Beltan News: The annual Miss Asteroid Belt will start soon. The top five competitors from each asteroid colony will compete in the final show in Goldhand for three nights with the winner announced at the end. Who will win? Place your bets folks, as we're about to crown the most beautiful woman in the asteroid belt.
Everything moved in slow motion: the heavy breaths, the racing hearts, then things returned to normal with exploding cheers. Patrick never thought he'd love this sort of thing, but once he experienced it, he never wanted to let go.
Holding his clenched hands forward, Patrick waited for his opponent to strike first. He had all the time on the asteroid—the ring was his oyster.
It was only round one, and there were over two minutes left. He had let his opponent go at him for the last three minutes while he evaded the punches with ease—even dancing at some point, which made the crowd roar with delight. This was his system now. It was what they built him to do. He hated it took a dysfunctional emotion-chip for him to realize it.
"Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!" the crowd chanted from the stands.
He was an entertainer now, and he'd do what his fans asked. He hadn't earned the nickname "P-Dizzle" for nothing.
Dicklaus, his opponent, charged at him, anger spewed on his face as he used to be a fan favorite until when Patrick arrived. He advanced with quick speed, but it didn't intimidate Patrick. He had fought better-skilled boxers, stronger boxers, more intimidating boxers—and he had won.
Dicklaus was nothing but a nuisance Patrick wanted to put behind him. The synth had been talking shit behind his back, saying he could beat "P-Dizzle" with his eyes closed. And yet, there they were, in the ring together, and he had his eyes wide open.
Patrick evaded the first three punches by leaning sideways, then dodged the next six by leaning back while taking quick backward steps. Dicklaus looked tired and lazy—he was running out of charge. The crowd realized it too and stood, chanting louder than before.
"Let's go, P-Dizzle!" They clapped five times. "Let's go, P-Dizzle!" Hundreds of thousands of fans chanted his nickname, bringing euphoria to Patrick. This was what true happiness was, and he wanted nothing else.
Dicklaus swung an arm. Patrick blocked it. He swung his other arm. Patrick stopped it too. Then Patrick spun, hitting Dicklaus' cheek with the back of his fist.
The crowd oouued, then started stomping their feet on the stadium's floor. They knew it was coming. Electricity ignited in the air, giving Patrick an orgasmic feeling. He moaned, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head for a few seconds. When he focused back on Dicklaus, the synth was dizzy, swaying sideways, unable to maintain his balance.
Patrick stepped back, then dashed forward with incredible speed that none of his opponents had stopped. When he was close to Dicklaus, he drew his arm back, then pummeled his fist on Dicklaus' chest, pulverizing him in half.
Cheers and chants filled the stadium. Another fight, another knockout win by P-Dizzle. His eleventh in the tournament. At this rate, he wouldn't be the dark horse in the championship tournament for long.
When Patrick had arrived in Goldhand, Dolph gave him a new emotion-chip. The old one was outdated, that was why he had lost his cool in the Corpse Flower. Afterward, Patrick refused to return to J and Dennis, wanting to see what else was out there before going back to a life of servitude.
Who was he, and what role did he have in the system?
Patrick had found his answers on Goldhand. He was P-Dizzle, a Synth Boxer, and an all-around entertainer. Men wanted to be him, children adored him, and women couldn't get enough of him.
Patrick left the ring and returned to his dressing room while fans chanted his name. He had become a household name and a fan-favorite in a few weeks—it had never happened to other synths before. Dolph had claimed the reason had to do with his odd appearance. While other synths maintained their human-like appearance, he still had his silver and black metallic look after tearing off his rubber skin in a moment of madness.
He found Dolph inside his dressing room, sitting in his chair with a smile on his face. The sleeve had his fingers interlocked and his eyes staring at Patrick.
"Her, I found," Dolph said.
"Who?" Patrick asked, sitting on the couch beside the chair.
"The Smuggler."
The Smuggler was the codename for the best smuggler in the system. She had never failed to deliver goods to her clients—no matter the destination. Space Patrol had tried everything in their power to catch her, failing miserably. She was as slick as a cat, even earning the nickname "Cat-Woman" among her peers.
No one knew what she looked like. She always wore a Face-Changer—a mask that took the faces of different people and mixed them together to create an unregistered face to hide the user's identity.
Dolph had been trying to contact her for years, wanting her help in expanding his whale meat operations and start other ventures. She had connections in places they forbade him to enter after his banishment from Pluto—they caught him saving cyborgs from sleeves who tortured them for fun by removing their implants and leaving them as broken humans.
