England
I angrily rip the betting slip in my hands. Why? Because I placed a bet on Spartan, that's why.
I need something to calm myself down. A chocolate bar will do just fine. I try to overlook the fact there are already four empty wrappers on the floor. I unpack the chocolate and start to munch on it, but the divine taste in my mouth slowly turns bitter as I look at Nightingale on TV in front of me, bowing to the audience with her trademark emotionless bitch face.
How could I lose? I thought Spartan is a safe bet, even though Nightingale is the current Champion of Champions. I saw that guy's past fights. He's a beast, I tell ya. He almost never scores Clash points, that monstrous mechanical arm goes straight for Fatals. Also, according to his official profile, he has reinforced bones and has taken more Augments than you can count.
I thought he will finally be the one who will defeat that bird whore - but whoops, I was wrong. Needless to say, I have to admit the victory was well-deserved. That bitch is fast as hell and Spartan looked almost stupid when she started to fly. There's also something in her fighting style that freaks me out. Cold, calculated, merciless. She wouldn't hesitate to finish the attack even if the INF system wasn't active.
Okay, but that still doesn't change the fact Spartan lost and my twenty royals went down the drain.
The referees of the Italian championship ceremonially walk into the arena to give the Golden badge to Nightingale. It's fun to watch since her attire doesn't offer much places to pin the trophy, and even if it does, touching it could be considered inappropriate. After short hesitation, they decide to pin it on the part of her pelerine which partially covers her shoulders.
The commentator endlessly describes her awesomeness as Nightingale leaves the arena. Outside, there are already journalists who want "a few words about your feelings after the victory". This is where I turn the TV off. I don't fancy seeing it for a thousandth time - Nightingale's condescending monologues interspersed with detailed shots of her boobs.
I finish the chocolate bar which smothers my disappointment at least a little. I have to admit I'm a little addicted. Okay, highly addicted. I use sugar both to celebrate victories and cope with defeats. But even though I eat monstrous amounts of it, I'm still skinny for some reason. I like to think it's because of my flawless metabolism, but it's more probable the cause is the stress I face almost daily.
I really thought Spartan will win. I'm fascinated by brute force that crushes weaker enemies like used toothpicks. Or fights of two hulking Champions with enormous proths and reinforced bones. But that Nightingale is really bugging me. She's pretty tiny. So how come she was able to defeat so many Champions and climb on top? Does she take some illegal Augments? Or is it sheer willpower?
You know what? Fuck that. This is the last time I placed a bet on a brute force.
Okay, back to the reality.
I take a look around. Well, my house can use a little cleaning. It's exactly what would you expect from a twenty-five year old bachelor - a basic furniture bought in sales, dust clinging on everything, and averagely two empty chocolate packets for a square meter. It's true I don't invest into household items as much as I should. I'm a technology and science geek, so my funds usually flow that way.
My old TV has two metres diagonal, which is kinda big, but it still uses LCD technology while majority of people already have holochromatic ones with simulated depth perception and definition so perfect it can't be distinguished from reality.
Well, it seems that I'm in a financial crisis right now. I try placing bets on Neoclash, but I usually lose, like I did just now, and if I win, I receive only some chicken feed that's gone after a single supermarket visit.
It's infuriating since I know I'm just one step away from fame and fortune.
"AVIA, tell me the time and date of the next Neoclash championship," I say to an empty room.
A small white box on the table comes alive. The automatic, voice-activated assistant answers me: "The next Second-league Neoclash championship takes place in Denmark, tenth of February at eight PM. The remaining time is six days, one hour and thirty-six minutes."
Okay, it seems that I'll have to spend a week watching boring Third and Fourth League fights. Great.
...
"AVIA, send HooverPal to clean the house and unlock the laboratory," I command.
"Sending HooverPal and unlocking the laboratory, Mr. Bridger," AVIA replies with the soft girl voice I programmed her to have. It's sad it is probably my closest encounter with anything even remotely female.
My HooverPal comes alive and leaves its charging slot. It's a household toy that looks like a flying saucer hovering low above the floor using a small Counter-Gravity engine and works like a vacuum cleaner. It starts to systematically scavenge the room and suck the dust and empty chocolate packets inside.
I let the robot do its job and enter the door AVIA unlocked. It leads downstairs, to the basement. And yes, it has to be locked so well only my own voice, a fingerprint and a retina scan can open it. If someone broke there and stole what's inside, my hopes for a better life would be gone within minutes.
As I said earlier, the upper part of the house is a typical bachelor dwelling. Well, the basement is a different story. It is the place where my heart and soul belong.
I descend the stairs. "AVIA, turn on the lights," I call and the artifical intelligence obeys. Installing the AVIA system was expensive, but worth every royal since it speeds up my work at least three times. However, installing AVIA was nowhere as expensive as THIS.
