air in front of Mason’s rig feels denser for a moment. The Field always leans in around Rank-4s, but with Crimson there’s a crisp extra edge, like the safety net is being pulled a little tighter.
Owen is having none of the spectacle.
He pulls his lips in, then unloads everything he has on defense: buffs for Rampart’s armor, a small Titan grunt dropped between Crimson and his Core line, a Trap tile in Crimson’s favorite sweep lane.
Beats eight through ten are chaos.
Edge Lynx harasses Rampart from behind. Rampart swings and misses one Beat, tags it the next. Blitz Fang tears at Rampart’s front whenever it can rip a paw free of the mire. Crimson tests angles, blades flicking out to chip the grunt and probe armor.
Core totals drift.
By the time Beat ten ends, Kellen’s Core has been carved down to ten. Owen’s sits at ten as well.
Final Drive icon on Kellen’s HUD glows faintly. One more big exchange would take him under the threshold.
Beat eleven.
He doesn’t wait for Owen to do it.
“Gambit,” he calls, loud enough for the overhead mics. “Trigger.”
Final Drive icon flares.
Heat snaps through the spectator feed. Mason’s rig vibrates harder, a sharp, focused pattern that makes his forearm prickle.
A couple of kids at the barrier giggle and rub their arms.
“That’s strong,” Blitz Fang Hoodie says, kneading the skin above her bracer.
“Immersion,” Union Cap mutters. “Sure.”
On the Field, a corona of jagged red-white light bursts from Kellen’s side.
FINAL DRIVE: KING’S GAMBIT – STRIKER DAMAGE +50%, DEF -50%, EXTRA COMMAND SLOT FOR 2 BEATS.
Crimson’s coat whips in an unseen wind. His blade extends, edge haloed in crackling energy. Edge Lynx’s shoulder lines brighten; Blitz Fang’s muscles bunch, mire sloughing away in clumps as Drive power surges through its limbs.
Kellen’s Core ticks from ten down to five as part of the activation cost. The icon locks fully lit.
“Once per match,” co-caster reminds, voice tight. “This is it. He either closes here or goes into round three without a parachute.”
Owen sees it. You can tell in the way his shoulders rise and fall.
He slams down a Guard Breaker on Rampart, drops one last Trap tile in front of Crimson, and shifts his Titan grunt to body-block the line that would give Crimson a two-for-one.
Beat twelve.
Kellen spends nearly all his remaining Charge in a flurry—two Tactics and three commands lighting his HUD at once, Drive granting him the extra slot.
Crimson Duelist blurs forward. His first slash ricochets off the grunt’s shield, carving away half its health. The second finds the overlap between grunt and Rampart’s reach, driving into Rampart’s exposed side.
Edge Lynx times its own leap with that second hit, landing on Rampart’s back. Armor-shred effect lights up, numbers stacking.
Simultaneously, Blitz Fang tears free of the last of the mire and barrels straight down the lane, jaws opening on a bright, savage arc.
Three Striker bodies hitting in the same window, Drive aura amplifying each impact.
Owen’s Core reads ten.
The grunt collapses into light fragments under Crimson’s first strike. Damage spills over. Rampart’s health bar disintegrates under the combined pressure of Crimson and Lynx. More overflow. Blitz Fang’s bite lands, a final, stylized crunch.
Owen’s Core plunges—ten to zero in a stuttering cascade of damage ticks.
ROUND TWO: KELLEN ROYCE – KO.
The finish animation is tuned for replay. Crimson lands in a low stance with his back to the camera, sword at an angle. Blitz Fang stalks up beside him, muzzle still glowing. Edge Lynx perches on the shattered outline of Rampart’s last frame before it dissolves.
For a heartbeat, right before the Field reclaims Rampart, there’s a flicker in its movement—an almost-human sag of the shoulders, one arm coming up toward the bite marks.
Then it’s light and particles, gone.
The crowd drowns out any small noise with a roar.
“Two-oh for King K!” play-by-play howls. “Decision into KO, King’s Gambit to close it out. That’s a locals feature match, folks.”
On his platform, Owen sags for a second, breathing hard, one hand pressed to his sternum like he’s syncing his own pulse with what just happened. His gaze flicks to the small diagnostic monitor near Denise. The Core stress graph is already sloping downward, but the peak at Final Drive hangs there in bright red.
