Chapter Text
“Booze tastes like trash,” Kayden says, downing his fourth shot of vodka. “Let's be real, snobs just wanna get shitfaced and need an excuse, fucking pussies. I get wasted 'cause I wanna be, not 'cause I wanna guess how many grapes got squeezed in the cabinet savvy-on.”
“Cabernet,” says Kartein, beautifully annoyed. Pissing him off is fun.
“Okay, whatever. I thought you said woody notes.” He tries to stack the finished glass on their Leaning Tower of Shots without knocking the damn thing over, and it’s kind of a challenge. Of course, like any challenge, he comes out on top.
For three seconds, anyway. Then the tower topples. Kartein stops most of the glasses from falling off the table, but one of them hits the floor, rolls through a gap in the balcony railings, and drops into the dark. Bye-bye, adios, annyeong. Down 35 stories of the Solis Group Tower it nosedives, past offices glowing neon from spatial isolation tests for tomorrow’s tournaments, before smashing against the waterfront. Along the (now pointy) pavement runs the Thames, which looks less murky than daytime, glinting from city lights and, who knows, maybe bits of glass. At least no unlucky fucker’s head got cracked open.
Speaking of luck, the top ranker from here, the UK, told him ages ago that broken glass is a bad omen, but he doesn't need luck for his match tomorrow. Solis League Kickoff? More like Kayden Break’s Knockout Bash. He’s here to celebrate early.
Between the empty champagne flutes and wine glasses and whatnot on their table, there’s two shots of tequila left. Going for one might be a bad idea. Each time he manages to look away from Kartein to peek at the city lights, they get blurrier and fuzzier and his head spins faster and throwing up won’t be a good look. But somehow, Kartein’s not done yet. As he drinks, his throat is perfectly exposed, and his face is tinted pink—hopefully, not just from the booze.
“How the fuck are you still going?” Kayden says.
Kartein clasps a hand over his mouth. Laughter, the dark evil edgy villain kind, spills out. "Never," Kartein manages between laughs, "don’t ever tell a healer you can outdrink them. Alcohol’s a toxin, and we can—"
“Oh, come the fuck on.” Kayden shoves lightly at Kartein’s shoulder, doing a shitty job at hiding his grin. “That's not fair. That's fucking cheating.”
“You said there’s no such thing as cheating, only winning and losing.” Kartein toys at the rim of his glass in a very, very distracting way. Inappropriate, really, what he’s doing to that glass.
Kayden swipes it from him. “You a fan of fighting dirty?”
Kartein places a hand on top of Kayden’s knee and drags it up his inner thigh. His fingers are damp from saving the shot glasses, and they leave small wet marks on Kayden’s jeans as Kartein drums them once, then twice. Kayden sits very still. Okay. Big yes to fighting dirty.
But Kartein suddenly stiffens. He leans back against his chair, crossing his arms and legs like he’s negotiating some contract, the haziness dissolving from his eyes, the pinkness fading from his face. “Just fucking lovely,” he mutters. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” Just as he gets up, the balcony door swings open, and with it spills the kickoff party they’d been shutting out: the thumping music, the jumbled voices, the drunken laughter.
A woman in a glittery dress stands by the doorway. She's pretty, but probably not Kartein's type. Not until she sweeps inside, her braid flicking like a scorpion tail, a molten sun dripping gold tattooed between her shoulder blades. Goddamnit, maybe Kartein’s type.
“The view here is beautiful, isn’t it, Mr. Kartein? I hope it’s perhaps warmed you to Solis,” the woman says.
“As the saying goes, what can burn warmer than reaching for the sun?” Kartein fixes the lapels on his coat, his voice sharp, business-like. “Thank you for your hospitality.” The smile he gives her is as phony as the smile she flashes back.
“My pleasure. I’ve heard your wings are made of sterner stuff than wax and feathers, you have nothing to worry about.” She turns to Kayden, weighing him up with a detached interest he’s only seen in people who wanna use him. The ghost-feel of Kartein’s hand on his thigh, warm and heavy, keeps him in his chair. “I hate to interrupt your evening, but may I borrow Mr. Kartein for a second?”
