Kane blinks. “What is this place?”
“It’s a 4D V-link theater.” Rafael releases him to step aside. “I ordered a replay of last night’s gladiator game for us to watch. I know it’s not as good as seeing it live…but I figured at least we could watch it together this way.”
“You set this up for me?” A grin tugs at Kane’s lips. It’s not the fancy tech or even the gladiator replay that gets to him; it’s that Rafael remembered. That he cared enough to do something.
Rafael hums, but the sound breaks into a startled squeak when Kane’s arm wraps around his waist.
“Thank you.” Kane kisses him, soft and brief, then pulls back to meet his gaze.
The faintest spark lights Rafael’s eyes. “Glad you like it.” His smile falters. “Still, I’m not sure this makes up for missing the fight live.”
Kane sorts. “Being here with you…” He leans in closer. “…more than makes up for it.” Another flush rises to Rafael’s face. Kane steals another kiss before moving toward the setup.
The door slides shut behind them as they settle into the chairs. Kane syncs his V-link headset to his visor in case the crew needs him and glances over. Rafael’s already waiting, headset in place and fingers drumming the armrest.
“All set?” Rafael asks.
Instead of answering, Kane reaches over and laces their fingers together. Only when Rafael’s grin answers his does he say, “Show me what these fancy Midtown theaters can do.”
Rafael chuckles, swiping across the chair’s glowing control panel. “Here we go.”
A vibration rumbles through the seat. Kane stiffens, every instinct flaring. The chair goes still. Three beeps sound in his headset.
Wind whips across his face out of nowhere.
Sucking in a breath, Kane leans over, shielding Rafael. Within seconds, the rush of air fades, replaced by thunderous applause and a burst of light. He squints against the blaze. By the time he opens his eyes, the dark theater is gone.
They’re inside the Premiere Club arena, hundreds of feet up.
Towering vidscreens flicker above the stands, looping highlight reels of past matches. Along the edge of the stadium, lights pulse around holographic ads for Terra’s latest synth shakes and V-link optics. Typical corporate noise. Then the roar of the crowd hits, over a thousand cheering fans on all sides. His gaze flicks to the empty combat pit below, where dancer drones weave through a pre-show routine.
“Damn.” Kane breathes. “This is something else.” Nothing like his basic V-link setup at home.
Rafael appears beside him in the simulation sans headset, as if they’ve been sitting here all along. “Worth the wait?” His voice cuts over the noise around them.
Kane opens his mouth, but the words stick. His gaze drifts across the arena. The angle of the seats, the distant stage, everyone on their feet. Everything is so familiar.
He knows this view.
This is where he sat with his uncle. His first and only live match. Over a decade ago.
An ache settles in Kane’s chest. He turns to Rafael, whosebrows knit together. Kane answers before the questions come.
“My uncle would’ve loved this.” His throat tightens. “Biggest fan I knew. Spent every free moment watching matches, arguing stats with anyone who’d listen.” He exhales slowly. The memories push in whether he wants them or not. “Had this championship story he’d tell over and over.” A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Never got tired of hearing it.”
Something bittersweet crosses Rafael’s face. “Wish he could’ve joined us.” His hand squeezes Kane’s. The only real thing in all this.
“Yeah.” Kane looks away, but his grip lingers on Rafael.
Fireworks explode overhead, sparing him from saying more.
Premiere Club’s logo flashes across the sky in brilliant colors before fading away. Another burst follows, painting the champion’s name in fire: Flamma XXIII.
His hero was Commodus XVI, forced into retirement after a devastating injury.
The seats shake again. Kane tenses. An obstacle course rises from the arena floor, a metal labyrinth of spinning blades, attack drones, and fire pits. Each element triggers a response from the 4D system. A rush of heat against his skin, the vibration of machinery, the smell of scorched metal.
When the arena doors open below, a female challenger emerges. Her flashy cyberware is nothing like Kane’s practical parts or black-market chrome. She raises her fist to the crowd as an announcer’s voice thunders through the stadium, “The first challenger has arrived!”