I hear it before I see it. Metal clankin’ against metal. The pressure in the arena drops. The air folds around somethin’ incoming—resists it for a split-second, then surrenders. A gale of wind passes me by, slammin’ into the battle bats. They scatter like debris, wings shredded, bodies flung against the far wall.
And then—a whizzin’ sound. Half a second later, the Versi snaps into my hand with enough force to knock me back a step.
RETURNCALL ONLINE.
A split-second later, my data display detonates in a flood of cascadin’ light?—
PULSEMATCH: ONLINE.
AUTOSELECT: ACTIVE.
MINDLINK: ENGAGED.
SOULBIND: LOCKED.
PHASETETHER: LOADING…
VERSIPATH OVERRIDE: SEARCHING…
GHOSTMARK: CHARGING…
The air around me distorts—heat, static, pressure.
The Versi isn’t just a weapon anymore.
It’s a system.
It’s a goddamn event.
Now the game’s fair.
VERSIPATH OVERRIDE: TARGETS LOCKED
GHOSTMARK: DEPLOYED.
I raise the Versi, no aiming necessary. The weapon hums low, then screams when I activate it.
GHOSTMARK FIRING: BIOMETRIC SWEEP INITIATED.
The world bends as everything not tagged as ‘friendly’ gets ripped from the arena like a tempest sweepin’ dust across the desert in a storm.
Because the only ‘friendly’ in this place,is me.
The world bends back. A few moments of inhuman screamin’. Bodies thumpin’ to the ground far below. Then… silence.
NON-SIGNAL ENTITIES: PURGED.
I breathe out. Relaxin’. Smilin’. Workin’.
I’ve missed it.
So what comes next, is kind of a bonus. With no holster for the Versi, I grab the platform railing with one hand and swing down a level. The scaffolding’s not much—just a janky weave of rebar and rusted plating, the kind of patchwork shit you’d find in a halfway-collapsed mining rig back in the Outlands. Gaps everywhere. Welding marks like scars. Parts of it groan when I land, flexin’ under my weight, like they weren’t built to hold a Sweep-class anything.
But that’s fine. I’m not here to ask permission.
I drop again. One level, then two. I grip a support pipe, slide down fast, boots sparkin’ off the friction. Metal shudders. My shoulder clips a crossbeam, rattles my teeth. I land hard on a grated walkway—knee bent, Versi still hummin’ in my hand like it’s buzzin’ for round two.
From here I can see the ground—just a few more levels down.
