In the female end of the Sports Complex's locker room, Ricochet Rita had just begun to remove her regulation brawl armor in preparation for a much deserved shower. She had earned it. As the team's sole Outrigger, she had been instrumental in this night's victory. The room's heavy air was still reverberating with drunken cries of celebration. Ares had won the Northern Divisional title against the home-court advantaged Seattle Screamers. This had been the last match of the ISSV final four. Two nights earlier, the Atlanta Butchers had narrowly beaten the Tenochtitlán Volcanoes--next stop the Super Brawl!

The whole thing still seemed more like some bizarre sim-stim dream: the sound of her Brawl Harley's engine roaring, Billi's arm-lock around her waist, the roof's edge rushing up, and the leap out into open space. At first she'd thought she'd misjudged the distance to the opposite roof. Then it had reached out to embrace them and she had eased the big bike down, back tire, front tire, finally swinging its frame around in a 180°. Rita had scarcely noticed the ISSV's ever- present, spy-cameras broadcasting all of the action back to the folks at home, as she and Billi secured the rooftop.

And that had been the easy part. The rest of Redd's plan called for her to leap down to the goal circle, some four stories below, with a passenger. At the time, she didn't know which of them had been more nervous about it. But she'd scooped up Billi and stepped off the roof. Three seconds later, they had landed, rolling into three startled Seattle goalies. This brief spectacular melee had ended victoriously and just in time for Billi to catch Ox's winning pass, which actually knocked her back two meters, into the goal circle.

All of this had taken place just two short hours ago. But now, that the reporters had all left in pursuit of some more newsworthy story-of-the-moment, Rita was finally able to relax. She was seated amid twin rows of plasti-steel lockers. All were identically painted with stylized versions of the Ares Macrotechnology corporate logo.

She had come full circle. Just nine years ago, she'd held the position of Fitness Director, here at the Seattle Sports Complex. That had all been before. Before she'd moved to Detroit and joined the Predators. Before she'd leapt full-force on the cyberware express. Before she'd started working.

Billi sat on the bench across from her. She had applied some dermal disks to her own upper arm and back, and was now massaging them into place--anesthetics.

"Stiff shoulder?" Rita asked, "never jumped that far before, with a passenger anyway."

"Hey, I'm a orc," Billi mocked in a stereotypified gutter brogue, "we're lots tuffer den you wimpy elfs."

Sure, Rita mused to herself, that is why you are covered with derms.

" 'Sides girlfrien'," Billi continued in her more accustomed projects patois, "when we win the Cup, I'll buy me a better one. How 'bouch you? Been shoppin' for the 'wares lately?"

Yea, more cyberware, Rita thought flatly. She was about to answer, when the team's Blaster, Derf, came charging through the rows with an utter disregard for modesty. He was wearing a loud pair of Bermuda shorts and shaking a large, champagne bottle. As he ran by, Derf pointed and sprayed its sticky, purple, synthetic contents at them. Rita reflexively turned away, but Billi looked up and caught a face-full.

"THAT's it!" She cried, "let's get 'em!"

Rita reached for a towel and said, "you go ahead, I am too tired."

She had just managed to towel the synthol from her hair, when sounds of a scuffle floated over the lockers. Then Billi reappeared. "Well?" Rita heard herself ask.

"He won't be botherin' us for a while," Billi answered, triumphantly holding up the Bermudas, "plus, I stuffed him in a locker."

It was at this point that one of the team's heavys came tromping up. "Scuse me, ladies," he called from a polite distance.

"Come on up, Ox, we are descent," Rita answered.

"More'n we can say for Derf," Billi added.

"Yea, I saw." The troll poked his large, horned head over the lockers and walked around. "Once he sobers up, he'll be hatin' life. Nice catch, by the way, Billi. Sorry I threw it so hard." Ox was dressed in his regulation Team Ares sweats. He sat down on the opposite bench.

" 'Sokay," Billi answered, trying not to wince as she shrugged, "s' long they got it on vid."

"Yeah," Rita mused, "almost looked as if you planned it."

"Still can't b'lieve it," Billi mused, "we're actually goin' to the Super Brawl."

"Me either," Ox grinned, "my mom's gonna be so proud." Then he remembered, "hey Rita, your uh, output's waiting outside at his limo." The next he said with a hint of sarcasm. "And his chauffeur said, 'your presence is requested, N-O-W!' "

"Now?!" Rita swore, "damnitall ta fraggin'hell! All I want is a shower. Is that too much to ask?" Ox shrugged and she began the laborious process of re-buckling her armor.

"Don'cha worry," Billi replied, " I'll take me an extra one for ya--thanks to Derf, I need two."

Rita stood up and reflected that she really was tired. Between juggling Brawl, the Klub, and work, she was spreading herself pretty thin. Gotta remember to add "more sleep" to my pocket sec, she thought and stepped outside.

