In the industrial district, an old Ace Chemicals factory—relic of a time when men, not machines, drove the assembly lines—roared back to life.
Its weathered red-brick walls and corroded steel beams shook under the pulse of an ecstatic crowd. A rave of violence, booze, and bets.
Broken neon signs and dangling holographic projectors hung from frayed cables, bathing two makeshift rings in a filthy glow.
Speakers blared a mix of electronic beats and punk rock, rattling the foundations of the aging plant. The air reeked of liquor, sweat, and the stale stench of chemical waste still clinging to the walls.
Glass crunched under heavy boots. Bookies with hacked IDn devices shouted out the odds, their voices chopped and swallowed by the roar that followed every blow.
The main ring—surrounded by a rabid mob—was home to the Cyberware fights: faster, bloodier, deadlier.
Metal against metal.
Gorilla arms slammed together with bone-rattling force, spitting showers of sparks and splashes of milky blood. Each hit ripped a howl from the crowd, who raised their beers and demanded more, lost in a savage frenzy of wagers and violence.
The fighters' bodies were grotesque hybrids of hypertrophied flesh and synthetic muscle, bloated, inhuman silhouettes shaped by extreme implants.
Their strikes… left craters in the steel plates lining the pit, the echo of each collision rolling like thunder through the factory's rust-eaten walls.
Meanwhile, among rusted boilers and dead conveyor belts, the Hexagon hosted fights the old-fashioned way.
No implants.
Long, brutal fights—each blow spilling not hydraulic fluid, but warm, red blood. Every splash drew a roar from the old gamblers, men who could move more money with one hand than a hundred kids screaming on the other side of the floor.
That night, the favorite was a former UFC heavyweight, banned for using illegal substances.
Not just steroids—which everyone in the leagues took—but Slapper, a dangerous offshoot of a prohibited, highly addictive compound: the legendary Venom.
Aleksandr "The Butcher" Dvornikov still fought like a disgraced professional, and even his gear told the story—frayed combat shorts with faded sponsorship logos, and perfectly wrapped cloth bandages covering his hands and feet.
His opponent was an underdog who looked like a bad joke
A seventeen-year-old kid. Shirtless. Wearing torn jeans. Barefoot on the rusted metal of the "ring."
He didn't surpass or even match him in strength, skill, or experience…
And yet… after four rounds, there he was—spitting the blood flooding his mouth, his battered, staggering body still upright, refusing to go down.
A wave of jeers rose from the crowd when he relied on his only advantage—speed—to slip past Dvornikov's heaviest swings and dart away from danger.
Among them, a figure in an old-fashioned hat and a long coat moved subtly through the mass of bodies… drawing no attention, yet never losing sight of the fight. Almost seeming to mourn every chance the boy let slip to finish it.
Only to shake his head at himself, thinking: "Of course. No one ever taught him a damn thing."
Reading the fight effortlessly, the hunched figure positioned himself accordingly… waiting in front of one side of the hexagonal ring, concealed among the other spectators.
Meanwhile, Terry's eyes darted from side to side, scanning the storm of fists coming his way. He blocked the straight ones with his forearms, slipped past the wide swings… and when he found an opening, he darted back to create distance.
But Dvornikov had left that opening on purpose—bait for the rat that wouldn't stop running.
With an arm as thick as Terry's head, he caught his escape and, with a brutal sweep, hurled him against the nearest section of the ring's rusted cage.
As Terry crashed against the fence, the metal screeching under his weight, a commanding voice cut through the roar of the crowd and the glitching crackle of the loudspeakers.
Deep and steady, drowning out everything else for Terry:
"Don't hesitate to strike. Use your speed to turn his strength against him in a counter."
Just before Dvornikov's knee, launched like a projectile, could crush his chest, Terry twisted his neck just enough to catch a glimpse of wrinkled, weary eyes…
"I don't need your advice, old man," he muttered, twisting his body at the last second.
The knee grazed his chest, slamming into the metal cage instead of caving him in.
And while Dvornikov staggered, Terry didn't waste the opening—he unleashed a flurry of sharp, relentless strikes into his lower back, one after another.
