Shadow Walker

Street Fight

Dec's hand moved to his back pocket, feeling for the tell-tale bulge of the luminite packet contained within. All around, spectators jostled for a better view of the fight 'ring', marked with a length of rope on the silt-dust earth. They were in the old port—inland from the new one, where boats used to be able to dock before the river mouth dried up. Stacks of abandoned shipping containers provided cover from surveillance cameras, while portable floodlights had been attached to four-wheel-drives and parked around the gathered crowd.

Dec closed his eyes to relieve the tension headache that had grown more insistent since the night before. The police wouldn't bother them. Their stance on the street-fights was well-known. If Nocturnals wanted to kill each other in unfettered melees, that was their choice. The less they 'knew' about the fights, the better, in their opinion.

It was because of this that Dec was fairly sure Montague's bot wouldn't follow him here. There'd be too much paperwork if it did.

"If yer lookin to put yer sols on the fight, Red over there'll take yer money."

Dec's eyes flew open. The man who'd spoken smelled distinctly of petrol and leather, and his smile exposed great black cavity gaps between his teeth. He looked over to where 'Red' was seated atop a pile of rotting two-by-fours—auburn eyebrows pulled low over his forehead, hands deep in his pockets, fondling his cresols.

"I'm just here to watch," Dec said, removing his own hand from his back pocket and folding his arms over his chest.

"What about yer girl? Doesn't she wanna get in on the betting action?"

Dec prepared to give the guy a warning shove. "That's my sister. And no, she doesn't."

The man backed up and raised his hands. "Please yerself, mate. Just sayin. If me back pocket was full like yours, I'd be puttin me money on Chook."

Despite himself, Dec stood on his toes to get a look at Tommy's opponent. Chook was a stout man of Tommy's age, but shorter by at least a head and top heavy like a bulldog. He wore black and red high-tech skins, which matched his sweat towel and water bottle and gripped the hard muscles of his thighs. He bounced on his toes and cracked his neck while his trainer sprayed water on his face and into his mouth. A brood of spectators clustered around his side of the 'ring' and hollered colourful insults between their hands. Insults meant as encouragement in the Smackdown world.

"I heard TJ was pitched to win because of Chook's shoulder injury," Mel said to the man, using Tommy's preferred street fighting name—TJ short for Tommy James.

Dec stared at his sister. Since when did she know anything about Smackdown?

"Who? You mean Blackpoint?" the man said.

Dec wondered what Tommy would think of spectators calling him Blackpoint after his home suburb instead of TJ. He'd probably be furious.

"How many Smackdowns does he have under his belt?" the man continued. "Four? Chook's got ten. And he's a grappler. Ain't no way a striker can beat a grappler."

"Come on," Dec said to Mel, grabbing her elbow to drag her away.

Mel resisted. "TJ's got the reach and the footwork. He's fitter than Chook too."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Darling, fighting's a bit like sex. You can be as fit as you want, but you can't beat experience."

This time, Dec really did drag Mel away by the elbow.

The man cackled.

"I told you this wasn't your scene," Dec said as they wound through the crowd to find a spot on a stack of old tyres to view the ring. When Mel didn't answer, he followed this up with, "Someone should've stayed home to look after Adele."