“Yeah, sure, if it’s literally one second,” Kayden says, barely meaning it as a joke.
She nails the ‘I don’t find you funny’ laugh. “We won’t take too long, I promise. Best of luck for your match. I’m positive you’ll give us a show.” With a final nod at Kayden, she heads for the doorway, Kartein following behind.
As they head inside, she continues in perfect Korean: “Impressive. Quite the clever handicap you’re giving him. Not to throw a damper on things, but scripted losses bore me. Besides, it won't be fair to disappoint everyone who's traveled all this way for the League, yes? Write me a loose enough script and I can be flexible, within reason.”
Crazy bitch. Mi-chin nyeon thinks Korean's some secret language, huh. The look on her face will be priceless when he calls her out. Kayden staggers up, his chair screeching as he shoves it back. Kartein looks over his shoulder. A flash of desperation, a quick head shake. Fine. Kayden grabs the last shot of tequila instead. But Kartein tenses even more—you’d think he’s constipated—and opens his mouth to speak, before the woman steers him away by the elbow.
Once the balcony door closes, the party sinks underwater, music and voices from inside smudging with the outside traffic that trickles in slow red rivers. Even slower is the Thames flowing like crude oil around the waterfront, sloshing around docked yachts. Everything is stuck. If the water wasn’t so gross, he could fly down to take a dip just to clear his head and wash out the sludgy feeling. Fucking hell, he can’t stand this. Kayden finishes the shot and heads back to the open bar. He’d meant to suss out at least a couple opponents, but the crowd’s so damn packed he has no hope of finding the chick he’s up against tomorrow. A beer to pass the time, then.
Or he can pick a fight. Kayden grins. At parties like these, there are two kinds of people: the ones with self-preservation who keep their energy signals under wraps, and the ones up for a fight. So Kayden combs through the suits and cocktail dresses, hunting for any energy signal stronger than a blip or buzz. Foggy, murky, slippery, cloudy, nope, nope and nope. Not one person worth fighting has let their guard down yet. Force swirls near the popup betting area, whirling round a couple drunk guys spilling their pints on their betting slips, but he can probably beat them with a well timed sneeze.
He reaches further, meaning to scan this middle-aged man with a Pringles mustache, instead brushing his force against a burly security woman behind the man. She’s buried her real power under sheets of spiky energy-guards, which clang against his own force. Spikier than the energy-guards is the look she throws his way.
After the look comes…prickles? The pins and needles crawl up his arms, creep across his shoulders, sharpen to prongs and barbs, skewering his chest. Something wrenches at his core. He’s being dragged, yanked forward, lifted off the ground. Should he fight? Can’t risk it. Might rip his core. The world spins and tilts sideways and goes black.
Kayden gets up from the floor, his stomach churning, a sour taste in his mouth. He does his best not to throw up, but the smell of bleach coming from a cleaning cart by the door makes it even harder. He’s in some kind of interrogation room: concrete walls, security cameras, two chairs and a table. A force barrier cuts across the middle of the room, slicing through the metal table, blocking him from the door. Complete overkill, but then again, he’s the Great Kayden.
Right when he’s about to test how well the force barrier’s gonna hold, the security woman shows up in a surge of amber force, right in front of the door. She’s a head taller than him, at least ten years older, and forget leg day, she hasn’t skipped pinky day. Fading mehndi patterns bloom across her thick, rough hands, the color of dried blood—she could probably kill someone with one finger.
“Shreya Thakur, Deputy Chief of Security,” she says, waving a gold badge with the Solis sun logo. “Why’d you try to attack Dr. Holbrook?
“Who?”
“The CIO?”
“Huh? Oh. Pringles mustache guy?” Unlucky for Kayden, more acid decides to make its way up his throat with each syllable. He swallows down the bile. “I think I'm gonna puke.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nope. Any second now.”
“Shit. ”
“Yeah. Shit.”