He stopped only for a heartbeat, springing back with a quick hop to dodge Dvornikov's furious charge—fueled by the pain.
And then the jeers came down again, raw and merciless, as Terry stuck to the same strategy: slipping past the deadliest punches, soaking up the weaker jabs… surviving, but not truly fighting back.
A few seconds later, the bell rang, ending the fourth round.
Terry returned to his corner. Empty.In contrast, Dvornikov's corner was a hive of activity, swarming with his staff like he was still some kind of celebrity.
That's when he felt the presence of the man in the old hat step up behind him…
Without turning around, Terry muttered, "Bit late, don't you think?"
He didn't need to look to recognize him. The same figure he'd seen ten years ago—at his mother's funeral.
He splashed water over his face, then straight into his mouth, washing away the blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced toward Vasyl, the bookie watching him from the edge of the ring.
When he saw him nod—it was time—Terry added,
"Don't worry… if you're worried about your bet, you're not losing your money."
The figure didn't reply. He just stood there, waiting. Not missing that not-so-subtle signal.
And then, as the break came to an end, a screeching guitar tore through the speakers, drums hammering out the tempo, and a raw voice howling along in perfect chaos…
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
The soundtrack to round five.
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
And just when the odds against Terry hit rock bottom…
The kid who'd been spitting blood from his mouth—once, twice, three times—like some nervous tic…
He let it build up. Let his tongue drown in that metallic taste, let his nostrils fill with the stench of burnt flesh…
And then, suddenly… he stopped staggering.
He started bouncing lightly on the rusted metal of the ring, shaking out his arms.
["♫ It's the animal within my blood ♫"]
["♫ Wouldn't stop it, if I could ♫"]
Then, with an empty stare to match his face…
["♫ Seed is sown, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
["♫ Roll the bones, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
["♫ Embed the code, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
He threw two punches into the air, almost like he was loading his arms… and as the bell rang to start the round—
Terry stopped running and lunged straight at Dvornikov.
["♫ Mayhem flows! ♫"]
["♫ Not backing down ♫"]["♫ Never backing down ♫"]
Not with refined technique.Not with superior strength.But with something far more raw—pouring out of him, exploding in sync with the music, every strike landing like another note.
["♫ Yeah! ♫"]
Even Dvornikov was caught off guard.
When he raised his guard and swung a heavy punch meant to push the kid back—just like in every round before—
Terry didn't dodge.
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
He took it head-on. No flinch. Letting the punch sink into his face… only to twist with it, redirecting that force into his own fist, which crashed once again into the giant's battered side.
Like a silent scream.As if nothing else in his body mattered…
Except his liver.
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
He'd said he didn't need advice… but it was still good one.
And it worked.
["♫ Yeah! ♫"]
Dvornikov staggered—for the first time.
His legs buckled for an instant, as if the floor had dropped out from under him.
The shot to his liver bloomed into a pain that spread from his gut to his chest and up his right shoulder—paralyzing, treacherous.
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
The man who had seemed like a wall… was gasping for air.
The shift was so sudden the crowd held its breath.
["♫ Yeah! ♫"]
Just for a second.
And then, they erupted.
A collective roar shook the rusted walls. Bottles smashed, cheers tangled with shouted bets.
Because this—this was the fight they'd come for.
Violent. Relentless. No masks.Raw and human.Real.
["♫ Suits run when I come undone ♫"]
["♫ Can't kill me, I'm zero and one ♫"]
["♫ Add justice to the people's math ♫"]
The roar was so loud that even the main-ring fight—bigger, bloodier—was drowned out for a moment.
Some of its younger audience turned, confused… and then curiosity began to spread through the crowd. Attention shifted from the big ring to the Hexagon, eager to see for themselves what the hell was happening there.
["♫ Blaze your way down the rebel path ♫"]
["♫ Hear my call, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
The music, the crowd's roar, and the bone-crushing clash of fists blended into a primal frenzy.
Dvornikov seized the chance—now that the kid had stopped dodging.
He loaded a vicious right hook. Brutal. Skull-cracking. One of those punches meant to end the fight—or his life—with a single hit.
But Terry vanished from his line of sight.