He squares up again, jaw tight, and steps forward, extending a fist across the divide.
Kellen bumps it without hesitating.
“Nice tech,” he tells him. “You had me sweating in that mid.”
“Guess I’m highlight material now,” Owen answers, a tired half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hey.” Kellen’s grin softens. “Everybody’s highlight material. Some just get more views.”
The line drops like he’s practiced it in front of a mirror, but there’s enough warmth under it that it doesn’t sting.
They climb down from their platforms as Denise declares the match official. HUDs wink out. The Field hum settles to its baseline.
A floor camera swings in. A student in a branded hoodie hustles up with a mic, cheeks flushed.
“Kellen! Over here.”
He leans on the rail just below the caster desk, angling himself so the jacket catches the light.
“How’s it feel to be back on the locals circuit?” she asks, beam wide. “We’ve got kids three rows deep with your avatar on their sleeves.”
“Feels good,” he replies. “It’s cute. I like seeing where everyone starts before we meet again at regionals.”
Cheers and groans flare. Mason feels something twist under his ribs at the casual assumption baked into “meet again at regionals.”
“You dropped into Gambit there at the end instead of playing it safe,” the interviewer continues. “Is that strategy, or were you just putting on a show?”
“Both,” Kellen answers, one shoulder lifting. “If you’re not putting something on tape, what are you doing on feature? But yeah, we’ve been in the lab with this list. New patch, new options. Locals are where you test lines before things get serious.”
“Serious like…?”
“Regionals. Nationals.” He sweeps his hand, taking in the arcade. “This is where you find the ones who might matter later. Or the ones who’ll tell stories about taking a round off me once. Either way, content.”
The interviewer laughs along with the crowd. “Anyone catching your eye today? Potential rivals? Future teammates?”
Kellen scans the faces.
His gaze skims past Mason, then stops, slides back.
Their eyes meet.
From here, under the ring lights and haze, Mason still catches the brief recalibration—interest, maybe. Like Kellen is flicking through a decklist and finds an unexpected rare in the commons.
Kellen taps two fingers off his forehead in a lazy salute, never breaking eye contact.
“Yeah,” he tells the mic. “Couple of interesting lines out there. Kid with the hybrid list who actually reads Grappler timing. The Analyst finally playing on-site. Locals have spice.”
“The Analyst?” the interviewer echoes.
“Naomi,” Kellen clarifies. “NP_Theory. Been reading her breakdowns. Seeing someone like that on a live Field? That’s why I like these events.”
The floor camera pans just enough to catch Naomi near the far wall, notebook open on her knees. She freezes for a fraction, then deliberately lowers her head and starts writing again.
Heat crawls up Mason’s neck.
Hybrid list. Grappler timing. That has to be him. Not many players here mix Striker and Control on a budget rig and happen to reverse Dunn’s Clinch in front of a camera.
“More from King K later in the day,” the interviewer wraps. “Back to the desk.”
Kellen jogs down the short stairs, handler swooping in with a towel, a bottle, and a tablet already scrolling social metrics.
“Engagement spiked when you mentioned Naomi,” she tells him. “We should get a photo with her, maybe a joint—”
“In a minute,” he murmurs, hardly glancing at the screen.
He veers toward the aisle instead of heading straight for the lounge.
Mason turns away from the rail at the same time and nearly collides with that iridescent jacket.
He stops short.
Up close, Kellen’s eyes are lighter than Mason expected. Hazel, but with gold around the pupil, catching the Field’s glow. There’s a faint smear of eyeliner along his lashes, subtle enough to read as “camera-ready” more than “trying.”
His gaze drops to Mason’s rig, taking in the out-of-date casing, the scuffed paint, the hand-drawn sigils that creep along the strap.
“CoreRiff, right?” Kellen asks.
“Yeah.” Mason shoves his free hand into his pocket so it doesn’t fidget.
“That reversal on Dunn’s Body Drop was tight.” Kellen’s chin dips. “Crowd loved it.”
“You watched that?”
“I watch anyone who might end up across from me in a bracket,” Kellen says. “Can’t have surprises at regionals. Besides, locals with hands are way more interesting than stomping tourists.”
