The gates of Geggicup were a graveyard of technology. Heavy blast doors, salvaged from a downed freighter, groaned on rusted hinges as we passed. The air thickened with the smell of cheap fuel and the metallic tang of blood. Every eye in the sprawl followed us—specifically, they followed the massive, hooded shape that didn't quite move like a man.
The Registry
The Registry Office was a fortified bunker at the center of the "Pit," the sunken arena where the first rounds would take place. Outside, a line of augmented brawlers and desperate tribal warriors snaked through the mud.
Registry Status: Open
Processing Speed: 1 Combatant / 4 Minutes
Security: Twin Autocannons (Fixed Mounts)
I didn't wait in line. I walked to the front, the weight of my obsidian chassis cracking the frozen earth with every step. A massive warrior with hydraulic pistons for arms stepped in my way, but one look at the violet light pulsing behind my cowl made him reconsider his life choices. He stepped aside, muttering a prayer to a gear-god I didn't recognize.
The Registrar
Inside, a man with a magnifying glass fused to his eye socket sat behind a desk of reinforced steel. He didn't look up.
"Name. Tribe. Augmentation Class," he droned, his pen hovering over a sheet of vellum.
"No tribe," I said. The sound was a low-frequency hum that made the pens on his desk rattle. "Class: Juggernaut."
The Registrar looked up then. He adjusted his lens, the gears clicking as he scanned my frame. "Juggernaut is a heavy-metal designation, friend. You look... organic. Dark stone. Glass?"
"Obsidian-Alloy," the Weaver interjected from the shadows behind me, her voice smooth and dangerous. "He's a custom build. The only one of his kind."
The man's eye-lens whirred. "Customs are high-risk. High-tax. What's the name?"
I hesitated. I wasn't the man I used to be, and I wasn't just the machine the Weaver built.
"Cinder," I finally said.
The Mark of the Beast
The Registrar nodded and stamped a heavy brass coin with a number: 001-A. He slid it across the cold steel.
"You're in the Prime Bracket, Cinder. First fight is at dawn. Rules are simple: No atmospheric venting, no chemical weapons, and the winner takes the salvage. If you die, the Weaver there becomes property of the Pit. Understood?"
I picked up the coin. My fingers, still brittle from the fight with the Skitter-Wight, felt a hairline fracture spread across the tip of my index finger. I closed my hand into a fist, forcing the violet Hunger to stay buried, to keep the heat from leaking out and melting the desk.
"Understood," I growled.
The First Night
We left the bunker and headed toward the fighter's barracks—a series of cramped, cold stone cells.
"Dawn is five hours away," the Weaver said, leaning against the damp wall of our cell. "You're already cracking, and you haven't even stepped into the ring. If you stay 'cold' to prove your humanity, you'll be a pile of pebbles by noon."
I sat in the corner, the floor groaning under my half-ton weight. I looked at my hands in the dark. The violet light was getting brighter.
"I won't break," I whispered.
"We'll see," she replied, a faint, cruel smile touching her lips. "The first opponent is a Thresher-Unit. Six arms, all saws. Let's see how 'human' you feel when they start carving."