He ducked low and spun with an almost inhuman quickness, sliding under the man's arm like smoke. In an instant, he was behind the mountain of muscle, hidden in his shadow.
So fast that even from outside the Hexagon, some spectators barely caught the movement. More than one in the crowd wondered if the kid had a Sandevistans
Though no one dared to say it out loud—Not when they could see his bare spine, free of a single piece of cyberware.
Before Dvornikov could turn, Terry's fist slammed into his battered side again.
Same spot. Same pain. Same hammer.
Refusing to lose to a kid, Dvornikov played his last card.
With a gesture disguised as nothing more than intimidation, he clashed the backs of his hands together, slipping a small hidden sack down into his wraps—right over his knuckles.
["♫ Total war, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
["♫ Casings fall, I'm chippin' in ♫"]
The next blow tore the sack open.
And when he pulled his fist back from Terry's shoulder… Shards of glass were clearly embedded in the flesh, like splinters.
They were also sticking out from Dvornikov's reinforced bandages—sharp, like a filthy trap.
["♫ Kill them all! ♫"]
No one protested.The crowd just erupted in shouts and threw more money behind him.They weren't there for rules.They were there for blood.
Dvornikov took back the momentum, hurling himself at Terry again. Now aware of the trick, Terry focused on dodging the direct hits—though he couldn't avoid them all.
The second blow ripped his chest open.The third carved across his gut.The fourth whistled through the air.
["♫ Not backing down ♫"]
["♫ Uh! ♫"]
And that's when it changed—again.
Terry stopped fighting clean.
["♫ NEVER BACKING DOWN ♫"]
He went for the injured side, pounding it with another flurry of blows. Hammering away until the pain in Dvornikov's liver made him stagger.
Then he aimed lower.
["♫ Yeah! ♫"]
At the weak spots no strength or training could protect: the joints.
He shifted his weight onto one leg, raised the other—and drove a brutal kick straight into the giant's knee.
["♫ Oh, yeah! ♫"]
["♫ Come on! ♫"]
The crack was dry and sharp, and the scream Dvornikov let out froze the blood of everyone watching.
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
As the chorus repeated, his leg gave out at an angle so unnatural it made people look away. He fell onto his good knee.
["♫ C-can you feel it? ♫"]
["♫ Can you touch it? Get ready 'cause here we go ♫"]
Without a shred of compassion, Terry stepped back half a pace. Staring into those wide, pain-filled eyes with nothing behind his own, he delivered one final uppercut straight to Dvornikov's chin. A last hammer blow that dropped him onto the metal floor like a building collapsing.
The factory erupted in screams.
Not of celebration.
Of pure disbelief—even forgetting, for a second, who they had bet on… and lost.
When Terry turned around in triumph, the man with the hat was gone. Disappeared. As if he'd never been there.
He walked out of the Hex barefoot, gathering up his half-folded clothes. He went straight to Vasily, the bookie, looked around briefly, then held out his open hand.
"Give me my Eddies."
"Hell of a fight, kid. For a moment there I thought you'd bitten off more than you could chew, but… I was wrong," Vasily said with his usual crooked smile.
"Yeah," Terry grunted, not even looking at him. He flexed his fingers, impatient. "Give me my Eddies."
Vasily handed him a shard. Terry held it a second, suspicious, then plugged it into the port at the base of his neck. The numbers flashed in front of his eyes. Thousands of Eddies… but not enough.
"Some of it's missing," he said, scowling. "Knocking him out in the fifth was eight to one. You're short twenty-five hundred."
"Kid, I did it for your own good," Vasily replied, subtly gesturing with his chin toward a nearby group of guys in gopnik-style tracksuits and holographic masks. The masks had visual scramblers that distorted their features, making identification by cameras, drones, or even human eyes nearly impossible. Each one bore a childish or cartoonish face painted on the front.
"They're Scavengers. Dvornikov's new sponsors… the one you just broke. I gave them back part of the payout to keep things from going sideways."
"I don't give a fuck," Terry cut in, scanning the crowd again, still looking for the old man. "Give me the rest."
Vasily sighed. "I'm keeping you out of trouble. Trust me."