Grimacing, Shreya shoves the cleaning cart through the force barrier. He throws up in the cart’s bucket.
He's fought a bunch of teleporters before, all without puking. The faster they warp you away, the dizzier it gets, and she was fast. You're meant to get around ten seconds before it’s too late to stop the teleport, not a quarter of that. What’s she doing in Solis, wasting her time looking after losers who can't fight their way out of a cardboard box?
“I wasn’t trying to fight him. Just looking for anyone who wants to fight,” Kayden says.
“Kid, your match is scheduled for nine in the morning.”
Normally he hates when people call him kid, hates when they underestimate him, but she doesn't seem to mean anything by it. “Yeah, so?”
“You can’t wait less than half a day.”
“Not really.”
“You're…desperate, are you?”
“Am not. ‘S passion.”
Shreya twists her dark coarse ponytail into a neat bun, pinning it in place while huffing a loud sigh, and Kayden almost laughs at how similar she sounds to Kartein when he’s done with someone’s (mostly Kayden’s) bullshit. Kayden’s a pro at pissing people off; it tends to make enemies stupid, throw careless attacks.
She plunks down on the chair opposite him, kicking her worn steel-toed boots on the table. “Always the passionate ones keeping me from my breakfast. I want to eat, not work overtime because of you. Go home. Take it easy. Last minute practice—or whatever it is you're up to—it’ll only wear you out before your match.”
But he wants to wear himself out. He needs to keep moving. Training, fighting, fucking, anything besides staying put. Sit still for too long and rust starts looking like bronze: that’s how the best fighters die, or get caught by some sadistic fuck who thinks it’s funny to break their force core instead of finishing the job, right before their daughter’s quinceanera. Glass lodged in tres leches cupcakes, frosting dissolved in blood. Bronze is never good enough.
“Jesus,” Shreya says. “Fuck that bastard.” The force barrier flickers out under her touch, and then she pushes open the door. “Come on, clean yourself up first. There’s mouthwash in the bathroom. The number of times I’ve apologized to the cleaners this week…”
Only three gargles later does the risk of Shreya Thakur poisoning him through mouthwash pop up, which would be a bit too late. What’s her deal, anyway? Get on his good side and try to sell him a spot in Solis? Loads of ways to steal force control techniques, but she’d be stupid to go after him plain and simple like that. He can handle his shit. Kayden double checks his shirt and jeans to make sure there's no puke on them, before staggering out.
Shreya is waiting for him by the staff elevators, an access key card in hand. “Ready?”
Kayden nods, heading inside the elevator. “Wait.” He swivels around. “What’re you doing here? I mean, why’re you just in security, unranked? Shit, do you wanna spar? Not while you’re on duty, but—”
Shreya’s steel toed boots clang as she taps her feet. She gives him a strange look.
“You’re wasting your talent being stuck protecting assholes too pussy to join a real fight. All they do ‘s get second hand high off watching, and ‘course they’re gonna rely on using actually capable—” You’ve crossed the line. The thought ticks in his head, clicking gear teeth chewing, chewing…
“Just in security,” she repeats, her voice tight, unbuttoning her uniform shirtsleeves and rolling them up. More mehndi patterns curl from her wrists, pretty florals and tendrils twining up her muscly forearms. “I celebrated my sister's wedding the other day. Took annual leave for it, let the boss and my team know, that easy. It wasn’t that easy when I was getting requests to kidnap the eight year old heiress of so and so at least once a week.” She jabs the door close button, swipes her access card, and sends them to the 35th floor. “Not everyone stays fifteen forever, so don’t act it. You know you’re lucky.”
Kayden keeps his mouth shut the whole elevator ride, all the way back to the open bar, opens his mouth once to order a beer, and then shuts up again. He checks his phone. No messages or calls from Kartein, so much for that sun tattoo woman promising they won’t take long. He bounces his leg until someone to his right tells him to quit it. Each second stretches like a strand of tar trying to break into a droplet. Glasses are clinking, but they sound dull; people are talking, but their voices are blurry. The air stinks of cologne overkill. He needs a fucking fight.
