Chương 41: Berserker

When Hector made his way past the fighting rings, a synth wearing a security uniform flagged him down and handed over a plain, navy-blue duffel bag. As he was expecting a package from Janus, he wasn't alarmed, so he took the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Thanks."

"You're quite welcome. After reviewing some security footage, we estimated your size as a medium. Will that be all right?" Hector shrugged.

"I think so, but I'm fairly tall—""One-point-eight-eight meters, sir. That's within medium specifications."

"Fine."

"Vice President Janus has informed me that you're a prospective employee as well as a fight participant. As such, I've given you a per-diem meal credit at the cafeteria. Is there anything else I can help you with?" Hector nodded toward the corridor he'd been walking toward.

"Lockers in there?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Then I'm all set." The synth, very similar in design to the one that had guided him to Janus, blinked, then nodded.

"Best of luck with the employment process." With that, it turned and walked away, and Hector made his way into the locker room. There were hundreds of lockers inside, and the space reminded Hector of a fancy gym, not something you'd find attached to a convention hall which was inside the corporate headquarters of a mine. It helped drive home the importance of the fights to the Redwick culture; he supposed RMC's sponsorship earned them a significant amount of good will with the populace.

Past the lockers, he found the showers, and he was again impressed. Rather than a large, open space, he found no less than twenty separate shower stalls. He stepped into one and pulled the curtain closed, setting the duffel on a little bench—a changing area before the shower itself. He unzipped the bag and found two outfits: a plain burgundy tracksuit with an unobtrusive RMC logo on the collar, and a security uniform not unlike the one the synth had been wearing.

Hector gave the uniform a once-over, wondering if it was anything special; it wasn't. The thing was basically a black jumpsuit made of a tough, flexible material that was double-thick at the elbows and knees. It said "Security" across the back, and it had "RMC" emblazoned on the left side of the chest. He supposed it was better than walking around in his blood-stained clothing. Even better than the uniform, the care package included a medium-sized pair of nano-fiber cross-trainers.

The black shoes were much lighter than his boots, had better traction, and the resizing tech was at least a generation or two more advanced, shrinking and expanding almost instantly when he touched the button on the tongue.

"Nice," Hector said, hefting one of the shoes, marveling at the almost imperceptible weight. He undressed, tucked his armored vest into the bottom of the duffel bag, and then piled his soiled jeans, shirt, and jacket on the floor. He'd thought about trying to save the jacket, but the synth-leather was cut, punctured, and torn, and the lining was absolutely soaked with dried blood. The only garment he decided to save was his underwear, and that was only because he didn't have a clean pair.

That didn't stop him from washing them, though, so he took them with him into the shower. As soon as the hot water began to pound on his skull and shoulders, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift. Mostly, he thought about Janus and what kinds of games he might be playing. Is that tricky corpo-suit going to try to screw me over? He figured there was a good chance, but he also figured Janus would do what was best for himself—Hector didn't see an angle where capturing him would serve Janus's purposes.

Sure, he might try to kill him, but the man was clever; he had to know Hector wouldn't go down easily or quietly. Along those same lines, Hector thought Janus was smart enough to know that having a man like him as an ally was more valuable than making an enemy of him.

It was that conclusion that allowed him to relax a little, and while he methodically scrubbed himself down with the harsh soap in the dispenser, he thought about other, less relevant things; mostly about Mira and how she'd looked sitting in the cafeteria. Would he ever see her again? Stop putting that poor girl onto a pedestal. You barely know her. The harsh, self-critical voice in his head made a good point—as usual. Maybe to distract himself from thoughts of Mira, he muttered, "Evie, send a message to Lemon.

Ask her how things are going." //Done. // After he'd indulged in the hot water far longer than most would consider reasonable, Hector dried off and got dressed in the tracksuit, pulling on the lightweight, mesh cross-trainers. He got a fresh towel and scrubbed most of the water out of his hair, ran some fingers through it, and then packed up his duffel bag, throwing his soiled clothes—and jacket—into the trash bin. Feeling much better, he made his way out to the convention hall.

It was closing in on one o'clock, and his stomach reminded him that he'd been putting off his very real need for nutrients. Time for some food. Hector meandered through the growing crowd in the convention hall—mostly staff, fighters, and their friends, family, and supporters. Considering the entry fee and the likelihood that half the fighters would walk away with nothing to show for their efforts, Hector couldn't help studying them, wondering what their situations were—what made them think they had a chance.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. One lean, muscular woman, her hands shaking and her eyes twitching from the volatile wire-job she was running, sat with an older woman. Hector thought they could have been twins if not for the extra couple of decades of hard living reflected in the other woman's skin and eyes. They spoke in low tones, and the younger woman—a fighter for sure—kept looking up at the enormous crystal-glass display that hung on one end of the hall.

It showed the empty lower-tier brackets. She's waiting to see who she's fighting, hoping she didn't waste a sizeable chunk of their savings. He made up similar stories for the other fighters he passed, for some reason humanizing them when he knew damn well he might have to put them down in the tournament. He couldn't afford to be merciful or to throw the fights he was assigned; he needed bits if he ever intended to get into a position where he could deliver justice for the Conti family.