"I don't," Terry said, locking eyes with him. "Besides… I thought you hated Russians."
Dropping the act, Vasily stopped smiling. "That's why I like you, kid."
Without another word, he transferred the rest of the money—from the Scavengers' digital wallet to a second shard—and handed it over.
The moment the notification lit up on their IDn, the Scavengers stopped staring at Dvornikov's crumpled body… and slowly turned their heads toward Vasily and Terry.
The bookie just raised his hands as if to say "Hey, I tried," while quietly enjoying the moment.
Terry didn't flinch. His eyes were fixed on the warehouse entrance.
Outside, through the rain leaking in through gaps in the roof, he caught another glimpse of the old man in the hat… watching him from a distance.
Just for a second—before turning and disappearing into the downpour.
Without looking back, Terry headed for the exit, getting dressed as he walked.
As he crossed the threshold, the rain—common in Gotham as sirens—hit him full in the face. Cold. Heavy. It eased the sting of his wounds and washed away the dried blood clinging to his skin.
He looked around.
Nothing.
The old man with the hat was gone. As if he'd never been there.
But Terry wasn't the only one leaving.
Behind him, the group of Scavengers was also stepping out of the factory.
"Hey, you! Kid!" growled the shortest of them—ironically the best dressed. Black suit, long coat, his face hidden behind a holographic mask. "We need to talk."
Terry barely turned his head. "Sure. Head back in… I'll be right behind you."
"GET HIM!" shouted the one in the coat, and the Scavengers lunged after him like starving dogs.
Terry was already running.
Water exploded beneath his boots on the soaked asphalt. His jacket, still unbuttoned, flapped behind him like a tattered flag. The pain was still there—sharp with every step—but adrenaline drove him like an engine roaring beneath his skin.
He turned into a narrow alley behind the factory. Wet walls covered in graffiti blurred past his sides.
Behind him: a dozen footsteps, shouts, and curses chasing him through the rain.
A rusted fence blocked the path ahead.
He didn't hesitate.
Kicking off the wall, he scrambled up the corroded mesh, his movements as sharp as his speed
At the top, he twisted his body, letting the leather of his jacket take the scrape from the jagged metal. He dropped cleanly on the other side, landing ready to run again.
The larger Scavengers chose to crash through the fence rather than climb it, while the thinner ones scaled it and kept after him.
Just as he neared the alley's exit— "Shit!"
Another group of Scavengers blocked his way, forcing Terry to skid through puddles as he whipped around—straight back toward the slim ones chasing him.
It looked like he was about to slam into them head-on, but at the last second, he kicked off the red-brick wall and grabbed hold of a horizontal pipe jutting from the side. He curled his body upward just in time—letting both groups of Scavengers crash and stumble into each other beneath him.
He grabbed the next pipe and started climbing, reaching the rusted, obsolete emergency exits on the factory's facade.
Escaping them vertically, he made it to the rooftop of Ace Chemicals.
Thinking he'd flee via the opposite side, the Scavengers hurled insults at each other as they abandoned the alley—only for Terry to slip back down into it seconds later.
He ran through the rain, away from the factory, until he reached a ruined zone where his bike was parked, tucked away from the other vehicles.
He swung onto it, slapped on his helmet, and the engine roared to life.
As he sped past the Scavengers still hunting him, he flipped them off with a raised middle finger.
Taunting them just enough to make them hurl their metal rods in helpless rage, the same ones they'd planned to use to reclaim their money… and break his legs.
As he tore away on his bike, a ship hovered silently, cloaked under near-perfect holographic camouflage. The raindrops betrayed its presence, spattering against its surface to faintly reveal an outline… a design unknown, unlisted in any database of aircraft or AVs.
Watching everything.
-
Tearing toward the highway on-ramp into downtown, Terry caught sight of them descending from the raised curve of the opposite lane—enough to make him ease off the throttle.
A convoy.
Eleven NGPD vehicles moving in a tight formation, sirens off.
Four riot-control SUVs led the column, followed by a tactical truck in the center. Heavy patrol cars flanked it on both sides. And bringing up the rear... two black MAX-TAC AVs, their angular silhouettes unmistakable even in the grimy haze of the industrial sector's streetlights.