The sun had set hours ago, but her low-lite vision kicked in to compensate. "Now where is he?" She complained, then spied the black Mistu Nightsky, across the practice field. A UCAS Today van was parked next to it. Its crew appeared to be packing up their equipment.

"If he thinks I am going to walk..." Rita began, then remembered that her Brawl cycle was parked just around the corner. It started on the first try. Going to need a tune soon, she noted as she pulled out, and another paint job. There were fresh scrapes on both fairings.

The newsnet's van was gone when she pulled alongside the limousine. Bryce was leaning on its opened door. "You look like hell, sweets," he said, flashing his trademarked, I'm about to screw you, corp smile. Then he eased in and slid over, indicating for Rita to follow.

As a rapidly rising executive for Area Arms, Seattle, Bryce Harlton possessed all of the survival qualities, necessary for his chosen profession. He was charming, handsome, overly ambitious, and utterly ruthless. It was often said by his rivals, that if one consulted the megacorp's on-line dictionary, his picture could be found under the entry for "smarmy." Unofficially, he also enjoyed certain privileged benefits as one of Canterelli's hand-picked, black ops coordinators. And Rita, it seemed, was one of these "benefits." For the past six and a half years, she had been assigned to him part-time, acting as black operative, escort, and, when convenient, as his input.

She dismounted and climbed in after him, smiling perversely to herself. Evidently, Bryce was unaware that she was smearing Derf's purple drek across the žM¥ car's brushed leather interior. "What was that about?" She asked, nodding in the direction of the departing newsnoops.

"More publicity for my Autumn Arms Show." Bryce's deliberate use of the word "my" wasn't lost on her. "Sorry to drag you away from your celebration," he apologized and handed her an optical chip reader, "but we don't have much time for this one. I need you to leave tonight."

Rita had already slipped the silvery interface cable into her datajack. "Tonight?" She protested, "what could possible be so urgent?"

Bryce held his response, while Rita played the chip. "You have got to be kidding," she said at last, handing the rig back to him.

"I never joke about biz," Bryce said mechanically. "Besides, you can sleep on the suborbital."

"Never mind my beauty sleep, omae, you are asking me to take out Atlanta's team captain-- permanently," Rita bristled. Her hair was sticky and pasted to the back of her neck.

"Not requesting," he said with that smile again, "I prefer to think of it a assigning."

"I do not care what you call it. I am not doing it."

"Okay then," he teased, "I'm ordering you to."

"You still do not sus it, do you?" Rita fumed, "I am serious. We can win the 'Brawl without this."

"Some of the boys upstairs, aren't so confident and the owner..."

"Steiner can go frag himself!"

"Come on Rita, just do this one for me." He was still acting like this whole thing was some kind of perverse chess game. "Please, I'm begging. Besides, I've got a lot riding on it."

Now it all made sense and Rita exploded. "Look, for the last four years, have I not jumped through every single hoop that you held out?"

"Don't tell me you haven't enjoyed the bonuses," Bryce retorted, trying to regain control of the conversation.

But Rita was too wound up. "Oh, and I suppose you have not? By taking out key competitors and their products, I have made you a very rich suit. Thanks to me, you zipped up your precious corporate ladder, two rungs at a time. What are you now, Director of Operations for Ares Arms, North America?"

He swallowed, "actually, VP of Operations, after we win the Super Brawl."

"Fine. We will win, but you can forget the assignment."

"You don't understand," he managed, "it's all or none. Come on, what do I have to promise you?"

"Nothing," she said climbing out of the car. "I am not doing it. Get someone else."

"There's no time for that and you know it. Pleeeze, Lucky?"

"Forget it, Bryce!" She slammed the door at the sound of her private name, then confessed softly to the night, "it is just not cute anymore."

He powered down the limo's window--persistent bastard. "You'll do this for me, or I'll see you yanked off the team--end of line."

"Look, Bryce, there are plenty of brands of soykaf on the market. And some are just as tasty as the real thing." With that, she fired up the heavy bike's engine.

"You don't get it--you play for us or you never play again. Now get back in here and I'll forget this little scene ever happened." His upper body was nearly leaning out of the window.

"No, it is you who does not 'get it!' " Rita spat, "I am not just one of your mind-numbed underlings, bobbing to your every whim. I have real skills, marketable outside of Ares. But strip away your corporate logo and you are nothing, but another petty arms dealer!" Rita gunned the throttle, leaving a three-meter skid.

"Hey, {ahhuk}!" Bryce coughed into a cloud of tire smoke and practically fell out of the Nightsky's window, "that's company pr{ahhuk}perty!" .

Bill me, Rita thought and roared off, down an altogether new road.