The cafeteria was relatively quiet, and when he saw no sign of Mira, Hector felt a curious mixture of relief and guilt. He was out of patience for introspection, though, so he shoved the feelings and the thoughts they provoked aside and walked over to the self-service deli line. He bought three plastic-wrapped sandwiches, a bottle of "Protein Dream Milk," and two bottles of water.

Food in hand, he went back to the convention hall, picked a random set of bleachers, climbed to the top, and sat down with his back against the wall. Over the next half hour, he slowly, methodically, consumed his food, and then, with his belly full and satisfied for the moment, he folded his arms across his chest, slid down into the space between bleacher benches, and closed his eyes. He dozed, and that was all he intended—just a light, half-awake, half-asleep state.

He might have managed it, too, if not for the strange things Evie and his aura system were doing to his body. Before long, though, he was sucked down into a deep black well of dreamless sleep. His sleep was so profoundly deep that he might have slept that way for hours, slumped down in the bleachers, legs hanging over the next row. Fortunately, though, Evie finished her work with the Berserker archetype, and she woke him a gentle alarm played directly into his auditory implants.

Hector slowly climbed back to consciousness, a deep-sea diver kicking toward the light of the sun. When he blinked his eyes open and his brain registered his surroundings, it took him a full ten seconds to remember who and where he was. With a cough, he cleared his throat and looked around, feeling rather unsettled to suddenly be surrounded by strangers.

It seemed the convention hall had opened its doors to the public and, judging by the constant clamor of amplified voices and cheers, things were already underway down in the fighting rings. It wasn't lost on him that Evie had filled a window with information, but he ignored it for the moment, pushing himself up onto the bench. He squinted toward the massive display hanging on the opposite side of the arena and slowly exhaled, relaxing; they were still running the low-tier fights.

To confirm, he glanced at his AUI clock, and saw that it was just a little past four in the afternoon. Stretching his neck until it popped, he dragged his duffel bag closer, away from the man who was sitting to his left, and then he focused on the information Evie had compiled: //Berserker archetype integration complete. Berserker propagation has revealed higher-tier properties: ability and boost morphing, greater attribute enhancement, deeper corpus vivum integration, and aura amplification.

Archetype Integration Report: Berserker established – Level 4 maintained (30 aura potentia required for Level 5) Muscular microfilament density increased, bringing Strength rating from 13 to 14. 95 Neural reflex latency reduced, increasing Speed rating from 12 to 15 Aura-fueled progenitor cells introduced, enhancing regenerative capabilities and raising Vitality rating from 11 to 13.

75 Aura pool increased by 2 Aura passive regeneration rate enhanced by 10% Aura Status: Aura Pool: 18/18 Aura Potentia: 1 Current Abilities and Boosts: Berserk (formerly Strength Boost) – Boost Strength, Speed, and regeneration by a significant amount. Cost: 3 aura per second Aura Blade – Condense aura into a short, bladed force projection. Cost: 2 aura per second Available Abilities and Boosts: Reinforce Strength – Infuse potentia into the muscular structure of your corpus vivum, enhancing Strength by 2.

Repeatable. Cost: 5 aura potentia Iron Fist – Infuse aura into bone and muscle to amplify striking force. Cost: 10 aura potentia Minor Aura Barrier – Condense aura into a small barrier to protect a portion of your corpus vivum momentarily. Cost: 12 aura potentia Enhanced Bone Density 1 – Infuse potentia into the skeletal structure of your corpus vivum for a one-time, permanent boost to its durability. Repeatable.

Cost: 15 aura potentia Notes: The Berserker archetype has created distinct pathways into your animus cortex. The implication of such connections is that the archetype will impact your mental state, mood, or disposition more than less-potent archetypes. Furthermore, the use of boosts directly tied to the archetype (Berserk, for instance) may exacerbate these effects. Overuse of the "Berserk" boost could result in aura overload; use caution. End Report.

// Hector's face fell into a frown which deepened as he read the report. He wasn't upset… exactly, but he was more than a little surprised and concerned that he'd opened up such a potent-seeming archetype at such a low level. In many ways, it was a serious win—regeneration, for instance, was not something many aura systems could provide, and almost exclusively the territory of high-tier archetypes that had gone through several evolutions. The connection to his "animus cortex" was the concerning factor.

Of course, in his previous life, he'd had archetypes that impacted him in similar ways, but never one named so ominously as "Berserker." The last thing he needed was for his anger to have the silent encouragement of his aura archetype. Despite that concern, he was pleased; even if he only considered the attribute gains, the new archetype was a win.

Hector was confident he'd notice the improved speed and strength already, and if he gained a few more levels in the archetype, his attributes would put him in another class of fighter altogether. At that point, he could try to morph the archetype or change out of it completely, depending on what sorts of options he opened up. Nice work, Evie. //I'm pleased with this discovery. I hope you'll allow me to document my achievement sometime soon. // Hector snorted.

As if he'd want to share what she'd accomplished with some snobby Imperial Archivist! With a yawn and a stretch, he stood, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. He needed to use the restroom, and then he'd find the brackets for the mid-tier fights—time to find out who he'd be going up against.