“Are you my brother’s new girlfriend?”
Ruzbeh paused mid-chew, a crumb of *nan-e nokhodchi* clinging to his lower lip. Soraya felt her cheeks warm, a sensation she hadn't experienced since she was a junior pilot, caught off guard by a surprise laser volley. Omid, oblivious, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. Tarik, still tangled in the dumpster, let out a choked sound of sheer mortification. He scrambled out, sputtering, his expensive silk tunic smeared with what looked suspiciously like spiced garbanzo paste.
“This… this *peasant*!” Tarik shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Ruzbeh. His face was blotchy, his perfectly styled hair now a sticky mess. “You dare assault a scion of House Roshan? You dare mock me in front of Lady Vance?!”
Ruzbeh sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to pull vigor from the very air. He plucked the crumb from his lip. “I believe I merely helped you embrace a cleaner, more sustainable lifestyle, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Omid has a history lesson, and I have a rapidly cooling pastry to enjoy.”
“Enjoy it now, you insolent fool!” Tarik roared, his voice amplified by a comm-link he yanked from his belt. “Because you won’t be enjoying anything for long! I’ll have your account frozen, your domicile repossessed, your very *existence* questioned! This isn’t the Cobalt Grid, peasant, where you can hide behind glitches and cheap tricks. This is the Avesta System, and I own a piece of it!” He glared, then stomped away, his footsteps echoing in the narrow alley before he vanished around a corner, presumably to find his air-skiff.
Soraya tracked his departure, then turned back to Ruzbeh, who had already settled back onto his stool, seemingly unbothered. Omid, however, looked worried. “He can’t really do that, can he, Bhai?”
Ruzbeh patted Omid’s head. “Relax, little sunbeam. His threats are as empty as his mecha's power core after our last encounter.” But the casual dismissal didn't quite settle the tight knot in Soraya's gut. Tarik Roshan might be a peacock, but his family wielded considerable influence.
Two hours later, Soraya, having made a surprisingly good excuse to stay and observe Ruzbeh’s baking techniques, studied him as he tapped his holopad. His amber gaze, usually half-lidded, opened slightly wider. A faint frown, a rarity for his perpetually serene face, creased his brow.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured. “It seems Sir Tarik’s tantrum was rather… effective.” He turned the holopad to Omid, who gasped. The screen displayed a stark red notification:
[WARNING: ALL ACCOUNT CREDITS FROZEN BY JUDICIAL ORDER #734-R. DELINQUENT DWELLING RENT PAYMENT DUE IN 24 HOURS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL INITIATE FORCIBLE REPOSSESSION AND IMMINENT EVICTION. REQUEST FOR DIRECT ARBITRATION MATCH ISSUED.]
“Bhai! What does this mean?” Omid’s voice was small, trembling.
Ruzbeh gently took the holopad back. “It means,” he said, his voice flat, “that Sir Tarik has challenged me to a sanctioned duel on the Cobalt Grid to settle our… disagreement.” He rubbed his temples. “And it means I have to win, or we’ll be sleeping under the stars.” He sighed, a deeper sound this time. “Such an unnecessary expenditure of effort.”
Soraya felt a surge of cold anger. Tarik had used his family’s power to bully a civilian. This wasn't just about a mecha match; it was about forcing Ruzbeh into a corner. “I can intervene,” she offered, her voice firm. “My family… we have influence too.”
Ruzbeh shook his head slowly. “No, Lady Vance. It is a sanctioned duel. Intervening now would only cause more trouble for you. Besides,” he offered a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, “it wouldn’t be nearly as amusing.”
He excused himself to the small, cramped refresher, muttering about preparing for ‘unavoidable exertion’. Soraya tracked his movement toward the hall, a peculiar mix of admiration and worry twisting within her. Omid, sensing her distress, came and leaned against her, looking up with big, brown eyes. “Bhai will win,” he said, conviction in his young voice. “He always does.”
Inside the tiny refresher, Ruzbeh leaned over the grimy basin, his hands pressed against the chipped porcelain. A spasm wracked his chest, sharp and unexpected. He coughed, a deep, rattling sound that tore through him. When he pulled his hand away, a viscous smear of black, iridescent blood stained his palm. It shimmered with an unsettling, oily sheen. He stared at it, his expression unreadable, then wiped it away with a practiced swiftness. The degradation was accelerating. Six months, Mitra had said. It felt like six weeks. He closed his eyes, the image of Omid’s innocent face searing into his mind. *Not yet. I still have work to do.* He rinsed his mouth, splashed water on his face, and walked out, his lethargic mask firmly back in place.