In the last few months, The Smuggler had gone off-grid, and no one knew of her whereabouts. There were rumors about her falling in love with a beltan bartender from Goldhand and fleeing off together. Dolph hadn't believed that, so he kept looking for her.
"How did you find her?" Patrick asked.
"Me, she found." He rubbed his hands in excitement. "A call from her today saying she heard about me and my business and wants to meet me, I got."
"And you said yes?"
Dolph nodded.
"Are you sure it's her? She has been quiet for a few months, and no one—not even those who worked with her regularly—knew where she was. And now, suddenly, she calls you and sets up a meeting? I don't like the sound of this. What if it's a trap by Space Patrol?"
"Too much, you worry."
"That's my default programming. You don't worry about yourself, so someone has to do it for you."
Dolph placed his hand on his chest. "Oh, you cared so much about me, I didn't know."
Patrick rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Patrick, relax. Stupid, I'm not. How else do you think I've been able to survive for this long, even after my banishment from Pluto? Are closed, all the doors that once couldn't close on me. Still out here living and thriving, I am. Her face with Face-Changer, the smuggler may hide. Always the same, her voice is." He tapped his ear. "Good hearing, I have. So when I heard her speak, it was her, I knew."
"Your judgment has not failed me or you so far, so I'll trust you on this."
"Good." Dolph was desperate to be somebody again. Being a sleeve should've meant something, but doing the right thing ruined his life. After that, he went down the smuggling route. He didn't want to be bad, but he also didn't want to be good—he chose the in-between. This thing with The Smuggler was his desperate attempt to get back the honor he once had. If not among the elite sleeves, then with the outcasts. And whatever door that opened for him next, he wouldn't allow it to close.
This was a perfect situation for Patrick. He had seen it all and done it all with Detective J. Here, he was in a new and unpredictable environment. He didn't know what lied ahead, and that excited him. Wanting to see it through, he had to protect Dolph in the world of messed-up elite sleeves.
A knock on the door took them both out of their light trances.
"Here, she is." Dolph stood and opened the door, then smiled upon seeing the person on the other end. "Welcome." He stepped aside, and a woman entered: The Smuggler.
The Smuggler wore a long white jacket with a big hat that covered her head and face. She observed the dressing room before stopping at Patrick. She took off her hat and Patrick's eyes widened, recognition sparkling in his blue-green eyes.
Monica Pauly, he thought.
"Who's he?" Monica Pauly asked. Red lipstick covered her narrow lips, black eyeshadow surrounded her eyes, and she had two rings on each nostril.
"Patrick," Dolph replied.
"The partner you told me about?"
"Yes."
Monica Pauly observed Patrick from head to toe. "He has no skin."
"Being weird, he likes."
She slid her hand through her dark curls, pushing them away from her face. The last time he saw her was in a video, moments before Paulson and Florence murdered her. He had done thorough research on her, finding out she had already used her government-assigned clone after losing her original body in an accident that took the lives of her parents.
She must've bought an illegal clone before dying, Patrick thought. Does she have more?
"Why's he staring at me?" Monica Pauly asked.
Dolph chuckled nervously, then nudged Patrick with his elbow.
Patrick glanced at Dolph, then back at Monica Pauly. "Why aren't you using Face-Changer?" the synth asked.
The question took Monica aback, making her blink a few times. "What—How did you know?"
"I worked with the lead detective in your murder case."
"Detective J?"
"Yes." Patrick's eyes widened. "Wait, you know him?"
Monica Pauly seemed to calm down. "Yes, I met him when he returned my dead clone."
"Sorry about Victoria."
Monica Pauly clenched her hands. "Thank you." She slid her hand through her hair, pushing her curls backward, then turned to Dolph, who had been staring at the two with an O-shaped mouth.
"Monica Pauly, you are?" Dolph asked.
"Yes, that's my true identity. And since we're going to be in business together, I hope I can trust you with my secret. Few people know I'm currently The Smuggler—my family has used the name for generations."
Dolph smiled. "Trust me, you can." He placed his hands around their shoulders, then pulled them close to him. "About the past, enough talk. Smuggling, the future is."
"I agree," Monica Pauly said.
"Same," Patrick added.
"Awesome." Dolph kissed both their cheeks, making Monica Pauly blush while Patrick curled his lip. "Beginning of a beautiful friendship, I feel like this is."