The handler clears her throat. “Kellen, sponsor booth in ten—”
He lifts his off-hand a centimeter. She falls quiet, eyes dropping back to the tablet.
“You running pure Striker?” Kellen asks, attention back on Mason’s rig.
“Hybrid,” Mason says. “Striker with some Control. Traps, positioning junk.”
“Greedy.” A corner of Kellen’s mouth curls. “I like it.”
There’s no obvious mockery in the tone. If anything, genuine approval.
Mason nods at the gleaming bracer on Kellen’s arm. “You’re…pure Striker plus best-in-slot hardware.”
A small laugh slips out of Kellen before he seems to decide whether that’s an insult.
“These don’t play themselves,” he says. “Cards or rigs.”
The handler leans in again. “We really do need—”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look at her. “On it.”
He glances at Mason one more time, something measuring in his eyes.
“Keep that hybrid list sharp,” he says. “It’s rough around the edges now. Give it a season and it might actually scare me.”
“‘Rough’?” Mason echoes.
“You know what I mean.” Kellen’s grin slides back into place, the media-ready one. This time, though, Mason has seen the adjustment underneath. “I want matches that make me work, not just more seat-fillers.”
Then he’s already turning, jacket flashing as he heads toward the merch-and-photo area, handler falling into step, rattling off hashtags and timeslots.
Mason stays where he is for a few seconds, noise warping around him.
Rough. Cute. Interesting lines.
Compliments, technically. All of them framed from above.
A couple of kids rush past, doing Crimson Duelist’s finishing pose with plastic swords, nearly smacking a third in the face.
“Watch it,” someone snaps.
Denise appears at Mason’s elbow like she got spawned from a ref flag, lanyard swinging.
“You’re up again in twenty,” she tells him. “Table two. Don’t make me send a search party.”
“I was just—”
“Scouting, I know.” Her tone softens, but only a little. “Nothing wrong with seeing how the golden boy plays. Just remember he’s had coaches, gear, and a content team since you were trading bulk at my counter.”
She jerks her chin toward the toy-sword kids now arguing over who “gets to be King K.”
Mason looks down at his own rig. Dull LEDs. A hairline crack knifing across the corner of the HUD. The edge of the strap rubbed smooth where his thumb always sits.
“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m not coming for that stage.”
Denise’s mouth quirks. “That’s the part I like hearing. Just keep yourself in one piece while you do it.”
He glances toward the diagnostic monitor she’d been staring at during the match. “You see that spike when he hit Gambit?”
“Mm.” Her eyes flick that way again. “Saw it. Logged it. Tech says it’s ‘within spec.’ Spec keeps creeping every patch.”
“You think it’s dangerous?”
“I think AstraForge hates bad press and loves excitement.” She taps the edge of her clipboard. “Sometimes those priorities collide. That’s why I watch the numbers and your faces, not the marketing.”
Something about that lines up too neatly with Naomi’s neat columns and “Anchor/Zone D stress > last patch” note.
“Naomi’s tracking it too,” Mason says.
“I figured.” Denise glances toward the far wall. Naomi sits there, legs crossed, notebook open, pen moving steadily. “She’s been scribbling in that thing since before the Fields got upgraded. You kids with logs and spreadsheets—maybe you’ll catch something I don’t.”
He follows Denise’s gaze. Naomi pauses to push her glasses up, eyes flicking once at the main ring, then back down to her notes.
“Make sure you’re logging your own limits while you track theirs,” Denise adds.
“Yeah.” His throat feels a little tight. “Okay.”
The PA crackles. “Block C players, report to staging. That includes you, Mason.”
He exhales, rolling his shoulders.
The feature match keeps playing on the wall screens in clip form—Crimson’s flourish, Blitz Fang’s bite, Final Drive’s flare—over and over like a promise and a warning.
I want to be there, he thinks. Not as a face in the crowd. Not as “scrappy local” in someone else’s soundbite.
On the platform. With a rig and a list that don’t look out of place.
The staging door glows green.
He adjusts the strap on his battered rig until it sits exactly right against his skin, then heads for the corridor. The Core Field’s hum follows him down the hall, low and hungry, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