*
*
*

Eventually, Rita's anger subsided and she found herself in downtown Seattle. A quick burst through a yellow light followed by a screaming corner, put her on the street jokingly called, "Blah Blah Strasse." Another few minutes and she'd driven past her destination. No waiting line out front, yet, Rita thought. Continuing down the block, she took the next side-street, then turned into the alley. When she reached the service entrance, she rolled the bike into her spot. One of the few things that was genuinely hers, she realized. Well, unless they came looking this Harley and brawl armor, were technically nine-tenths hers. She slapped the door's palm-scanner, took a deep breath, and walked down the back stairs of The Big Knobi Klub.

As Rita stepped through the door, she noticed that the place was fairly empty. The evening's really heavy, surge was still a few hours away. She had hoped to sneak upstairs and grab that elusive shower. But one of the band members spotted her and ceased his tuning to call out, "ahh-roight, Rita!" He then launched into an impromptu, guitar rift, that was part victory-march and part techno-mosh. It was actually pretty good.

By the time he'd finished, one of the computer-driven, dance spots had somehow found and bathed Rita in a silvery beam of pulsating light. She bowed with a ridiculous flourish, as best her armor would let her at any rate. Several of the remaining patrons raised their glasses to her. This was after all (by day) a more-or-less respectable pub.

She didn't know why that last thought nagged at her, as she climbed the stairs towards her new offices. Rita had snapped up the whole suite last spring, primarily to cut down on noise complaints. But now she realized, that it might have to function as her apartment.

After about an hour, most of the previous customers had the good sense to give way to the first wave of the evening's bar-hoppers. As she checked her reflection one last time, Rita could hear the noise drifting up through the floor. It's amazing how a shower can revitalize. I'm not even tired anymore, she laughed, from the top of the stairs.

Earlier, she had combed out her long, ash-black hair, but hadn't like the way it'd looked. Then she'd put it up, but she hadn't liked it that way either. Eventually, she realized that it was her mood that had needed to be "put up."

She'd also initially slipped into a "frag me"-style party dress. But then standing in front of her mirrors, it hadn't really compliment her figure--at least not the parts she'd wanted it to. She just didn't have the legs for it. Both of Rita's parents had been human, but the combination of their Japanese heritage and the UGE only seemed to intensify her elven features. She had hazel, almond-shaped (albeit cyber-) eyes, high, prominent cheekbones, and a pronounced, lack-of height. At 1.7 meters, Rita was short for a western elf. And it had been that trait that had particularly disagreed with this dress.

She knew the outfit that she wanted to wear, but unfortunately, it was some 3700 kilometers away in her closet in back Detroit. And the clothes in her Seattle doss may as well have been just as far away, since it was probably off limits by now.

She'd then gone through a similar episode with the small collection of 'party' clothing that she maintained at the Klub. She tried on every single outfit, at least once, finally settling on her Armanté Starlight. This was a mind-numbingly seductive, metallic-blue, cocktail dress. It had brilliant zircons scattered across its gossamer surface and had been a truly pointless addition to her wardrobe, four years ago. She'd blown ¥4500 on it--nearly her entire mission bonus. And just to accompany Bryce to one of his dull, suit functions. That had been back when she was still taken by his smooth-spoken routines. Then it had been "Anything to make him look good." Yea, right! She hadn't worn it since.

Tonight, Rita thought as she descended, it seemed appropriate. Ares had won the Final Four and she'd finally told Bryce off. It was indeed a night to celebrate the victory ... her victory ... her last victory. "Like frag it would be!" She swore and boldly stepped into the noise below. This time she made sure the band wasn't looking, slipping easily to the bar, while the bartender was busy.

"Evening, Miss Rita," he greeted her without turning, "you look stunning, tonight."

"Thanks, Gus. What is the know?"

"Not much, a packed house during your match, 'tho." Gus faced her now. His 250-kilo frame was swathed in a tailored, two-piece suit, that naturally flattered his light-brown skin. And at well over three meters--including horns, Genghis " 'Gus" Grimtooth towered over Rita.

He must have one heck of a tailor, she mused.

"Plus, Kyle's sick," the troll continued, "so I'm tending the bar. Now, what'll it be?"

"Something real, with an umbrella. No synthetics tonight."

"I believe I have just the thing. Um, by the way," Gus grinned as he combined the contents of several bottles into a glass, "I hope you're not sore about the spot, earlier. I was backstage matching the CPU to the band's style and it seemed appropriate." He finished pouring her drink and stuck an umbrella in it. "Here's to your win," he toasted, handing it to Rita.

"Thanks." She said sourly and swiveled around in her chair to face the dance floor, taking a measure of the crowd. A handful of patrons were seated at its perimeter, although the place was far from filled. Not a great night, but it was still early.