I step into my personal science lab. Not to brag, I have two PhD degrees hanging on the wall and IQ over 150. I specialize in medicine and biotechnologies and I already helped some researchers in DIANA in developing some brand new proths for Champions.
Those were the times when I could consider myself successful.
It's not that I'm not anymore. Nobody is just willing to appreciate my work even though I made the most groundbreaking discovery of the past years... possibly.
I walk past sterile tables with professional lab equipment I bought after returning from DIANA. Even the most elite scientists wouldn't have to be ashamed of it. Microscopes so powerful they're able to see the very core of quarks, a supercomputer linked to a squadron of nanobots, wonderful synthesization machines and 3D printers able to create everything out of anything.
But my most important research doesn't involve any kickass prosthesis or a doomsday machine. Everything is stored in a strongbox in the corner of the lab secured by similar security measures than the lab itself. I open the safe with another voice command, retina scan and another fingerprint.
Inside, there's nothing but a single tablet computer. A computer which contains my research from the past years. A discovery that can change the world of Castaways forever. A discovery that can bring me fame and fortune, and probably even a Nobel prize.
The problem is that the discovery is just theoretical now. It works on the paper, but would it work in reality? Before I present it to the science world, I need to commence many experiments which would prove my theory works. But to do that, I need money which I don't have anymore.
From time to time, I come up with something interesting that makes me some cash, but it's hardly enough to pay my bills. I sometimes even have to, ugh, go to work so I'd be able to afford something better to eat than ramen noodles and synthetical bread cubes. Working is really the worst. The presence of other people annoys me and it takes my precious time I could use for research.
People called me a prodigy. Ryan Bridger, a miraculous teenager who cooperated with Mikkel Björnson, the founder of the AVIA company which sells the most elite computers, electronic devices and Castaway prostheses. Look at your prodigy now. Alone in a house, working as a clerk of second-grade stores which can't even afford an automatized shop assistant.
But I hope the world will hear about me once again.
I run through thousands of pages of my research I've seen lots of times before. Why? To find motivation, of course. All I need is an amount of money enough to do a few experiments. Nothing more. If I prove my theory, the rest of my life will be happy and comfortable.
But how can you save money when you have to care for mundane things like food and bills, all with a deeply underaverage income? Selling my equipment? Hell no. Sell an organ on the black market? Sounds tempting, but I'd rather keep both my kidneys. Becoming a gigolo? Nah, I'm not good-looking enough to attract customers and, since self-treatment doesn't count, I'm still a hopeless virgin.
I tried to learn poker and raid casinos. But, for some reason, even my sky-high IQ didn't grant me luck and I had to quit before I lost even the clothes I was wearing. Recently, I started betting on Neoclash, but as I already said, the fortune is not with me.
In fact, I'm probably the biggest luckless fellow in the whole of Britain.
I lock my precious notes into the safe again with a sigh. What else can I do? Enter the crime scene? That's no use, since the Wardens were recruited into the police, the criminality is almost nonexistent. Enter the lottery? My luck already shakes its head.
It seems that this document will stay a secret between me and my AVIA system.
I leave the lab in a mood even worse than before. Another bar of chocolate improves it a little, but since my stomach is already protesting against more doses of sugar, it seems I can't eat another right now. It seems that I should just prepare some dinner and watch TV until I fall asleep.
Just out of boredom, I reach into my pocket for my pentop. It's a device similar to a slightly larger pen with a display on it. A yellow icon shaped like an envelope shines on it - I have one new message. I unroll the main display that's usually rolled inside like a scroll - the flexible touchscreen technology was there long before DIANA, but it's still relevant and pentops are still the number one way of communication.
I click the button on the pentop to adjust the display in the working mode and open the messenger app. I roll my eyes as I see another viagra ad which ends right in my spam folder. Too bad, no miracle for now.
I sit into the armchair and check the news on the pentop. The main headline is no surprise:
NEOCLASH: Nightingale wins another tournamment, claiming prize money of ꝶ50,000
Fifty grand. That would be probably enough to finally turn my theory into reality. Damn, I wish I was a Castaway. I'd arm myself with some badass proths, inject some Augments into my veins and fight for the money. But too bad. I'm a Healthy. And, of course, too wimpy even for Healthy.
But...
BUT...
A crazy idea emerges in my mind. An idea so crazy I burst into laughter. "Ryan, you crazy piece of shit," I tell myself. A lot of people told me I talk to myself too much. I solved it by stopping meeting other people.
"Now playing: 'Crazy Piece of Shit' by Anatomic Hammer," AVIA announces. Well, the system has still some shortcomings. She often misheards my monologues as commands for her and then pulls out ridiculous things, like right now. A horrible synth-metal music fills the house and I have to scream "AVIA, STOP MUSIC!" really loud to make the system turn it off.
