Bloop went the thick drop of condensation, shed from the leaky pipes suspended from the ceiling, against the scuffed linoleum of the corridor. The sound punctuated Sóse’s final moment in that fever dream of a conjoined setting. The detective watched on, tomahawk at the ready, for an opening to strike Tom down, when his surroundings shifted. A digital flood drilled through Sóse’s awareness as his augments simultaneously returned. Cybernetic consternation accompanied luminous bands of glimmering gold and pulsating purple that obscured most of the arena’s inhabitants from Sóse’s vision save for the greatest and most recent source of suffering in the detective’s life: Kynion. Sóse barely acknowledged the alien presence contained within the scintillating halo with him as the woven roots of the Nexus faded away beneath them. He glared at Kynion with palpable contempt during his delicate descent into the depths beneath the Nexus. The cybernetic detective audibly scoffed when his eldritch host droned on about gods and peers. [i]Pfft, Glowboy’s self-aggrandizin’ megalomania is off the charts.[/i] His feet reached interdimensional substrata. Sóse turned to survey his latest and, supposedly, greatest arena when his copper gaze abruptly stopped. The cybernetic detective stood, in stunned silence, before an imposing comrade he’d last seen 20 years ago. Sóse took a step forward when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of Turtle’s massive and polished legs. The mirror image that returned his glance was yet another facet of Sóse’s life this spectacle of a tournament had dredged from his memory banks. Faint red LEDs twinkled on the set of HEX tech-gogs fastened around his forehead by a band of vitreous technopolymer. The dark aramid-weave fabric of a turtleneck clung to Sóse’s brawny torso and arms beneath his deflexion and spider-silk chest rig. A carbon-fiber battle belt secured black, durable, duoweave tacticloth and mycofiber cargo pants to his frame. The pants were tucked into a pair of gunmetal, knee high ultralight ceramic-layered combat exo-jacks. Tawiskaron was at his right hip, its speed-draw holster buckled to the belt, along with a magazine pouch and Sóse’s folded tomahawk, Atóken. The notched head of his war club, Kanàkare, grazed his lower back from the aramid-weave loop clipped to Sóse’s chest rig. His left hand held Karáhkwa’s grip. The weight of its 40” barrel, lined with ominous dials and superconducting magnets, comfortably rested against his shoulder, its muzzle pointed behind him. [i]Turtle, y’giant fuck! What are you doin’ here?[/i] The hulking Tank/Walker hybrid canted its great central platform in a brief nod while its multiple reticles focused on the cyborg. Turtle’s familiar drawl, a virtual pastiche of the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka accent, filtered into Sóse’s mind. [i]Skennen, Soz! Nova to see you! Where’s here? Navigational telematics are all over the place.[/i] [i]Some assho-.[/i] [i]Greetings, Operative Hihnon. What have you gotten yourself into now?[/i] The cybernetic detective began to respond when a third party joined the conversation. The texture of the new voice was steel-edged yet soft; almost unbearably wise in its rich, feminine timbre. Sóse stepped back and squinted in search of tell-tale perturbations. His gaze swept across the arena, noting a presence at the far end of the silent battlefield, then returned to the arachnoid mecha before him. An atramentous, avian silhouette appeared, perched atop Turtle’s colossal rail-cannon when Sóse’s eyes passed over the main gun. Owl stared silently at the cyborg, its vantablack exterior almost devouring the soft lighting that surrounded it. Another instant and it was gone from his sight. [i]Hey, Tsistí. We’ll catch up later. For now I’ll need a covert analysis of this place. I want to know everything.[/i] [i]Affirmative. Good to be back, Operative.[/i] With a short jump, Sóse landed on top of Turtle’s central platform near its abdomen. Atop his 20’ platform, he turned his attention towards Kynion high above. Sóse’s voice carried across the arena as he yelled, accent set to 11. [b]”Hey, Glowboy! Yeah, the gonk with the blue hair! Ya got some real noive to pull me off’a case! Ya got even more noive to remind me of it by sendin’ me to a Mickey Mouse knockoff of my office! When I get outta here I’m gonna rip yer head off!”[/b] During Sóse’s speech, segments of Turtle’s abdomen separated to allow the cybernetic operative access to its cockpit. He entered the spacious cabin, an array of monitors coming to life with his presence. Sóse settled into the gunner’s chair, securing Karáhkwa in a rack above a temperfoam bench along the way. A series of small monitors descended from the ceiling around the cyborg while he wirelessly patched himself into Turtle’s systems. [i]Let’s get some tunes going. What’d we do last time? Holiday? Of course, it was Owl’s pick. How ‘bout some Morgan? Somethin’ catchy.[/i] The upbeat drums of Lee Morgan’s [i]The Mercenary[/i] began to rattle through the cockpit. Turtle and Sóse fully synchronized as Owl imperceptibly launched off its perch.