Memento Mori

3.3 - CHICKEN AND RICE

WHEN I WAKE, two words are waiting for me on the projector screen like an old favorite shirt; one lost in a box, long forgotten, rediscovered years later. They might be a little rougher than the last time I tried them out, but I still remember those words and how to use them.

[MARTIAL ARTIST]

Sarah never liked it when I practiced the class. She wasn't obvious about it, of course. Just moody; that special high-heel haughtiness she reserved for when she knew someone was about to make a fool of themselves. A playful kind of scorn, but scorn nonetheless. Guns were her religion. Martial Artists, despite being the class our city built its reputation on, were always country bumpkins to her. Too temperamental to learn the blade, too dull to learn the bullet, as she enjoyed saying whenever one of them was just within earshot.

Some of her opinions- no, a lot of them- also infected me. I was just a kid. Her kid. Even learning a second class was pushing it. She was a purist, and I wanted to be just like her, a gun the only tool I needed to solve a problem. I don't have that luxury anymore, though. Snowballing from loss to loss to loss and waking to a body so riddled with sores and half-patched wounds that it can barely move is a wakeup call and a half that something needs to change now. I won't be walking away from another straight-on fight with the Armiger. Nor can I just throw myself at Dynasty hoping bullets and gunfights will slow them down. Krey tried to tell me otherwise. He's got that fire. Like Sarah, he doesn't go cold- he runs hot, and losing only stokes that fire hotter.

But that day in Ulysses' gym, he didn't win another round, either.

"I believe that means it's time for a change of strategy, Emilia," I mutter to the faraway ceiling, doing my best impression of Ulysses' accent. Half the words come out in a dry-tongue mumble. Pawing the bleariness from my eyes, I sit back up on the bench with gun in hand, cringing at every creak and groan my joints make. Every muscle in my body feels strung tight as a bad piano wire.

My JOY's battered outer shell pulses with the old one-two light of a missed notification. I pull it up with a fingertip, scanning the contents. Two missed calls from Ulysses while I was passed out. He's got to be worried about me. A pang of hurt goes through my heart before I delete the logline. If I called back now, he'd ask too many questions that I can't answer until I'm done with Nero. Better to leave them unasked and unanswered.

Blinking quick and covering a yawn with my offhand, I glance down at the arena floor to finally get a look at the repetitive noise that woke me up. It's a familiar one to my ears: bare limbs thudding into padded leather, rattling chains, the shuffle-squeak of sneakers against stone. Boxing practice, simple as it gets. Down on the arena floor, the gang greaser who was manning the front counter plods his way through a workout, striking the sandbag at a hamstrung rhythm. I've watched plenty of Martial Artists fight before, whether in gyms or the streams or out on the street. Ulysses was always my golden benchmark. He was a boxer through and through. All arms, knuckles, and fists. Legs trained for sidesteps and pivots, not powerhouse kicks.

This guy? He's... well, he's interesting.

The timing of his strikes sounds like it's determined by a dice that he rolls every second. Sometimes he's quick. A one-two pop. Then a wait, a hit, double wait, strike, and again just when I think he's going to hold. He doesn't let a single part of his burly frame go to waste. Even though his opponent's just an inanimate bag, he goes for shoulder slams, headbutts, hip checks. Scuffed shit that'd get you booed out of the Metro Blockhouse in a heartbeat.

"Bet you've fucked some people up with moves like that," I say, hobbling down the steps to the ringside. Gate's already unlocked, I flip a latch and limp onto the sandstone, then lean back against the low steel wall.