DIRTY LITTLE ANIMALS │A Bluelock Cyberpunk AU

File 02: Iris, Like The Eye

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Fentanyl.

An artificial opioid. 50-100 times stronger than morphine, 20 times stronger than heroin. Used as a painkiller when performing surgery to insert augments into a body, alongside an anaesthetic.

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Ding.

"The time is currently 5:45 a.m. Now stopping at: Bethsaida Station. Please exit the train in an orderly fashion. Remember personal belongings, and any luggage."

I slumped forwards in my seat, elbows on knees and hands covering my face. When I closed my eyes, Wakapedia images floated in front of me, and lines of black and white text swam across my vision.

The last few days had been nothing but a caffeine fueled fever dream. Morning to night scrambling around the city, splashing as much cash as I dared in some of the city's most secluded shops. As soon as night fell, though, and the sun's muted rays stopped reflecting off the tops of skyscrapers, I found myself hunched over a cheap laptop researching everything I could about Bluelock.

The fruits of my labour?

Online, the entire Bluelock team had been displayed. I'd confirmed what Saint had told me beforehand - they fielded thirty-five players, each of them having a salary similar to that of a CEO in some minor business. Their starting lineup shifted depending on their opponents, and their home stadium was located in Bethsaida, just slightly east of New Elysium's city centre.

From the shops, I'd managed to snag a full set of squareball gear. Some of it was secondhand, some of it wasn't branded, but it didn't matter. I'd done the research. I'd checked the prices. Heading to any mainstream squareball retailer would've set me back at least a thousand dollars. But with a bit of searching, I'd scraped together a full kit for just over four hundred.

Full body coverage was mandatory in all squareball games, to prevent nasty scrapes and friction burns on rough pitch surfaces. Honestly, I wasn't sure if that rule was implemented to keep players safe, because coverage could be anything from a suit of armour to a thin long-sleeved shirt. Instead, I was pretty confident it was to just reduce the amount of cleaning the arena staff had to do.

Cause nobody wanted to be the guy to scrape someone's skin and blood off the floor - unless that was some bizarre fetish I hadn't heard of yet.

Anyway, that rule meant I was wearing a thick long-sleeved red shirt, with elbows capped in metal, and padded material galore along my forearms. Alongside it came just as padded, faded yellow trousers, metal kneecaps and shinguards, and heavy-duty boots. A green second hand squareball helmet, I kept tucked under one arm.

Alongside a pair of protective gloves, I looked like every other amateur level squareball athlete out there. Except one thing. While they were decked out in shades of black, and maybe logoed up with high-end brands, I looked like a goddamn traffic light. Red, yellow, green. Really now? Out of all the clothing I could've bought, I chose those colours?

I rose from my seat, snatched the can of iced coffee I'd been drinking off from the chair next to me, and made my way to the door. The train began to slow, the buildings outside the windows going from a blurs of movement to sharp cornered, neon-lit cuboids. I took hold of the nearest handrail, and waited as gradually, the train pulled into the station.