Most of today's people would disagree, but I find today's music horrible. Too loud and negative. After several centuries of pop music domination, the people started to prefer hard, nihilistic tones, probably because of frustration and feeling of rebellion. The era of cybergrunge ended just a few years ago, but was quickly replaced by synth-metal which is even louder and harder to grasp.
Okay, I strayed from the topic a little. Let's get back to my idea.
As I said, I'm just a wimp with no fighting skills and absolutely no inhuman strength and endurance like Castaways have (on the other hand, at least I have all my limbs and organs in the right places). But now I realize I'm one of those dorks who can buy a Castaway and train them to become a Champion!
There are places called Castaway markets where the Dead Zone's inhabitans are sold. Some companies buy them because they need some labour force, but most of them become more or less successful Champions. I agree, it smells like slavery at the first glance, but the initial transaction is where the similarity ends. The Castaways have completely equal rights and have to be paid in order to work.
However, my idea has several prominent snags in it. And because I'm bored, I start thinking about them.
...
First, Castaways are expensive. Well, their price varies based on their condition and deformities. Yeah, you can buy a malnourished, legless Castaway for a few (hundred) royals, but what would you do with a malnourished, armless Castaway? With some care, it's possible to make even the most miserable Castaway famous. They can receive some fine artificial limbs and with lots of training, they can compete with the best. But who the hell has enough patience for that?
Second, as I probably made clear, I'm a man of solitude. My pad is big enough for two, maybe even three people, but I'm completely fine on my own. Look, I have a hard time feeding and grooming myself. If I bought a Castaway, I'd have to feed them, buy them stuff, take care of them and even (ugh) talk to them and listen to their problems. I'm not a social person, not even the slightest.
That's why I don't have a girlfriend yet. Well, let's ignore the fact I'm a nerdy loser most people call snobby or even rude (thanks for the compliment). They say that humans are designed to live in pairs, but it seems I'm an exception. Any people other than myself just hinder my progress and smother my creative spirit.
Third: Neoclash is a harsh business. It's not only about fighting, but also about surviving among the competition and always being one step ahead from your opponent. It is also risky as hell. You can spend ungodly amount of royals on the Castaway, the artificial body parts they'd need, maybe some professional trainer (not to mention food, clothes and such things) and even then, you have no guarantee the investment will be returned.
Even buying the most expensive Castaway doesn't ensure they will be good at Neoclash. Some of them just don't have talent for fighting and can't win even a fourth-league city championship. It's also not uncommon that the Champions just run away from their owners to become Outlaws. Usually, sooner or later, they're caught by the Wardens and imprisoned, but you're left without Castaway and without money.
There's a paragraph in the Law of the Castaways which allows the Castaways to refuse working for you, but they have to work until they're able to return their purchase price plus the price of their artificial body parts. I think it's fair enough, the buyer has at least a guarantee that they're gonna get their money back if their Castaway turns out to be a sworn pacifist.
Buying a Castaway should be just a glimpse of inspiration which is gone after several minutes, but I somehow can't stop thinking about it. I admit I'm a person that daydreams a lot. Usually, my dreams consist me as a famous scientist, claiming a Nobel prize and meeting the biggest genii of this era. Reading name Ryan Bridger in science textbooks.
But now, my imagination is running even wilder. I'm standing in the centre of a Neoclash arena with the crowd cheering for me and my Champion who is holding the Pioneer Cup, a trophy given to the winner of European Neoclash Showdown.
The owners of successful Champions (or partners, for those not comfortable with the idea of ownership) are usually as famous as the Champions themselves. It's widely known that Nightingale's partner is a French woman named Célia Thibault - she's close to fifty and, compared to her Champion who flaunts her beauty everywhere she goes, quite plain with shoulder-long dark hair, eyeglasses and the first signs of wrinkles on her face.
The house of Célia and Nightingale (whose real name is apparently Valentina) looks more like a mansion. Célia is single (there are rumors that her relationship with Nightingale exceeds a standard owner-Champion relation), that means the small palace in northern France is just for them. They both also drive the latest models of Polarity cars (and that's hell of an expensive brands) and overall live in unimaginable luxury.
If my Champion would turn out to be at least half as successful as Nightingale, I wouldn't have to worry about anything for the rest of my life. I'd be able to prove my theory and then live in luxury until I die. Every Champion who makes it into the Neoclash Showdown is awarded a pretty penny. More than enough for me.
Man, you can't imagine how tempting this impulsive idea turns to be.
I'm not really into taking risks and this would be the biggest risk of my life. But it also offers the biggest gain. There are unbelievable money in the Neoclash business and every Champion can take a nibble.