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Ryan knew Derek was lying before his old squadmate even sat down.
The courier depot's break room smelled like burnt synth-coffee and ozone. Derek dropped into the plastic chair across from him, all teeth and false cheer, and Ryan's left leg started that familiar pins-and-needles crawl. Not the good kind. The kind that said his bioelectric regulator was about to spike and fry another nerve cluster.
He pressed his thumb into his thigh under the table. Hard.
"Quick gig," Derek said. "Two hours, clean pay, no corp oversight."
Ryan took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like oil. "No."
"You haven't even heard the—"
"No."
Derek's grin cracked at the edges. "Come on, Kash. I'm not asking you to storm a facility. Just a little freelance work. You used to be good at freelance."
"I used to be good at walking without my leg going numb, too." Ryan set the cup down. His hand was steady. That was something. Three years ago his hand would've been shaking every time the limiter misfired. Now he just rode it out and tried not to black out. Progress. "What do you really want?"
Derek leaned in. His jacket sleeve rode up and Ryan caught the dull gleam of the prosthetic forearm. Cheap model. The seam where it met flesh was inflamed.
"I need you in a cage for one fight."
There it was.
Ryan stood up. His leg cooperated. Barely. "Find somebody else."
"There is nobody else." Derek was up too, blocking the door. Not aggressive. Just desperate. "The guy I had lined up OD'd yesterday. Promoter's gonna pull my plug if I don't deliver a body tonight. I'm talking actual plug, Kash. You know who I owe."
Ryan knew. Takara Syndicate didn't do payment plans.
"That's your problem," Ryan said. "I don't fight anymore."
"You don't have to win. Just show up, take a few hits, go down in the second. I split the fee with you. Fifteen hundred clean."
Fifteen hundred would cover two months' rent and maybe enough left over to bribe the depot supervisor into keeping him on the roster. Ryan's limiter had fried his last gig three days ago. He'd been hauling a crate of server cores when the current backfired and his grip spasmed. The crate hit the ground. Half the cores cracked. The depot docked his pay and put him on probation.
One more fuckup and he was out.
But if he stepped into a cage and his regulator spiked mid-fight, he wouldn't just lose. He'd cook someone. Or himself. Or both.
"I'm not your guy," Ryan said.
Derek's prosthetic hand closed around Ryan's wrist. Not tight. Just contact. "You're the only guy I got left. Please."
Ryan looked at the hand. The cheap synthetic skin was already peeling at the knuckles. Derek used to run point on extractions, back when they both wore corp colors. Fast, smart, never missed a shot. Now he was shaking down his old squad for cage-fight bodies because some loan shark owned his debts and his fingers.
Ryan pulled his wrist free. "You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking. One fight. You've done worse."
"Not since the limiter fried."
"So don't use it." Derek spread his hands. "Fists only. Old school. In and out."
"It doesn't work like that." Ryan could feel the current pooling in his spine, that low hum that said his nervous system was already prepping for a discharge. He didn't control it anymore. It controlled him. "When I get hit, it spikes. When I move too fast, it spikes. I black out and wake up with scorch marks and no memory of what I did."
Derek's face went still. "How bad?"
"Bad enough I don't get in cages."
For a second Derek looked like he might back off. Then his jaw tightened and Ryan knew the desperation had won. "I'm dead if I don't deliver. You get that, right? Takara doesn't just break legs. They sell parts. I'm already down one arm. I don't want to find out what they take next."
Ryan's leg was going numb again. He needed to sit. He needed to get out of here. He needed fifteen hundred dollars and a new regulator and a time machine back to before the Shanghai extraction went sideways and his limiter melted into his spinal column.
He didn't have any of those things.
"One fight," he said.
Derek exhaled. "One fight."
"I go down in two. You pay me half up front."
"Deal." Derek's grin came back, watery with relief. "Promoter's name is Verner. Natasha Verner. Runs a clinic on the side, high-end work. If your rig's acting up maybe she can—"
"I don't need a clinic. I need cash." Ryan pushed past him toward the door. His leg dragged. He forced it to cooperate. "When and where?"
"Tonight. Pier 12, sublevel three. Doors at nine."
Ryan stopped. "That's in four hours."
"Yeah. Like I said, the other guy OD'd yesterday. Verner's scrambling."
"Great." Ryan shoved the door open. The depot floor was loud, forklifts beeping, loaders shouting, the hum of charging bays. Normal. He wanted normal. He was about to walk away from normal and back into the kind of night that ended with blood on concrete and no witnesses.
Derek caught up with him at the lockers. He pulled a slimCredStick from his jacket and held it out. "Seven-fifty. Other half after."
