Chapter Three

No matter how often he sat on the set for a premium caster's news or gossip network, Geoffrey just could not get used to the bright lights and radiating heat that poured over him. He felt more in the spotlight than when fighting on the battlefield, where the adrenaline of your opponent's hostile aura was enough to shut out the surrounding crowd and their noise. Here, he couldn't see the crew, he could not see the live audience, he could only see the interviewer or interviewers on the set with him, and while they had a hostile aura of their own, it was nowhere near life-threatening enough to forget that he was now the center of attention. He did his best to keep his calm, but he could feel beads of sweat forming upon his brow.

"There are commentators claiming that your first opponent, Boltram, also known as the Mad Lightning Fist, was chosen in order to filter you out, Geoffrey," claimed the hostess sitting across from him. She was a bottle-blonde with contrasting tan skin, wearing a red suit and skirt with a blouse unbuttoned halfway down her breasts. She was certainly accustomed to living on Poseidon's Paradise, and was known for regularly having contests where she'd wine, dine, and fuck a lucky fun in an over-priced lottery whose proceeds went to the station, to her, and the government taxes. That a regular shlub got to have a night out with Alisha Alancart was charity enough, wasn't it? Never you mind the rumor that she got to look at all the entrants, discarding those she didn't like the look of so that she was guaranteed a fan she found suited her tastes.

"I've heard those rumors as well," Geoffrey shrugged, his flesh and steel hands clasped together in his lap. "True, false, doesn't matter, because if they think it takes a big, screaming, tough looking son of a bitch to beat me, then they haven't been paying attention."

"So you believe you can win?" Alisha questioned, her chin tilting up in mock curiosity, leaning her elbow on the armrest of her plush chair, tilting the back of her fountain pen to catch between her teeth. Her legs were crossed, her foot gently bouncing in the air, her body language subtle yet intended to get the viewers and her guest thinking in a flirtatious, sexual manner.

"Of course," Geoffrey shrugged again, but this time flashing an artificially white, toothy smile. "The second you believe failure is a possibility, you've already lost. If you think all it takes is big muscles and a tall stature to win in this industry, then you don't know the first thing about fighting. I say, bring 'im on."

Alisha uncrossed her legs, keeping them tight together though her skirt had already ridden high enough to flash some of her garter belt beneath. "Interesting," she began, her eyes skyward, waving her pen in the air now. "At least, interesting that you'd give such a generic, by-the-book comment now when last night, when Vicki Violet was interviewing you... you sounded far less confident, didn't you?" Her red lips now curved into a smile, feline eyes looking at him as if she'd caught the rat in a trap.

Geoffrey just laughed, doing his best to play his response up as Armand had instructed. His eyebrows rose as he nodded, chuckling, as if his body were itself sarcastically saying "Whoop, that's it, ya got me". He then sat up, leaned forward, knees on his elbows, hands still clasped but now before him. "Now, if Vicki were one to share her recordings, I'm sure you'd play it right now, yes?" Alisha graciously nodded a confirmation. "So, let me save you some time... I started by saying, let me think..." He tilted his head, eyes turning towards the ceiling, away from the intensity of the lights and into the dark rafters far above the set's limitations. He pretended as if he had to recall the words from the night prior, rather than the reality that Armand has worked them into his head in the small space of time available. "It's all been very fast... I never expected to leave the Jovian Circuit, I kept winning, though..."

Geoffrey's eyes turned back to Alisha, a smile spread across his face as he leaned back, hands unclasped, arms out to his side as if that itself answered the question. "See, it seems everyone has dropped that last part. I didn't get to finish answering the question, so everyone assumes 'oh, the kid must not have confidence!'" He shook his head, hand waving in the air. "Nah, see, when you're just starting out and you get one or two wins against low-ranking novices-"

"Nobodies," Alisha interrupted, a smile spread wide across her face. Her legs had crossed once more, one arm draped across her knee, elbow of her other on the armrest and chin cupped in her own hand. Geoffrey's demeanor cracked, his eyes hardening, the smile gone from his lips.

