The second missing friend revealed herself. “Ace!” Luca called excitedly from the front row of the seats. Ace broke from Vector, hurrying to her voice. “Yo,” she said casually.

He paused. “What the hell is this?” Ace demanded with a flash of anger.

“Uh. Underground-fight-club night, apparently.”

“You didn’t know they’d be here?” he snapped.

“I don’t keep up with the underground-fight-club calendar!” She took a loud sip of what was certainly Silvertooth.

A sharp whistle pierced the wall of incoherent voices. Over a crowd of both cheers and protests, the announcer shouted Mali’s name. Someone approached them. “Two hundred creds,” he muttered, exchanging currency chips with Luca before leaving.

“You bet money on him?” Vector questioned, sliding into the group.

“He’s on a streak,” Luca said, taking another sip. Then she abruptly spit. “Oh, shit. Vector.”

Ace scoffed, “What’s wrong with Vector?”

Vector answered for her, “Long-standing underground-fight-club versus racing-club conflict.”

Ace stood blankly, reeling from the information. “How have we been friends for four years and I didn’t know any of this?” he sighed in exasperation.

“No offense, but we didn’t think it was smart to tell the literal Institute agent we’re involved in local gang wars,” Luca said. “Whatever. Vecky, you gotta dip. If someone recognizes you, we’re screwed.”

“This was our place before it was theirs,” Vector bristled.

“Yeah, well, four to forty-something makes it theirs,” Luca retorted. “Actually, this is Mali’s squad, so... three to forty-something-plus-one.”

Two pairs of footsteps distinctly approached. Someone shouted.

“Hey! Ain’t you that... Victor biker person?”

Ace froze.

The other person spoke up, his voice higher and nasally, “Vector, you brimbo. Exo pronunciation.”

“It’s an Auran name, you bingus!” bellowed the first.

There was a commotion as Vector shoved past the two men in an attempt at escape. Now more people around them had gone quiet, their attention’s redirected. “Hey, hey,” a third voice said from the doorway, stopping Vector, “what’s this buzz about?”

“A biker! A tar-stinkin’ biker!” the nasal voice shrieked. Vector grunted in a quiet struggle against the barricade.

Ace set down his cane and bag. “Let her go,” he snapped, stepping forward. He realized a second later the impulsiveness of his move.

“Yeah? What’re you supposed to do, huh?” the nasal voice taunted. He came closer to Ace, close enough for Ace to pick up a sharp scent of cigarettes and cheap liquor. Laughing dryly, he gave Ace a shove.

“Brad,” the first speaker said, suddenly serious, “type’s got an Institute badge.”

Brad, the presumed owner of the nasal voice, huffed indignantly. “Damn the bikers, and damn the Institute!” he said with another cruel, dry laugh.

Ace took a step back, hitting the seats. Before he could right himself, Brad grabbed Ace’s arm and pushed him further back. Ace abruptly jerked his arm away with a twist. Brad stumbled forward, and Ace slid out from the seats. He found Brad’s collar for grip and reversed the attacker’s maneuver. There was a crash as Brad fell over the seat and unloaded a slew of curses. “Chad!” he finally hissed from the floor.

Then a thick, solid arm grabbed Ace and lifted into the air, squeezing Ace with a strength that expelled all breath from his chest. “You know what the Institute ain’t?” the first voice, Chad, said evenly. “Soldiers. ‘Bout time you stop pretending like you are.” With all the care and delicacy of disposing of a broken ragdoll, Chad tossed Ace aside. He collided with the hard ground a few feet away, his sunglasses tumbling off beside him. One piercing kick from a heavy boot connected to his stomach, triggering a bolt of nauseating pain. The boot came down again on his back, this time firmly planted. Ace tried to focus. The gun was in his bag. He couldn’t exactly use it. But he could at least fire it into the ceiling to intimidate. Or Luca could take it. But Luca would never shoot anyone. But shooting someone would make their situation worse.

Then Chad let out a curt shout as he was abruptly launched forward. The pressure on Ace released; he rolled to the side. Luca let out a passionate shout in return and helped Ace to stand. She handed him his glasses. Ace swallowed a sharp breath, putting them back on.

Chad made no hesitation. He bashed Luca aside and grabbed Ace once more. There were more voices now, more limbs in the fray as the other fight club participants caught on to the situation. The announcer spoke up from across the room. “There’s quite the stirrup happening off-stage!” the announcer’s voice reported through a microphone, trying to maintain his light tone despite an audible degree of uncertainty. “Seems a young biker has decided to step in tonight. Well, normally, I’d tell ‘em to take it outside... but this is too intense to miss!”

Someone shoved Ace onto his knees. The sunglasses promptly returned to the ground; there was the brief crack of shattering glass. His arms were seized and twisted behind his back. Partially hindered from the stabbing pain in his stomach, Ace thrashed blindly (quite literally) to little success. Someone else threw a punch into Ace’s jaw, then another at his eye. A shock of pain erupted with each blow. He’d lost all track of Luca and Vector through the sea of voices that surrounded him, cheering on his downfall.

“Miss biker seems to be holding her own, sort of,” the announcer continued. “Sort... of. Never mind. Dad’s on it today. Wait one moment—looks like our reigning champion is coming down to square in! What will the mysterious Mali do to these inconsiderate intruders?”

Footsteps; Mali approached Ace. Then came the faint sound of his backpack zipper, audible under clamoring voices. Then a reverberating bang. The voices abruptly silenced. The punches halted. The room paused.

Mali tore Ace away from his captor. He stumbled to his feet. “This is a fair club?” Mali said tersely. “Let them go. We’ll quietly leave.”

The voices spoke up again, now upset. Mali half-dragged Ace away from the crowd. Somewhere else, Luca huffed as she was released. She followed.

“My bag,” Ace mumbled, just loud enough for Mali and no one else.

“Got it. And your cane.”

His brusque mannerisms almost seemed to indicate some anger or annoyance. But Ace knew better. It was just Mali.

Vector joined them. Her footsteps—lighter than the others’—were slightly uneven, shifted to her right. She was limping. Ace finally figured out where, exactly, they now were: the hallway to the back exit of the theater. Ace followed Mali’s lead without complaint until they reached the door outside. It slammed shut behind them with a dramatic thud. Then the threatening and shouting and clamor fell to silence.

Ace stumbled off of Mali, leaning against the wall of the building. He absently touched his tender cheek.

“It’s not that bad,” Luca said to him, sounding entirely unconvincing. “Vecky, you’re also—no, Vec, it’s pretty bad. Good luck explaining that to Camie. Might need some make-up. Maybe a lot.”

“I’m sorry this happened,” Mali said seriously, her voice perhaps carrying genuine remorse under its unwavering mechanical shield.

Vector exhaled slowly. “You got us out,” she said with an equally serious tone. “I’d punch a biker for you, too.”

The two shook hands. Then another pause of silence.

“Back to the academy?” Mali proposed finally.

“Designated driver!” Luca cheered, cracking open yet another Silvertooth can.

Vector sighed. “Designated driver.”