There
are always fights on at the Slamdrome. With the turn of each shift, a
fresh horde of labourers exits the forgeworks and makes straight for
the fighting pits for some recreational violence, either as
spectators or participants.
Heavy
Wrecks arrived at the Slamdrome mid-bill. Shoving his way through the
crowds – those few who were minded to object thought again when
they clocked who'd shoved them – he bypassed the main ring and
headed straight to the sump-pit. This arena had been rigged to hold
run-off water and chems from Sinkside's industry, making for a
passable simulation of a badzone mire. Narrow walkways formed a loose
lattice above the surface of the pseudosump, but those fighters brave
or stupid enough to sign up for a bout here would inevitably find
themselves dragged into the murky waters by the things that lurked
there.
The
sump-pit was a favourite of the more patient among Sinkside's
battle-fans, as fights would often reach their gory conclusions
underwater, relayed from submarine heat-cappers to pict-screens
around the arena's edge. As Wrecks muscled his way down the terraces,
the bout in session had reached one such impasse and the crowd waited
in hushed anticipation, squinting to make sense of the blobbish
red-orange shapes displayed on the screens.
Reaching
the front tier, Wrecks surveyed the scene in the pit. On the
walkways, discarded axes and spud-jackers, dismembered limbs, and the
more-or-less intact torso of a fighter, guts dangling into the sludgy
liquid below. The vibe in the crowd was sharp – Wrecks figured
there was one fighter still in the game. The man he'd come looking
for.
More
often than not, the sump-brawls end in anticlimax, with the action
resolving out of sight. But as any regular knows, every once in a
while, there's a display which puts the dry arenas to shame.
This
was one of those shifts. Clued in by a sudden distortion in the heat
cams, the crowd inhaled as one. And then, erupting from the surface
in a roil of grime, a colossal bull sumpkrok, twisting and shrugging
its craggy red hide as it tried to shake off the slimeslick stimmer
whose arms were wrapped round its neck.
For
an impossible second, krok and stimmer hung in the air, a spearhead
of murderous flesh. Then, they crashed down onto the nearest walkway,
which buckled under the impact.
Wrecks
grinned. This was what he'd come for. This was Bad Boi Boosty in
action. The crowd let roar, and Wrecks cheered loudest.
Both
combatants were injured – the krok's forelimbs flopped uselessly,
evidently broken, and Boosty was sporting a bloody gash from
shoulderblade to pelvis. His stimm feeds had been torn loose, and he
was struggling to keep his grip with every ounce of chem-spiked
strength he had left.
The
krok slammed its lower jaw down on the walkway, making leverage to
buck in a long, powerful undulation that rolled down to its tail.
Boosty's legs flailed upwards. His left hand tore free of the beast's
neck, ripping off a thick scale which slipped from his grip and
dropped into the sumpwater.
The
krok half-rolled, swinging the stimmer around and down onto the
walkway on its right flank. It braced its hindlegs and shunted
forward and to the side, twisting its head to the right to bring its
jaws to bear on the downed Goliath. Boosty freed his right hand and
grabbed, catching an upper and lower tooth from the krok's maw in
each hand. His muscles bulged, veins pulsing, as he tried to drive
the head back and the jaws apart.
But
the grip was awkward with his right hand, and it slipped loose. The
krok seized the opportunity, snapping its jaws and catching Boosty's
left hand and forearm. It jerked its head and tore Boosty's hand free
of his wrist.
Bad
Boi Boosty didn't even scream. The krok rolled its head and mashed
its jaws, swallowing the morsel it had bagged. The stimmer took
advantage of the moment, lurching to his feet and leaping up onto the
krok's back, dropping and sliding down on its left flank, just behind
its jaws.
Snarling
viciously, he jabbed the stump of his left wrist into the krok's eye,
twisting his arm as he drove in further. He made a claw of his right
hand and did likewise at the wound on the krok's neck where he'd
pulled away the scale. Some part of the krok's skull snapped.
Blood
gushed out and over Boosty as he drove his arms together, now
elbow-deep in the beast's flesh. The stimmer roared, muscles tearing,
veins popping open in his arms and neck, as he squeezed a huge chunk
out of the monster's neck. The flesh came free in an immense torrent
of blood and gore, and Boosty lost his footing, slipping onto his
back on the walkway.
The
krok shuddered as it pulled away, barely even managing a death throe.
Its head and body slipped into the sump, and its tail, trailing along
the walkway, twitched once, then was still.
The
crowd, already in a frenzy, screamed louder than ever. Wrecks
hammered his chestplate with his fists, adding to the riotous din.
Boosty
sat up, dazed, blinking. He stared around, then down at the armful of
ragged meat in his lap. He scrambled to his feet, daubed from head to
foot in blood, hand and stump in the air as he soaked up the acclaim.
'Bad
Boi! Bad Boi!' he yelled, beckoning the crowd's response with his
hand.
'Boosty!
Boosty!' replied the throng, the thunderous bass reverberating across
the dome.
After
the bout, Wrecks sought out the stimmer in the backstage shacks.
Boosty was lying on a scrap-hammered bench, alone. The docs had
reconnected his stimm feeds, which were now pulsing blue with
kalma-laced chems. He'd torn the dressing off his left forearm and
was gazing vacantly at the stump. As a vat-embryo, Boosty had been
gene-smithed to heal fast and even regrow lost body parts. Already,
the gore had congealed into a bulbous lump of striated muscle, with
five small nodules where digits were developing.
'Hey,
meyn-bron,' said Wrecks, entering the shack.
Boosty
glanced up warily, and his eyes flashed recognition.
Wrecks
knew Boosty wouldn't speak – that only happened when he was
stimm-spiked and up for a fight. The rest of the time, melancholy
rendered him mute and timid. It was unbecoming of any Necromundan,
let alone a Goliath, but Wrecks had known Boosty long enough and
their bron-bond was strong. They'd run together downhive, seven long
cycles ago: Wrecks a simple bruiser, learning the warrior ways before
turning his skills to forge-bossing; Boosty a vat-fresh forge born,
brash and scrawny, not yet on the hyper-pumped, neuro-blasted path of
the stimmer. Fraggenstein had been their boss-meyn, capping a storied
career as an underhive fighter, well on his way to Alpha ascendancy
despite his relative youth.
They
were all much older now. Wrecks, natborn, was hitting his prime, but
vatborn Boosty, like Fraggenstein, was heading towards burnout, the
ravages of his stimm-habit barely checked by his super-resilient
metabolism. But as the pit-battle with the sumpkrok had demonstrated,
his combat skills were still sharp – sharper than ever, perhaps.
'You
fought well,' said Wrecks. Not the raucous praise of the crowd, just
simple honest words. All a Goliath really needs.
Boosty
considered this. Pouted. Nodded.
'The
old boss-meyn's got a new job. Dowhive. Turf wars. To the death. He
wants me and you in the broheym.'
More
thought. A crooked smile. Another nod. Bad Boi Boosty was in.