"Novices," he insisted, a hard edge to his voice. Armand was going to chew him out for this break in composure, but he knew those men, know their desperation, and knew that the lumps they took were just as bad, if not worse, than anyone on the pro circuit. The smile didn't come back to his face, but his body loosened once more, hand moving in the air or fingers pressing to his leg as if to emphasize a point. "In that moment, you don't think about the chances of going pro, you just think about whether you can keep things going. However, as I kept winning and climbing the ranks, I started thinking... hey, maybe there's something to me, after all.

"Sure enough," he continued, leaning forward, pointing to Alisha, "I start getting contacted by agents, managers, and I'm being sent from one circuit to the next. Nobody, no one in this business, has moved through circuits as quickly as I have, so adjusting from living in a tiny little shack on Jupiter's moon stretching your winnings out over the course of a week or two, to having a rented condo on some planet you haven't even made landfall on in over a year because you're going from hotel suite to hotel suite and don't even know how much any of it cost, and then you check your financial accounts and the number is so big you can't even fathom it..." His head shook back and forth, gazing at the carpet now, his mind reliving the past two years in fast-forward.

"Sounds to me," Alisha said with a hint of boredom in her breath, though it was clearly artificial, played up, or intended to break his demeanor again, "like you just weren't ready for the big leagues."

Geoffrey looked back up to her, smiling. "Of course you'd think that," he said, nodding. "That's what makes a good story, right?" Now he turned to the cameras, or at least, where he thought they were, trying his best not to squint in the bright studio lights. "'Hot shot brawler can't take the heat!'" he said, hand sweeping in front of him in pantomime of a printed headline. "Great bait, but the reality is that, the hotels, the money, the size of the stadium..." He shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head again. "Doesn't matter, because on the battlefield? That? That's still the same, and it's what has kept me in this league. This Boltram guy? Never met him, but I've already fought plenty like him, only he doesn't have the same look of desperation to survive."

Alisha's eyebrows rose, her head tilting. "Oh? Are you saying Boltram is weak?" Her lip quirked, hoping to have gotten something of a scoop or headline after all.

"No one in this league is weak," Geoffrey shook his head. He didn't need Armand to prepare him for that response, though... he might have discouraged the next thoughts to spill from Geoffrey's mouth. "Well, you know, no one who fights is weak, but, managers? Executives? Commentators and interviewers that judge what they don't have the guts to do themselves?" He gave a smirk of his own as his eyes directly struck Alisha's. For her part, she simply smiled, amused at his candor.

"Well, it seems we're running close to time," she began, once more uncrossing her legs. However, her fingers grasped the ends of her arm rests, pressing her chest out, her breasts straining against her suit and blouse. "Before we go, however, want to see if I can beat Vicki's... record?" Her eyebrow raised suggestively, her tongue tracing her upper lip as she glanced down at Geoffrey's crotch.

Now this was unexpected. Despite Alisha's own love of the bedroom, she was not known for broadcasting her exploits. Those contests? She'd record and compile some of the happenings, but never did she actually showcase her bare body, let alone herself in the throes of sexual activity. She was a professional tease to so many of her fans, though plenty have written and vlogged about their experiences with her. It was all hype, though, as actually showing it would remove the mystery. For her to make this offer... it was either a test to tease him, or something he'd need to ask Armand about, since... well, as much as he enjoyed the pleasure of their company, Geoffrey just didn't understand women.

"Unfortunately, I'm going to have to decline," Geoffrey said with a shake of his head, leaning back in his seat. Alisha's body stiffened, her expression faltering just slightly. "Armand and I have an agreement, no drink, no drugs, no bad food, and no sex the day before and of a fight. Just light exercise to keep my physical momentum going while allowing what needs to rest, rest. All that other stuff, though, can cause problems in your head once you get onto that battlefield."

