Location: O2 Arena (Away Team Locker Room)
Time: 11:45 AM
The crash hit hard.
The locker room smelled of cheap disinfectant and burnt ozone. A concrete box with flickering fluorescent lights — the kind of room reserved for teams expected to get folded.
Tony sat on a bench, staring at his boots. His visor was up. His hands shook, not from hype, but from the toll of swinging the Bass?Driver.
“My arms,” Tony whispered. “They feel like jelly. I think I tore something.”
“Lactic acid buildup,” Arthur said, methodically packing away his medical kit. “You exerted four hundred percent of your maximum safe output. You are currently crashing out biologically.”
Cameron sat in the corner with his staff across his knees.
He clicked the dial to [N — Neutral], disengaging the sockets. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped soot off the tungsten tip. The metal was still warm.
“We won,” Cameron said quietly. “Stop running diagnostics. We won.”
“We broke the map,” Lenny said, leaning against a locker, scrolling. “The forums are cooking. Half of them think we’re geniuses. The other half want us banned for ‘Exploiting Geometry.’”
“Let them talk,” Cameron said, checking a fresh dent in his orange blast vest. “Noise drives engagement. Engagement brings sponsors.”
“Speaking of engagement,” Lenny said, holding up his phone. “We just got a DM. It’s not a sponsor.”
“Who is it?”
“Sir Jayden.”
The room went cold.
Sir Jayden. The face of Team Kensington. The Sentinel who froze the Minotaur. The hero of the league.
“What does he want?” Tony asked, sitting up straighter.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“He doesn’t want to chat,” a voice said from the doorway. “He wants to inspect the damage.”
They looked up.
Sir Jayden stood framed in the doorway.
No chrome armor. No particle effects. Just a tailored suit that probably cost more than Cameron’s lifetime balance. But the aura was the same — polished, smug, meta.
He didn’t walk in. He glided. His eyes swept the peeling paint, Arthur’s hazmat suit, the Bass?Driver resting beside Tony like a sleeping animal.
He wrinkled his nose.
“So,” Jayden said, voice smooth and expensive. “You’re the Defaults who turned my arena into a skylight.”
Cameron stood. He didn’t raise his staff, but his grip shifted. Ready.
“It was a sanctioned match,” Cameron said. “We played the objective.”
“You played the code,” Jayden corrected. He stopped beside Tony and looked down at the Bass?Driver. “A demolition tool. Crude. No finesse. Just noise.”
“It hits hard,” Tony muttered.
“It hits wrong,” Jayden said. Then he turned to Cameron. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? The underdog angle. The glitch kings. Cute gimmick.”
Jayden stepped closer. Taller than Cameron. Smelled like lavender and money.
“But the Pro League isn’t a glitch, Cameron,” he said. “It’s a machine. A precise, calibrated engine.”
He smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“And do you know what machines do to grit?”
Jayden leaned in, voice low.
“They grind it down until it’s dust.”
“We’re not grit,” Cameron said, holding his gaze. “We’re the wrench in the gears.”
Jayden laughed — short, dismissive.
“We’ll see,” he said. “You qualified. Congratulations. That means you’re in the Main Bracket now. No more Wildcards. No more weird maps. Just straight combat.”
He turned to leave. At the door, he paused.
“Oh — and tell your friend in the hazmat suit to wash,” Jayden added without looking back. “He smells like the Pocket.”
He walked out.
The door swung shut.
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
“He knows,” Lenny whispered.
“Knows what?” Tony asked.
“He smelled it,” Lenny said, eyes wide. “He knows we were out of bounds.”
Cameron stared at the door. His knuckles were white on the staff.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cameron lied. “He’s trying to debuff us mentally. Don’t let it land.”
“It landed,” Tony admitted, slumping. “He’s right, Cam. We’ve got one hammer and some refurbished plates. They’ve got… everything.”
Cameron looked at his team.
The win was already draining out of them. League pressure cut deeper than any blade.
He needed to stabilize the squad.
“Arthur,” Cameron said. “What’s our balance?”
Arthur checked his ledger. “Six hundred and fifty pounds. Enough for a modest lunch, or one roll of sterile gauze.”
“We’re going to the pub,” Cameron said.
“The pub?” Arthur blinked. “Alcohol is a depressant. It will not improve morale.”
“We’re not going to drink,” Cameron said. “We’re going to listen. The pub is where the Defaults talk. I want to hear what the streets are saying about us.”
He grabbed his staff.
“Jayden thinks we’re grit?” Cameron said. “Let’s go see if the machine is shaking yet.”
---
The Swell
They left the O2 through the back exit, dodging press drones swarming the main gate.
Outside, London rain fell in sheets. The skyline glowed with massive holographic billboards broadcasting the bracket.
At the bottom, in grainy low?res font: TEAM DPS.
At the top, blazing gold: TEAM KENSINGTON.
Cameron watched rain batter the Thames. The water looked dark. Restless.
He felt a vibration in his pocket.
Not his phone.
He reached in and pulled out the [Au — Gold] circuit board he’d kept from the Pocket run.
It was glowing. A faint pulsing blue.
…bzzzt… Cam…
A voice. Tiny. Distorted. Coming from the gold.
Cameron froze and brought it closer to his ear.
…bzzzt… patch incoming… update… beware the—
The light died.
The circuit went cold in his palm.
“Cam?” Tony asked, stopping. “You good? You’re lagging.”
Cameron stared at the gold.
That was Gaz’s voice.
“I’m fine,” Cameron said, shoving the circuit back into his pocket fast. His heart hammered.
The Pocket wasn’t just somewhere they escaped.
It remembered them.
“Move,” Cameron said, pulling his collar up against the rain. “I need a drink.”
End of Chapter 11.
