Cyberpunk 2077: V

Chapter 54: Beat On The Brat

It took a little while to figure out just where the fight meet was in Kabuki. The map ping attached was floating, and V ended up driving around in circles growing more and more frustrated before she realized she should be looking up. The ping was actually elevated, taking V to the upper levels of Kabuki, to the shanty towns built on top of buildings, filled with walls of corrugated metal siding and piles upon piles of old beer cans.

V parked on the street, put her hair into a high braided ponytail to keep it out of the way, then moseyed her way up some flights of steps, her hands jammed into her jean pockets. She had left her flight jacket—the old black one she got from Vik—in the car to keep it from getting dirty or stolen. As she walked on, the slight chill of impending rain forced goosebumps across her arms. 

The frustration at not being able to find the place quickly didn't help V's anxiousness and anger. She didn't like that. Didn't feel like herself then, all wound up tight like that. Little noises at the edge of her hearing made her jump, as if her brain was on alert. Red lights from old power junctions and neon lights from various buildings made her teeth grind.

Hopefully, a good fight would set her right again. That's what Coach Fred taught her. That's what Jackie said, sometimes. But Jackie had told V to sleep, to relax, to get good before the Big Gig. V didn't think he'd appreciate her getting beaten and bruised up just before they needed to show their faces at the premiere hotel in Night City... but V was counting on light footwork and quick healing to get rid of the evidence of her brawl.

Slipping past a group of people gathered around a trash fire holding bits of synthmeat and various other foods that had obviously been pulled out of dumpsters, and avoiding a gonk who'd apparently just been in a fight, half-stumbling down the stairs with a broken nose, V finally made it.

She slowly tramped up some stairs that cut a sharp right up to the top of one of the buildings—a flat top—where lights, couches, chairs, and a makeshift bar had been set up, all gathered around a central concrete area covered with scuff marks and dried blood. An arena, the center of attention.

V saw the telltale low shoulders of fight bookies darting between watchers, their eyes constantly glowing as they took and dispensed eddies. There was a tense energy in the air, the type of energy and excitement that came from being at a place like this—someplace that wasn't supposed to exist, someplace under the wire, forbidden.

V felt a little trickle of excitement in her own chest at that thought.

A couple of people lounging by the stairs gave V a short glance and then turned their attention back to their conversation and beers. V shoved her hands in her pockets again and looked up at the clouds swirling in the sky above. It was going to rain soon.

Movement and the sound of shuffling feet brought her attention back to the makeshift ring. Two men wearing street clothes were sparring in the middle—one in a white tank-top and joggers, the other in a tan t-shirt and jeans. Both were bald, and as they spun around taking potshots at each other, V realized they must have been twins; they looked exactly alike.

She watched them for a couple of minutes before turning to the closest person to her right—a woman wearing a bright pink jacket who was smoking a designer cigarette. 

"So," V drawled. "How do we get in on the action?" 

The woman let out a long blow of sparkling magenta smoke. "Y'mean actually scrap?" she asked, before jutting her chin towards the two men fighting. "Talk to them. They ain't fightin' right now, just warmin' up in case someone else wanted to take a poke. Some small-timer came here earlier, got his shit kicked in pretty good. So... floor's open." 

A slightly predatory smile spread over the woman's face. She was missing several teeth. 

 "And if you're fightin', darlin', be careful—wouldn't want that pretty mug of yours to get torn up."