Alisha cleared her throat, brushing some of her blonde tresses behind her ear. She crossed her legs again, but straightened her skirt, which allowed her an opportunity to adjust her posture so she wasn't throwing her breasts out so obviously. "A shame," she sighed. "So you won't be attending the Brawler's Ball tonight?" Her own hands were clasped, resting upon her thigh now, all subtle indicators of sexual interest gone.

"No I will not be," Geoffrey said with a smile. "I'm looking forward to the afterparty, though."

"If you survive," Alisha swiftly replied, her smile somewhat hardened compared to before.

"I will survive," Geoffrey said with a grin, "and I plan on winning."

~*~*~*~

"I'm going to crush that little pipsqueak's skull into dust in my hand."

Hover spheres and miniature drone mics surrounded Boltram, the Mad Lightning Fist, his voice the rumbling sound of gravel crushed underneath a massive truck's tire. There was no melody, not even a bass or baritone, just raw gargling, a bestial roar suppressed by a bridled rage. His expression was permanently contorted in one of anger, and though he was wearing a proper tuxedo for the occasion, it strained against the bulk of his muscles. His shoulders were incredibly broad, biceps, thighs and calves as tree trunks, hands like the mitts of a giant, standing at a full six-foot-eight inches. The buttons upon his white shirt strained so desperately against his muscular chest that it seemed they'd pop free any moment.

The press and paparazzi surrounding him continued to jabber on with their inane questions, as if the fight were going to be anything more than a warm-up. Not even a warm-up, not for him. Some small chump from the minor leagues was the best they had? No, he was a tool to pulverize this pathetic boy into the ground, nothing but a pulpy red stain upon the concrete after, just so the money bags could get rid of a nuisance. That he, Boltram, was the pawn they selected? That's what made him angry. However, after so many of his previous managers had found themselves broken, busted, hospitalized, all from trying to restrain him, an entrepreneurial A.I. construct fascinated by the human mind had chosen to act as Boltram's official representation. The large fighter had agreed, believing that a machine would just as easily be pulverized as a man, but Boltram's thinking had been too simple. No, the A.I., which called itself Eugene, did not actually live in any of the drones in which it communicated with Boltram. Worse, one night during a drunken slumber, it had injected nanites into his body, spreading throughout his nervous system. Should he behave in a manner the A.I. believes to be out of hand, a most terrifying signal would be sent throughout the warrior's body. Terrifying, in that Boltram had no idea what the actual feeling was. He'd been hit with Eugene's punishment three times, and each time was like minutes had just vanished from his life. He'd be ready to throw a fist or go in a rage, and then he was curled up into a ball, soaked in his own piss, shit, sometimes vomit, every fiber of his being burning in agony. Eugene was just as good at administering the right drugs to alleviate the pain once all was said and done, but at this point, Boltram learned his lesson.

It was humiliating, and one day, he'd find where Eugene's core mind was stored, and shatter it in his mighty fist.

"I tire of your pointless buzzing," Boltram suddenly rumbled, his hand casually waving in the air, knocking some of the hover spheres and drone mics away. He stepped forward, his fanciful shoes thumping along the carpet loudly as he pushed past the crowd surrounding him, some falling over completely as he shoved them aside. He couldn't stand these high-minded parties for the rich and famous. They were so... repressed, so quiet, the music so dull and without a pulse. The food was too fancy and too small, about presentation and not satisfaction. The wine was weak. Give him some top-shelf bourbon poured in a beerstein and maybe, maybe, Boltram would get a little tipsy. He knew he wasn't the only one, either. Any of the fighters that bothered appearing were just as bored as he was, and if any of them were having a good time, they were the fakes or cheaters that were going to be killed or found out... then killed. Hell, Boltram would have skipped the whole damn thing, but Eugene threatened to punish him if he didn't show up.

A glimmer, shimmering red, caught his eye like a matador's cape snapping for the attention of the bull. A pretty little thing with silver hair, down to her shoulders, wandered about the perimeter of the tables, almost as if she were looking for a place to belong. She wore a glimmering red halter dress, the shoulder straps gradually spreading out as they sloped over heavy breasts, though only barely concealing her nipples as the sides and center of the rounded globes were freely exposed, swaying gently with each high-heeled step. The straps met in the center just below her navel, and at the sides managed to wrap around to barely cover her rounded ass, only for slits to run down the sides to expose her thighs and calves. Dressed in such a manner, she was begging for a man's attention.