Trying not to draw attention, Terry guided the bike toward the side of the road and slowed down, sending a quick message through his IDn to Vasily: [NGPD inbound. Get out now!]
He slipped past the convoy like any other civilian. No glance, no twitch, nothing to betray him. Just the low growl of his bike rolling over wet asphalt.
But just as he was about to take the off-ramp out of the industrial district...
The last two patrol cars in the convoy braked in unison, swung around, and partially blocked the road.
And as they lined up in his lane, their sirens flashed to life—soundless at first, only red and blue lights strobing across the puddles like a silent command: stop.
Terry answered with a roar of the engine and the screech of tires, shooting forward like a bullet into the rain.
He merged onto the elevated three-lane highway, tires spraying water across the drenched tarmac. Overhead, the lamps buzzed, casting uneven cones of yellow light.
Behind him, the two NGPD cruisers dropped their cover, sirens howling to life with a low, vibrating drone that crawled up his spine, red and blue strobes dancing across his soaked jacket.
Terry hunched lower, forcing the Yaiba to go harder than it should as he wove through traffic. The engine's roar pulsed in his gut, mingling with the ache in his ribs—yet even then, he couldn't shake them.
Looking for a way to lose them, Terry locked his gaze on a heavy truck lumbering along in the right lane.
Without hesitation, he twisted the throttle and overtook it, forcing the startled driver to slam on the brakes and blast the horn.
With a sharp turn of the handlebars, Terry cut his lights and braked hard, drifting so low his knee nearly scraped the asphalt. He slipped onto the right shoulder, hugging the guardrail, mere inches from the truck's rolling tires to his left.
The two patrol cars, losing sight of him, sped up and moved ahead of the truck—finding no trace of him, neither on the road nor on the shoulder.
Meanwhile, Terry crouched low behind the truck, nearly invisible under the steady rain, intent on staying hidden for a few more kilometers/miles—just until his exit.
But then, a car that had been passed by Terry and the patrol cars during the chase—a green sports coupe—caught sight of him, hugging the truck too closely.
Terry looked at the driver, silently begging him not to, but the man didn't seem to care. Without a second thought, he started leaning on the horn, blasting it over and over.
"Fucking Fladers…" Terry cursed inside his helmet, watching as both patrol cars slammed on their brakes with a screech, letting the truck roll past them.
With no time to think, Terry gunned the throttle and shot out of hiding, weaving skillfully between the patrol cars. The roar of his engine snapped them back to life, sirens wailing as they launched once more into pursuit.
He'd managed to steal a precious few hundred meters/feets. Not much—but it was something.
In the distance, he spotted the exit that would take him back to his neighborhood.His gut screamed at him to take it—it'd be easier to lose them in the maze of backstreets he knew like the back of his hand—but he held back.
Bringing the cops there would only mean trouble. And thinking of his brother, he wasn't willing to pay that price.
But...
Just as he sped past the exit, in a clear stretch of road free of traffic, the night swallowed every drop of light without warning.
Not just the streetlights went dark. The headlights of the patrol cars chasing him, the electronic billboards by the roadside, even the ads… everything sank into total blackness, as if someone had flipped a switch.
"What the fuck!" Terry shouted, caught in the heart of that crushing darkness. Even the lights on his speedometer had died—though his bike kept running without a hiccup.
His pulse hammered in his chest, but something deep inside told him he couldn't waste that gift by freezing up. Instinct took over. He slammed on the brakes, hugged the shoulder of the road, and melted into the shadows.
Inside one of the patrol cars, the air was tense. A nervous voice broke the silence:
"What the hell's going on with the lights?"
The driver didn't answer. He couldn't. A memory surged up in his mind, like an echo from another time.
Of an old story he'd laughed off as a rookie, told by a retired cop—about blackouts like this, and of the city legend who used them to vanish from the GCPD without a trace.
Snapping back to the present, throat tight, he glanced over at his partner.
"You think Batman really existed?"
His partner stared at him, incredulous.
"Are you jock-?"
Before he could finish, a low roar tore through the darkness beside them—like someone insane enough to ride blind, against traffic, hidden in the shadows… just as "he" himself would have done.