She tried to take a sip around the umbrella, but couldn't. Finally, she gave up, completely removed the cheap Taiwanese novelty, and slammed the drink, hardly tasting it. "Lemme have a'nother," she ordered over her shoulder, "this time hold th'umbrella."

"Okay," he agreed lightheartedly, "but only if you'll tell me what's wrong."

She spun back around and looked squarely up into his dark brown eyes. "Gus, I think I quit Ares today."

The gravity of the statement caught him completely off guard. He was about to warn her of the potential dangers of barstool spinning while intoxicated. Instead, he carefully asked, "you want to talk about it?"

Rita was about to come back with a sarcastic reply, but she was cut short as Fiona, one of the Klub's newer waitresses, brought up several drink orders. So she spun back around, again. Gus was half way through the orders when the band started up with the evening's first set.

That's odd, Rita thought dreamily, they are making my head pound. She was beginning to feel dizzy and had to fight to remain conscious. Then Gus put another drink in her hands. She tried to slam it, nearly choked, and spat the foreign liquid out, dousing a small table lamp in the process.

"My 'kaf that bad?" He asked.

"HOT!" Was all that she could exclaim between gags. The lighting was all wrong, she thought. Why were they so bright? She was lying down and her head was still pounding.

"Where..{achk}..am I?" she finally managed.

"Well," Gus began, "I'd like to tell you that you're 'home safe and sound,' but that's not exactly true." He ran a broad hand through his kinky, black hair, yawned, and smiled a silly grin at her evident befuddlement.

That didn't make any sense. So she ignored it and took a cautious sip of the soykaf, in case it might turn out to be battery acid after all. Why was it so hard to think? She was missing something, here and it nagged at her. For a second, she thought she had it. "This is not what you fixed me last time," she accused, "you switched drinks." But that wasn't quite it.

Gus was finding all of this really funny and at her expense. In fact he was obviously trying to stifle a laugh and failing pretty miserably.

Rita fought to focus her cybereyes. With a steely squint, she peered around the room, trying to make sense of her surroundings through the little slits. "Come on Gus, where did you put the bar?"

At this, he gave in and gafawed, thunderously. His loud, baritone voice left her ears ringing and really made her head really throb. Rita sat up shakily, took a swing at him, missed, and fell back on the couch. This bit of data was somehow important and although it s-l-o-w-l-y made its way across her face, it couldn't quite sink in.

Gus, who had been trying to regain his composure all the while, watched its progress, which sent him into another fit of laughter and he fell off the end of the couch...Her couch. Her upstairs office couch. There! She almost had it. So close.

"And why are you dragging my furniture downstairs?!"

But Gus couldn't answer. He was too busy clutching his sides, while he rolled around on the floor.

*
*
*

A few more cups of soykaf later, Rita sat hunched over a table, this time actually downstairs. Gus had turned a chair around and was straddling it across from her. "And you don't remember any of it?" He asked, still grinning.

"All I remember is the band--the thumping and pounding," she groaned, massaging her temples.

"Do you remember singing with the band?"

"Do not start with me, Gus," she warned making a fist for emphasis, "this time I might not miss."

"Hey," he replied, "I'm just asking. I was as surprised as everyone else." He slid his chair out of range, adding, "I didn't think you knew all four verses to 'Mutilate yer Mate.' "

Rita still wasn't sure if he was telling the truth or if he'd knocked her out with that first drink, but she knew better than to bring that up. Instead she asked, "what time did I fall asleep?"

But Gus neatly side-stepped the question. "I brought you up there around three. And I would have let you sleep it off today, but it's all over WSB & ESPN.

'It' was an official press release, announcing that she'd been placed on 'injured reserve' status following yesterday's game.

Rita frowned, "hai, Bryce wasted no time."

"Shouldn't that have been the manager's call?"

"Yes, but even Manny has to play company ball."

"So what's the game-plan?" Gus asked, noting how athletic references had begun a subversive take-over of their conversation.

"Not sure, but I think I may have to assemble a strike team, and on short notice. I have some potentially damaging data on Ares, up here." She tapped the side of her head. "But it is time sensitive. After a week, it will not be worth a salary-cap."

"I can put the word out today, but I'll need to know the specs," he looked up sporting a grin, "in order to recruit you a winning team."

"And if it turns out that I do not need them?" Rita asked, oblivious to Gus' puns.

"You've spent too much time in the corp sector," Gus laughed. "Out here, it happens all the time. You simply cancel the meet--null persp. Up to that point, you're just another 'nonymous Johnson."

"Leave it," she decided, "nothing that can not be replaced and probably for less than the price of a round-trip shuttle to Michigan."

"Then I guess you'll be crashing up here for a while?"

"Yea, but either I am going to have to convert an office to a proper bedroom or get a softer couch. Which do you think?"

"I think," Gus concluded, sitting down to read, "that we should convert a couple of those offices into dormitories. After all, you've got twelve."