And there was no one more a man than Boltram in this awful ball.

"Eugene," the warrior said, his hands running along the lapels of his tux, "hack her system and keep an eye on her vitals." He knew the construct would be listening. Boltram did not issue a command or a request. He simply made his intent known so that Eugene could at least give him a warning before he knocked him out in his own piss and shit.

~

Leanna couldn't believe how easy you could get in anywhere just by offering some underpaid staffer a blowjob. First, stowing away on a shipping vessel, and now, giving a bus boy getting high off bubble gems a bit of head just to be let in through the kitchens. She always thought herself repressed, living a chaste, boring life, but perhaps sex wasn't as commonplace as the Net had led her to believe. Even so, there was a thrill in giving some poor guy down on his luck a good time, so long as it didn't come to anything more after.

She had tuned into Vicki's broadcast to figure out which would be the biggest party in the city that night, and this was the one she'd be attending. The problem for Leanna was that she didn't know... anything about this fighting league. As such, she didn't know where to begin, which table to approach, or who might be worth speaking to. She had managed to haggle for this dress, a pretty number that seemed, at first, like it'd be a touch more modest when looking at it in the mirror, knowing it'd at least be eye-catching. Now that she was inside the ball, however, it was clear she wasn't the only woman dressed for such attention. The room was bustling and buzzing with chatter and activity, interviews and flirtations and foreplay, offers to dance and offers to grab a drink from the bar, appetizers being walked between the tables as the rich and wealthy made a show of false modesty and humble portions. Leanna walked the perimeter of it all, familiar with fancy dinners and balls from her father's company, but only seeing them from the position of a reserved seat at the head of the room. She was not permitted to wander, and any guests would instead approach her. Being out here, wandering the outside of the tables, looking at everyone who already seemed acquainted, had her feeling rather exposed, obvious, an outsider and a fraud.

She halted as her collar suddenly shone her holodisplay before her, a flashing red icon in the corner, a triangle surrounded by an exclamation. It blinked out as swiftly as it appeared, however, her collar cutting the signal almost as immediately as it shone. Leanna blinked as she looked into the space the display had been, almost expectantly, before touching her finger to her collar once more. Bringing the display back up, there was no sign of the alert. She bit her lower lip, as the icon had indicated an attempt to hack into her system had been made. However, the alert vanished just as swiftly as it appeared, faster than any failed attempt would even flash for. Was it a glitch? An error? Was her system compromised that swiftly?

Leanna's eyes lingered on the display, as if seeking some hint as to what just happened, failing to notice the heavy footfalls approaching her from behind. Resolving to find a secluded spot to run a diagnostic, she closed her holodisplay just as a large, massive, rough hand grasped onto her ass and dug into her flesh, squeezing tightly, her back arching as her feet lifted onto her toes in an already steep pair of high-heeled shoes. She yelped, and before she could respond the fingers had loosened and squeezed once more, the knead painful but not entirely unpleasant.

"Wha-?" she began in a breathy voice, looking over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the bear of a man standing behind her, fingers grasping and digging into her rounded rear. His grip loosened once more, but this time his middle and index fingers slipped down and forwards, lifting the dress up beneath her thighs, caressing the material over her thong-clad labia, tracing the soft flesh. Her mouth gaped open, yelping again, her delicate fingers reaching for the wrist of the invading hand, but doing nothing to stop its motions. Her heart began pounding as she was thoroughly groped and caressed by a stranger, her breathing picking up the pace as she couldn't decide whether to try and run away or beg for more.

"Let's go, girl," the large man's deep voice rumbled, "We're gonna have some fun." Leaning down, he scooped Leanna up, holding her in both arms as if crossing a threshold with his bride, and stomped forward towards a table.