In the next heartbeat, the lights all came back at once. Headlights, streetlamps, billboards… everything lit up as if nothing had happened. But ahead of the patrol cars—and behind them—there was no sign of the bike, or its rider.
The partner, staring rigidly at the road ahead, changed his answer.
"I don't know."
The driver let out a sigh.
"Call it in to Commissioner Gordon on the control truck… tell her what didn't just happen."
-
A few minutes later…
The rain kept falling, stubborn and heavy, drawing slanted lines across the glass of distant towers and the slick asphalt of the empty highway.
Terry had veered off the main road, toward one of his favorite corners…
A place no one else bothered with, where the city finally fell silent.
He brought his bike to a stop on a wide bend of an elevated section, along a forgotten secondary road.
From there, Neo-Gotham stretched out before him like a cursed jewel, set in cracked concrete and steel. The rain didn't dim its lights; it scattered them, made them burn even brighter: billboards, holograms, and screens flashing false promises in colors too vivid to be real—like their glare alone could hide the misery lurking behind
Leaning on the Yaiba, the silence felt almost complete. Only the steady tapping of raindrops on the bike's hot frame and his cracked helmet broke the stillness.
When he pulled it off, Terry had to clench his teeth as the movement tore fresh pain from wounds stuck to it. The adrenaline was gone. All that remained was the pain—raw and deep.
No way he could go home like this.
He tilted his head back and let the rain wash the blood away, along with its... matelic taste from his mouth. Then, with clumsy, shaking hands, he dug under his soaked, torn jacket, pulling out gauze, staples, and a small emergency sealant spray.
Right there, in the half-light, he patched himself up while the city's neon glow blinked in the distance.
When he was done—with two strips of gauze sticking from his nose to stop the bleeding after resetting his septum, his face swollen and covered in cuts—Terry lit a cigarette with a quick flick of his fingers.
And closed his eyes as he took a long, slow drag.
Then, in front of him—ruining his favorite spot… or improving it, depending on who you'd ask—a violet flash tore through the curtain of rain like some ghostly presence.
Terry looked up.
From the void beyond the bend, a colossal figure of light emerged, several stories tall.
A hologram.
A naked woman. Ethereal, monumental, floating there like a synthetic goddess: glowing eyes, wet lips, electric-blue hair.
She watched him curiously as he smoked, her head tilted slightly, as if trying to figure him out.
With smoke curling from his cracked lips, Terry had to tip his head back again just to meet her gaze.
That small gesture… made her smile.
With a slow, almost intimate motion, the figure bent forward until she was at his level. Her enormous eyes now floated directly in front of his own.
Resting her beautiful face in one soft hand, staring at his swollen, battered features, she spoke:
["What a day… huh?"]
Her smile faded when she noticed his eyes. Pointing at him, gaze still locked on his, she added in something like a whisper:
["You look… lonely."]
He didn't answer.Even though he had Maya, his brother, even Milo… he never showed any of them his true self—for fear they'd run the hell away.
["I can fix that,"] she offered, like she had the cure.
Taking another drag from his cigarette, and before she could sell him anything, Terry exhaled the smoke slowly:
"Fuck off."
For a second, the woman's beautiful face froze. A tiny glitch of disappointment—almost too human—before her entire body flickered briefly and the animation reset.
She returned to her default pose, staring off at nothing, smiling seductively at no one.
As if she'd never been talking to anyone at all.
Terry stayed quiet, letting the rain wash over him. Only the distant echo of the city and the faint crackle of water filled the air… at least until a dry, deep voice resonated behind him:
"You shouldn't smoke."
Terry just barely kept himself from screaming like a kid. Spinning around, startled, he saw the figure in the hat standing behind him—as if he'd been there the whole time, unnoticed.
Thinking about the way the old man used to vanish, Terry wondered if he was just hallucinating.
He leaned back against his Yaiba, and with a cracked half-smile, asked:
"What are you, my father?"
The figure didn't answer. Just lowered his gaze for a moment… as if that line—meant so obviously as a joke—had struck a nerve.
Without meaning to, Terry had made Bruce uncomfortable.