The problem with feeling lucky is that it makes you bold. And in Neo-Babel, boldness is usually a terminal illness.
Ren, high on the dopamine of a perfect shower and free pizza, decided to push his luck. He decided to go to the Iron Markets.
The Iron Markets were located in the demilitarized zone between the Slums and the Industrial District. It was the only place to get fresh vegetables that hadn't been grown in a petri dish. It was also, coincidentally, the favorite hangout spot for people who enjoyed recreational violence.
Ren stood at a stall, haggling with a vendor who had three robotic eyes.
"Five credits for a cabbage?" Ren asked, holding up the leafy green sphere. "This thing has a bullet hole in it."
"It adds iron to the diet," the vendor grunted. "Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it," Ren sighed. He paid and tucked the cabbage into his bag. "Health is wealth, I guess."
He turned to leave, but his path was blocked.
Three motorcycles revved their engines, cutting him off. The riders wore jackets emblazoned with a chrome skull. These were the Chrome Skulls—the same gang whose van Nexus had "accidentally" crashed into a fire hydrant earlier that day.
The leader, a guy with a Mohawk made of fiber-optic cables, killed his engine. He pointed a jagged metal bat at Ren.
"You," the leader spat.
Ren looked around. "Me?"
"Don't play dumb," the leader growled, stepping off his bike. "We checked the street cams. Our van swerved to avoid you and hit a hydrant. We lost a shipment of illegal stims in that crash. You owe us, street rat."
Ren blinked. "Wait. You crashed your own van, and now you want me to pay for it? That's not how insurance works."
"We are the insurance," the leader sneered. The other two bikers dismounted, drawing chains and knives.
The market crowd instantly evaporated. In Neo-Babel, when a gang started posturing, you ran. Bystanders had a low survival rate.
Ren backed up until he bumped into a concrete pillar. Okay, luck run over, he thought frantically. Viper isn't here. There's no loose wire to electrocute them. I am about to be beaten to death over a cabbage.
"Grab him," the leader ordered. "We'll sell his organs to cover the debt."
A biker lunged.
BOOM.
The concrete wall next to Ren exploded.
Dust and debris showered the gang. A massive fist, the size of a Thanksgiving turkey, punched through the solid brick wall from the other side.
The wall crumbled, revealing a giant.
He stood seven feet tall, shirtless, his skin a roadmap of scars and tribal tattoos. His muscles looked like they were carved from granite. He wore a luchador mask that had been torn in half, revealing a face permanently set in a snarl.
This was Varg, the Warlord of the Wastes. In the current timeline, he was the undefeated champion of the Underground Death-Match Arena.
Varg stepped through the hole in the wall, shaking brick dust off his massive shoulders. He looked at the bikers. Then he looked at Ren.
His eyes widened.
[Flashback: Timeline 1 - The Red Desert]
The battlefield was silent, save for the wet tearing of flesh.
Varg was in a Berserker State. He had killed the enemy army. Then he had killed his own men who tried to calm him down. He was a mindless beast, drowning in bloodlust, his vision red.
He raised his axe to strike the next moving thing—a small, unarmored medic.
Ren didn't run. Ren didn't fight back.
Ren simply walked up to the screaming giant, reached into his medic bag, and pulled out a water canteen.
"Thirsty work, big guy?" Ren asked softly.
He splashed the cool water onto Varg's face. He patted the giant's cheek. "Breathe, Varg. It's over. You won. Come on, sit down."
The red haze lifted. The monster looked at the medic, confused, terrified of his own rage.
"Did I… hurt you?" Varg croaked.
"Nope," Ren smiled, bandaging a cut on Varg's arm. "You kept me safe. Good job."
Ren was the only person in history who looked at the monster and saw a man.
[Present Day]
Varg stared at Ren. His breathing hitched.
Little Boss. He's here. He's so tiny. He looks like he hasn't eaten a whole cow in weeks.
The Chrome Skull leader, lacking any survival instinct, stepped forward. "Hey! Freak! This is our—"
Varg didn't even look at him. He simply backhanded the air.
CRACK.
The leader flew across the market square, crashing through a fruit stand and landing in a pile of melons. He didn't get up.
The other two bikers stared at their flying boss, then at Varg.
"RAAAAAAARGH!" Varg roared. It was a sound that vibrated in Ren's teeth. "VERMIN! SCUM! YOU DARE BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS HIM?!"
Varg grabbed the nearest motorcycle—an 800-pound machine—lifted it over his head, and threw it at the fleeing bikers. It smashed into the pavement, exploding into shrapnel.
The bikers screamed and ran for their lives.
Silence fell over the market.
Ren stood frozen, clutching his cabbage to his chest like a shield.
Okay, Ren thought. This is it. The boss fight. I survived the minions, but now I have to fight the Ogre.
Varg turned slowly to face Ren. The giant was panting, his chest heaving. He took a heavy step toward Ren.
Ren squeezed his eyes shut. "Please don't kill me! I have very little nutritional value!"
Varg froze.
He's scared, Varg realized. I'm scaring him. Stupid Varg! You're too loud! You're too big! Be gentle! Be like a… bunny. A big, muscular bunny.
Varg fell to his knees. The impact cracked the pavement. He lowered his head, trying to look submissive, but he just looked like a gargoyle inspecting an insect.
"I..." Varg grumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender. "I... apologize... for the... noise."
Ren opened one eye. The giant was kneeling?
"Uh..." Ren squeaked. "It's... okay?"
Varg reached into his belt. Ren flinched, expecting a weapon.
Instead, Varg pulled out a crumpled, bloodstained ticket.
"For... you," Varg grunted, shoving the ticket toward Ren. His hand was trembling with the effort to be gentle.
Ren took it gingerly. It was a VIP Pass to the "Death-Dome Arena: Championship Finals."
"Watch me... smash?" Varg asked, looking at Ren with puppy-dog eyes that were terrifying on a man who could bench press a truck. "I smash... for you?"
Ren's brain did a quick calculation. 1. This man just threw a motorcycle. 2. He is giving me a ticket to watch him fight. 3. If I say no, he might throw me.
"Yeah!" Ren forced a smile, giving a shaky thumbs-up. "I love... smashing. You're great at it. Very efficient."
Varg's face split into a terrifying grin.
"GOOD!" Varg bellowed. He stood up. "I GO NOW. I TRAIN. I MAKE THEM BLEED FOR YOU."
Varg turned and sprinted away, crashing through a wooden fence instead of using the gate.
Ren stood alone in the wreckage of the market.
"What is happening?" Ren whispered. "Did I just get invited to a gladiator match by the Hulk? Why is everyone so weirdly intense today?"
He looked at the VIP ticket.
[VIP BOX - SEAT 1 - RESERVED FOR 'THE KINGMAKER']
"Kingmaker?" Ren scratched his head. "Must be a typo. I'll probably sell this. Scalpers pay good money for ringside seats."
[A Rooftop Nearby]
Viper lowered her binoculars. She sighed.
"Idiot," she muttered into her comms. "Varg almost blew his cover. He acted like a golden retriever on steroids."
"At least the threat is neutralized," Sylvia's voice replied coolly. "Though I will have to pay for the structural damage to the market. I'll deduct it from Varg's prize money."
"He gave Ren a ticket," Viper noted. "Ren is going to the Arena."
"Then we are all going," Sylvia decided. "I will rent the box next to him. If Varg loses, I will buy the opposing team and fire them mid-match."
"And I," Kael's voice chimed in, "Will be in the shadows. Protecting him from stray blood splatter."
Ren, meanwhile, walked home, happy that his cabbage was still intact.