Ryan took it. The plastic was warm. He didn't look at Derek. "If I cook somebody, that's on you."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." Derek clapped him on the shoulder. The prosthetic hand was cold through Ryan's shirt. "You always pulled it back. Even when we were running corp jobs and they told us to fry the target, you always pulled it back."
That was before. Before Shanghai. Before the limiter cracked and started feeding current into his brain instead of grounding it out. Before he woke up in a medbay with restraints on his wrists and burn patterns on the walls.
Before they told him he was a liability and mustered him out.
Ryan pocketed the CredStick. "If I black out, pull me off."
"I will."
"I mean it, Derek. The second I start to overload, you drag me out. I don't care if the fight's still going."
Derek's grin faltered. "Yeah. Okay."
Ryan grabbed his coat from the locker and headed for the exit. His leg was cooperating again. For now. He had four hours to figure out how to take a beating without his nervous system turning him into a walking Tesla coil.
Four hours, and then he'd be back in the kind of hole he swore he'd never crawl into again.
The night air hit him cold. The depot was near the port, all rust and brine and the distant groan of cargo containers. Ryan walked until he found an alley, then leaned against the wall and waited for the current to stop buzzing under his skin.
It didn't stop.
He pulled out the CredStick and checked the balance. Seven hundred fifty, like Derek promised. Enough for rent. Not enough for a new limiter. Those ran six figures, and corp insurance didn't cover mercs who got discharged for cause.
He should've said no. He should've walked away.
But he didn't, and now he had four hours to remember how to fight without killing anyone.
---
Pier 12 was exactly the kind of place Ryan expected. Abandoned shipping warehouse, sublevel access through a rusted freight elevator, walls that looked like they'd been scrubbed down more than once to hide the stains. The elevator rattled and clanged and sank into the dark.
Derek stood next to him, hands in his pockets, quiet for once.
"You good?" Derek asked.
Ryan didn't answer. His leg was numb again. The current was pooling at the base of his skull. He could feel it crawling up his spine, looking for a way out.
The elevator shuddered to a stop. The doors opened onto noise and bodies and heat.
The sublevel had been gutted and rebuilt into something half fight club, half chop shop. The cage sat in the middle, chain-link and bloodstains, lights rigged overhead. Around it, maybe two hundred people packed in tight, shouting, drinking, placing bets on cracked tablets. The air smelled like sweat and synth-liquor and burning plastic.
Ryan's vision flickered. The current spiked. He forced it down.
"Come on." Derek led him through the crowd toward a door on the far side. A woman stood in front of it, tall, sharp-dressed, arms crossed. She looked at Derek like he was a bug she hadn't decided whether to step on yet.
"This him?" she asked.
Derek nodded. "Ryan Kash. He's solid."
The woman looked Ryan up and down. Her eyes lingered on the way his left leg dragged. "He looks half-dead."
"He's fine."
"I'm standing right here," Ryan said.
The woman's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "Natasha Verner. You're fighting in twenty. You know the rules?"
"No kills, no weapons, fight stops when one guy can't get up."
"Close enough." She stepped aside and pushed the door open. "Prep room's in the back. Try not to bleed on the good equipment."
Ryan stepped past her into a narrow hallway. The current was getting worse. He could feel it arcing through his ribs, his shoulders, his jaw. His teeth ached.
Derek caught his arm. "Hey. You sure you're good?"
Ryan turned. Derek's face was pale. The prosthetic hand was still on Ryan's arm, and Ryan could feel the current starting to jump the gap, crawling into the metal, looking for ground.
Derek felt it too. His eyes went wide. "Kash—"
Ryan jerked his arm free. The current snapped back into his body and he tasted copper. "Don't touch me."
Derek stepped back, shaking out his prosthetic hand. The synthetic skin at the wrist was smoking.
"Jesus," Derek whispered.
"I told you," Ryan said. His voice sounded far away. "I told you it was bad."
"Maybe we should—"
"Too late." Ryan pushed past him into the prep room. It was small, concrete, a bench and a locker and a single flickering light. He sat down and put his head in his hands.
The current crawled up his neck. His vision whited out at the edges.
He was going to kill someone tonight. He knew it. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Footsteps in the hallway. A voice over the intercom, crackling and loud.
"NEXT MATCH. RYAN KASH VERSUS JUDD MARKO. FIGHTERS TO THE CAGE."
Ryan stood. His leg held. Barely.
He walked out into the noise and the heat and the light. The crowd parted. The cage door opened.
And then the speakers crackled again, and a different voice came through. Natasha Verner's voice. Cold. Amused.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat tonight. Our new fighter used to run corp security under a different name. Some of you might remember him."
Ryan froze.
No.
She wouldn't.
"Let's give a warm welcome to the man they used to call STATIC."
The crowd erupted.
Ryan's vision went white.