heart was thumping in her chest, her skin tingling at the feeling of a grift done right. Maybe she was imagining it, maybe it was just the relief, but those meds were making her feel better already. The night was bright and her pockets were full and she was starting to think they were free and clear.
Until they passed by the Brotherhood’s stage at the other end of the square again.
She tried not to look. Tried not to notice the two figures nailed up on those Xs. The way the Brotherhood had patched up the bullet wound in the girl’s chest so she wouldn’t bleed out before she’d suffered. The way a dozen Brotherhood thugs were slouching on the steps in front of those hanging bodies, laughing and jawing as if nothing were amiss. As if they’d not nailed up two kids to suffocate under their own weight beneath tomorrow’s sun.
The dead don’t fight another day, she reminded herself.
Just because they’re like you, doesn’t make them crew.
She missed Evie, she realized.
She missed Ezekiel and Cricket and the feeling she was wrapped up in a story much bigger than herself. It was easier back then, just being the sidekick. Dragged along for the ride, expected to contribute nothing more than the occasional quip and maybe a shoulder to cry on.
Her shoulders weren’t strong enough for anything else, after all.
She wasn’t big enough to do this on her own.
Was she?
“Stop,” she whispered.
Hunter reached inside her cloak, instantly alert, scanning the night around them for danger. “Trouble?”
“Not yet,” she sighed.
Lemon looked to the stage behind them, those kids strung up to die.
“But I think I’m about to make some.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Cricket knew this song like he knew his own name. The stamping feet and rising cheers. The hiss of pistons and the percussion of metal bodies colliding. Bright lights and ultra-violence, the crowd safe behind concrete barriers and rusting iron bars, secure in the knowledge that the things fighting and bleeding out and dying on the killing floor couldn’t feel a thing.
WarDome.
The big bot waited in a work pit below the Dome floor, watching the boy named Abraham seal up his chest cavity and bolt it closed. The dustneck brothers Murph and Mike stood on the sidelines, offering suggestions and being politely ignored. Abraham was obviously something of an expert on bot tech—he’d replaced Cricket’s faulty powercells without much fuss, given how big they were. The big bot could feel new current rolling through his limbs, power crackling at his fingertips. Internal readouts showed he was almost back at full capacity, and ready to roll.
“How do you feel?” the boy asked in his soft voice.
Cricket simply stared, blue eyes aglow.
“It’s all right, you can speak,” Abraham said. “What’re your power levels at?”
“NINETY-TWO PERCENT,” Cricket replied.
“That’ll be plenty,” the boy nodded. “Your opponent in tonight’s match is called the Thunderstorm. It’s the champion WarBot from a settlement down south called the Edge. It’s only nine thousand horsepower, but it fights dirty. We’re running live ballistics, so—”
“I DON’T WANT TO GO UP THERE,” Cricket said.
Abraham pulled his tech-goggs up onto his forehead and blinked, as if Cricket had just told him the sky was green or up was actually down. For the first time, Cricket saw the boy’s eyes were a brilliant pale blue.
“Where’d you two say you found this thing again?” he asked.
“Out west,” Mikey replied. “In the Clefts.”
“You brought us a Domefighter that doesn’t want to fight Dome?”
Cricket used to joke about it. Between the feeds Evie had obsessively watched and Miss Combobulation’s brawls in the Los Diablos WarDome, he’d seen logika fight hundreds of times before. And he’d cheered along as Evie won, learned the Dome’s tricks backward, joked that one day he’d grow up to be a Domefighter, too. But he’d just been a helperbot back then. Forty centimeters high. Handing Evie tools when she needed them and offering advice when he could. He said he wanted to fight on the killing floor, but really, all he ever wanted was to be taken seriously.
To be treated with respect.
To be big.
When Silas had installed his persona in the Quixote’s body, it’d been like a dream come true. And he’d used his new power as best he could to defend Evie, throwing all he could into the brawl at Babel for the sake of the girl who’d been his mistress. But that’d been life and death. That’d been for love. He never thought for a second that one day he might have to actually fight for amusement.
“DON’T MAKE ME GO UP THERE,” Cricket pleaded.
Stomping over to the big logika, Murphy kicked his foot.
“Hey, listen here!” he yelled. “I order you to fight in this Dome match, you hear me? When that countdown finishes, you’ll fight until your opponent’s out of commission or you are, acknowledge!”
Cricket looked down into Murphy’s eyes.
Up to the Dome floor above his head.
Be careful what you wish for.
“ACKNOWLEDGED,” he replied.
“See?” Murph grinned at Abraham. “Toldja. Pure quality, this one. Fistful of hardcore, true cert. You’ll see.”
Abraham looked at Cricket again, his pale blue eyes narrowed.
“I suppose we will,” he murmured.
The boy lowered his mechanical gantry, stepped down onto the work pit floor. With the flick of a switch, the metal braces holding Cricket’s arms and legs in place were released, allowing him free movement.
Except I’m not free at all, am I?
He’d never been in this position before. He’d always been beholden to humans, sure. And Evie had sometimes told him to be quiet when he’d wanted to speak his mind. But she’d never forced him to do something he’d hate.
He realized how lucky he’d been, serving people who cared about what he thought. How he felt.
And now?
“Juves and juvettes!” came a cry through the PA above his head. “Disciples and believers, get yourself situated! Tonight’s main bout is about to begin!”
Cricket fixed the boy in his glowing stare. “PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO—”
“Shuddup!” Murph hollered, kicking him so hard he hurt his foot. “Dammit … you speak when you’re spoken to! Now, you get up there and you fight!”
“… ACKNOWLEDGED,” Cricket said.
“You’ll do fine,” Abraham promised quietly. “You’re built for this.”
“In the blue zone!” came the cry above. “From parts unknown, weighing in at seventy-one tons, get yourselves rowdy for tonight’s challenger!”
Cricket felt the platform beneath him shudder, the broad hatchway above his head grinding open. The