The Cobalt Grid glowed, a maelstrom of neon and shattered starlight. The arena for the arbitration match was a sprawling, multi-tiered complex known as the ‘Aetherium’, famous for its dynamic gravity wells and shifting terrain. Tarik’s voice, amplified by Mitra, boomed across the virtual space, dripping with smug satisfaction.
“Welcome, citizens of the Avesta System, to this sanctioned arbitration duel! Today, we witness the swift justice meted out to a rogue pilot who dared to disrespect a noble house. I, Tarik Roshan, scion of House Roshan, will personally ensure this… anomaly… is corrected.”
Soraya sat in the VIP spectator suite, her pulse racing against her ribs. She saw Tarik’s customized ‘Crimson Typhoon’ mecha, a sleek, menacing machine clad in polished obsidian and scarlet filigree, hovering impatiently. Its twin hyper-lasers hummed with suppressed power. Then she saw Ruzbeh’s virtual projection. Still unarmored. Still holding that same glitching wooden stick.
“It’s primitive,” Tarik sneered, spotting Ruzbeh. “An insult to the very concept of advanced combat. But I won’t make the same mistake twice. This time, I’m prepared for your *tricks*, peasant!”
[MATCH STARTING IN 3… 2… 1…]
[FIGHT!]
Tarik’s Crimson Typhoon surged forward, not with weapons blazing, but with a crackle of distorted static. Oppressive atmospheric pressure slammed into Ruzbeh’s virtual figure. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down with immense weight. On Soraya’s display, the gravity reading for Ruzbeh’s section of the arena spiked to ten times normal. An illegal modification, clearly. Tarik was trying to literally crush Ruzbeh.
“Taste true power!” Tarik gloated, his voice laced with triumph. “My custom *Gravi-Lock* module will pin you, break you, before you can even twitch! Your archaic martial arts are useless against the laws of physics!”
Ruzbeh’s figure sagged slightly, his shoulders seeming to slump under the invisible burden. Tarik laughed, a sharp, triumphant sound. “Any last words, *Shadow*?”
Slowly, deliberately, Ruzbeh raised his right hand. He looked up at the Crimson Typhoon, his amber eyes, though still half-lidded, now held a glint Soraya had only ever seen in the most skilled gladiators, a terrifying, calm focus. He extended a single finger, tapping the air, as if pushing against an unseen barrier. A ripple, not of air, but of pure, concentrated force, invisible to the naked eye, emanated from his fingertip. It traveled across the arena, a silent, unstoppable force. It reached the opposing war machine. There was no explosion, no laser blast, no concussive shockwave.
Instead, Tarik’s cutting-edge mecha simply *collapsed*. Not exploded, not shattered from impact, but crumpled inward, as if every internal strut, every reinforced plating, every high-tech system had spontaneously lost all structural integrity. The Gravi-Lock module sputtered, then died. The proud warframe, once a symbol of noble might, was reduced to a heap of twisted, useless junk in seconds. Tarik’s outraged yelp was cut short as his avatar was ejected, tumbling helplessly through the virtual void.
[MITRA: PILOT ‘RUZBEH’ HAS ACHIEVED VICTORY.]
[MITRA: DISCREPANCY DETECTED. MASSIVE STRUCTURAL FAILURE OF MECHA ‘CRIMSON TYPHOON’ INEXPLICABLE BY KNOWN PHYSICAL LAWS. ANALYSIS… INVALID… CORRUPTED…]
Soraya stared, her jaw slack. Not a weapon. Not a punch. A single, casual tap. Ruzbeh hadn’t fought the gravity; he had simply… bypassed the entire physics engine, shredding Tarik’s mecha from the inside out with a subtle burst of qi. Her previous understanding of combat shattered once more, leaving her utterly breathless. This was beyond advanced. This was… magic.
[MITRA: UNREGISTERED ENERGY SIGNATURE DETECTED. MOVEMENTS CLASSIFIED AS MALICIOUS CODE INJECTION. INITIATING ANOMALY PROTOCOL. ACCOUNT ‘RUZBEH’ FLAGGED FOR PERMANENT BAN.]