3MA

3MA | Chapter 4

4
CORNERWOMAN 

I slam open the arena's Emergency Exit and charge out into a dim and quiet back alley.

The only thing breathing out here is a chubby rat enjoying his dinner at the base of a dumpster.

The rodent looks in better health than I do.

I pull up the hood of my frayed sweatshirt, shove my hands into the hole-riddled pockets and hunch my shoulders against the frozen wind.

I squint down the alley to the right. A familiar glaring spotlight illuminates that end of the street; the media's glittering cameras swarmed around the arena's front entrance, waiting for an interview with the Constrictor. The lights bounce off the surrounding skyscrapers and trickle toward me down the alley in silver waves.

I pivot to the left. That end of the street is dark and still and infinitely more inviting, with just a single glowing green orb marking the subway entrance.

My ride home.

I limp toward the subway entrance. After the night I've had, the only thing I have the energy left to accomplish is burying my pounding head under a pillow and slipping into the mercy of a dreamless sleep.

I place a foot on the subway's first step. Then I pry it off.

A vision of Mag's disappointed face, waiting for me at home, flashes across my vision. It's something I'd rather not rush home to see.

I limp to the opposite end of the alley and turn the corner, joining the mob of spectators gathered around a red carpet that rolls out of the venue's front door. I've never walked out that exit before. It's reserve for the winners.

I lower my head and let the shadow of my hood cover my eyes; just another 3MA fanatic waiting to get a glimpse of their hero.

The crowd erupts into applause as the Constrictor saunters down the carpet, his chin raised proudly to the heavens, like he's King Arthur himself. He's wearing a three-piece suit made from shiny, jade-green snakeskin.

Ha. The Constrictor in snakeskin. His marketing team must be very clever.

He stops to wave to his adoring fans on my side of the carpet. Then he answers a slew of very important questions from the ravenous media on the other side.

How are your butt-muscles so firm!

Who are you dating!

Are you immune to venom?

When he's finished, he makes his way to the end of the red carpet, where a slick, muscular sports car awaits his arrival. The polished chrome grill glows an intense blue-green. I know that car. Seen it just last night on the TV during my midnight bouncing shift at The Drunken Sailor. It's a Sorcerer GTL. Engine runs exclusively on static. Thing goes for a cool four million crowns. Fully-loaded for five.

There aren't any of those in my neighborhood.

The Constrictor ducks his head and slides into the back of the jet-black vehicle. Must be nice.

Someone taps my shoulder. I grunt and brush the hand away.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, WACK—

"Yo," I growl, whirling around to face my assailant.

A tiny chick stands there with a tidal wave of bleached blond hair, jet-black roots, and the sides buzzed to the scalp. She's wearing a short-cropped leather jacket and a pair of ripped jeans. Her left ear is pierced with a dangling silver earring in the shape of a knight's sword.