…desperate, are you?
Whatever. Reaching out his senses, Kayden picks up the same force at the betting area from before, wafting off a drunk guy like a cloud of terrible BO. Decked out in the classic nepo-baby hoodie, gold chain, and sunglasses combo, he’s harassing one of the bookies manning the betting window, yapping about some mistake in the slip he’d submitted. ‘But I ticked Kayden Break, not her’, over and over and over, sloshing his beer at the poor bookie’s face, waving his receipt. Not everyone stays fifteen, yeah. The way this guy’s acting, he’s had his growth stunted before puberty.
“What’re you staring for? Piss off,” the guy slurs, flapping a dismissive hand.
Kayden snatches the guy’s receipt. “You a fanboy?”
“Oi, give that back!” He sets his beer on the counter and lunges for the receipt. Kayden lets him take it. “Not a fanboy. I’m a Breaker. Wait a sec. Are you—? You wanker. Posing ‘round like you’re him, even the hair, who do you think you are?”
Poker face, poker face, poker face. Meditation time. Kayden imagines a tar-black sea oozing sludgy waves to shore, the ugly guttural splutters as Kartein’s dark swamp swallows an enemy whole, ticklish feathery warm brushes of force, how the fuck is he getting horny right now, c’mon, what the fuck, fucking Breaker. Kayden doubles over cackling.
“What’s so funny? I said, what’s so funny? Keep laughing and you’ll see The Divine Judgment, Kayden Broke-looking knobhead.”
“Is The Great Kayden gonna show up and kick my ass?”
“Mate, he doesn’t stay for two minutes after tournaments, why’d he be here? Socializing? Yeah right. Break flies solo.” Breaker-Boy twists his hand and lightning drips from his fingers into his beer. The drink crackles, steam rising from the mug, then shatters. “I’m the one giving you a kicking.”
Before Kayden can yawn at the cheap party trick, Shreya teleports in front of them, her amber force flashing siren-fast. Whoop-whoop, Kayden Break’s under arrest. Gotta hear his Miranda rights, or whatever they have around here.
“Take it outside, kid, before I call backup,” Shreya says. “Honestly, I thought you were past this.” In that tone, ‘kid’ sounds more condescending than anything else he's been called. Not once does she look at the other guy, just him. He feels the tips of his ears burn.
“He’s past what?” Breaker-Boy asks.
Shreya ignores B-B and keeps staring Kayden down. “I’m under orders to keep an eye on you while you’re here. You’ve got ten seconds to leave.” Prickles start crawling up Kayden’s arms again, insect legs skittering across his shoulders, his neck. Maybe he should go for it, stay put, let her call backup, start a fight. Give himself a real challenge. Better than fighting some jerk who won’t last a minute in underground rings, never mind against him.
“And if I don’t?” Kayden says.
She clenches her fist and the mehndi patterns shift along her flexed arm. There's a tiny flower on her wrist that looks different to the rest of the design, scribbly and wonky. Did she let a kid do that? A stupid picture of Shreya—her uniform replaced with silks, out in the sun sipping lassi, patiently letting some annoying kid scribble on her wrist—pops in his head.
“Oi, he asked you a question,” B-B says.
“Shut the fuck up,” Kayden says. “Let’s go. Show me what you’ve got.”
“But you’re the one who—”
Kayden tugs on B-B’s gold chain, dragging him away. As he squeezes through the crowds, stumbling his way to the elevators, ignoring B-B’s yapping, he feels Shreya tail him, her force cinched around him, spiked metal sinking into his skin. It would’ve been such a fun fight. Comparing her to B-B just makes things worse. Even with handicaps like skipping force shields or skipping ranged attacks, fighting that guy’s gonna be a snooze.
Good thing he’s really, really not feeling picky. ‘Least he’ll get some fresh air. On the opening elevator doors, his blurry reflection splits in two, disappearing. They step inside, the doors snap shut, and Shreya's force chips off him like rust.