Eidola Mater: Mother of Idols

CHAPTER 2: MERRICK

The referee raised a piece of fabric and delivered his instructions for a fair and honest fight. A roar filled the stadium from thousands of fans, high on bloodlust, howling for a taste of the sweet thrill of violence that only men could visit upon other men.

I took a glance at the writhing audience, but they were a blur of contorted faces and pumping fists. Maybe we had brought our collective angst here to be laid upon the altar of violence. All of us seemed to say, Let Death come gloriously, snatched forth by our own hands.

Or maybe I was being melodramatic. I clapped my gloves and adjusted my mouthguard. A flash of neon icons popped up in front of us fighters, hovering at eye level. I sized up my opponent. He had money to burn. I had none. He picked a fancy fighting style from the menu, and I heard the irritating chime of a transaction. I dismissed the screen without buying an upgrade. I always fought only with what I had.

The guy in the red corner bounced around on the balls of his feet, gracefully waving his arms and sneering at me for not picking any enhancements. If there was one thing I understood about being in the ring, it was the distracting allure of showing off.

"That's it. Keep dancing, princess," I smirked as we met in the middle to touch gloves and face off.

He grinned. "You're about to get smoked, Blu3Herring31."

"Aw, that's cute. Did you come up with it by yourself, or did you pay for Big Tech to do that for you, too?" I quipped.

At the signal to start, the red corner threw me against the cage. He tried to subdue me with a single-leg takedown, but I swiveled out of reach, landing elbows to the side of his head.

"Hey!" The referee shoved between us. "Work or I'll separate you!" he vowed.

With a curt nod, I raised my fists and circled my opponent. Years of martial arts training had whittled my movements to a precision point, with maximum efficiency of form. But this time Red Corner switched to a double-leg takedown, and he slammed me hard to the mat. Then he risked a kimura—a shoulder lock—but I rolled out of reach.

We scrambled to our feet in a flurry of blows. The intensity escalated. The upgrade the red corner had chosen gave him reflexes and dexterity that I knew he didn't possess in real life. Nobody fought like that in real life anymore. It took all my considerable experience as a mixed martial artist to counter his computer-assisted moves. And I felt every connection, although there wouldn't be a bruise or scratch on me when I exited the ASR arena.

Suddenly, the horn blared. It was the end of the first round, and we reluctantly separated. Grimly, I shook my head at my sluggish start. I had to turn the tide of the fight in my favor somehow.

Looking around, I saw words glide across a chiron high overhead that traced the circumference of the building. "Relax. It's only a game," read the display. A friendly reminder that none of us were in the real world at present, no matter how real it felt. I listened to the thunderous, impatient murmurings of the crowd while a sexy vixen walked the ring with a "Round 2" placard.

As soon as the match resumed, the guy from the red corner rammed his knee into my groin. "Come here!" I snarled as fury exploded through the numbing haze of adrenaline. My arms ensnared his torso, propelling him into gravity's embrace.

The floor of the ring bounced. He tried to dive away, but I grabbed him by the throat and pressed, determined. The stadium quaked in raucous approval. It was so loud that the rafters shook, but I barely heard it above the rush of blood in my ears. A satisfied grin stretched my lips as the guy's face turned purple.

The referee sprang out of nowhere to break us apart. "Keep it up, and you're disqualified!" He made himself heard above the tumult.

Annoyed, I shouted back, "What about him? Fuck you! What about him? He just hit below the belt!"