DEV1AT3 (DEVIATE). Jay Kristoff

arena was a few hundred meters wide, scattered with the broken bodies of bots who’d been destroyed in earlier matches. Barricades of concrete and steel littered the ground. A concrete wall ten meters high encircled the arena, and outside that, concentric rings of bleachers rose like the tiers of an oldskool amphitheater.

      As Cricket watched, a dome of rusted iron bars rolled up from the floor and enclosed the space. A bright neon sign above his head began flashing:

      WARNING: LIVE FIRE MATCH

      A motley crowd of scavvers, scenekillers and wageslaves gathered in the bleachers and pressed up against the bars. Their volume was thunderous, washing over Cricket in waves.

      “Aaaaand now, in the red zone! All the way from the Edge …” The EmCee’s voice was swamped under a long chorus of boos. “… Weighing in at seventy-seven tons, winner of sixteen hardcore bouts, make some ruckus for … the Thunderstooooorm!”

      A blast of oldskool rawk music spilled over the PA as Cricket’s opponent rose into view, bathed in a flood of red light. The logika was squat and quadrupedal, heavily armored. Twin gauss cannons were mounted on its shoulder brackets, its fists crackling with live current. It was painted black, a lightning bolt sprayed in gold on its greaves and chest, its optics glowing bright green.

      “HI,” Cricket waved. “I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU JUST WANNA BE FRIENDS?”

      “TARGET ACQUIRED,” the Storm called in a booming voice, turning on Cricket. “MISSION: DESTROY.”

      “OKAY, THEN,” Cricket nodded. “GOOD TALK.”

      The enemy bot stepped off its platform and spread its arms wide, launching off a burst of fireworks from the missile pods on its back. The New Bethlehem crowd obviously weren’t fans of the visiting logika, booing louder as the rockets exploded into showers of red and white.