The excitement of the crowd resonates behind the arena doors. They await the fight of the season, the match to put all previous rounds of the tournament to shame. Leon leans his head against the wall and stares at the concrete ceiling. Instead of tuning it out, he focuses on the roaring crowd; the adrenaline of performing is what he lives for. He wants to put on a bold show for them. He has to.

Tournament combat was only born out of circumstance. As biotechnology evolved and the number of people with bionics grew, competitors claimed unfair advantage for those with cybernetic enhancements. The American Cybernetics Association urged that sports federations gather their bionic competitors into their own divisions-- one where they were evenly matched. This shift in the dynamic of competitive sports caught wind in every household, every headline, and every copy machine conversation of every office job. Bionic athletes were a breath of fresh air to any activity where they had their own playing field, their own spotlight-- and when combat-based sports got air time, all eyes were watching.

A man wearing a headset and holding a tablet pokes his head around the corner. “Anastasio,” he says. “You’re out in 5. Good luck.”

Leon rises to his feet and takes a deep breath. His manager stands a few feet from him, arms crossed and unfazed by the pressure of competition. A young woman peers around the corridor. She flashes a bright smile that would make anyone instinctively respond in the same way.

“Come to give me your encouragement, Bronwen?” Leon asks.

“No, not this time. I’m just here as a preemptive consolation prize.” She brushes her two French braids behind her head, smiling a bit more shy. “And maybe I’m also in the business for some last minute encouragement myself. My fight’s up after yours.”

“That’s about as good of a prize as a runner-up can get, huh?” The two chuckle. “You’re gonna do great, Bron. You have nothing to worry about.” It seems like every time he sees her, Bronwen has acquired new cybernetics. It’d be hard for her to lose with such state-of-the-art tech and such charisma in the arena. Bronwen isn’t normally one to mingle with competitors, but she makes a few exceptions. Sensing the resentment from the man across from her, she slinks away with a bright smile. Leon returns the gesture, but it fades as Leon’s manager steps closer.

“You’re fighting Amiran Marcello,” he says. “He’s from New York. Second place in his state championship. Good, but not better.”

“You’re not supposed to look at the roster,” Leon mumbles. He avoids eye contact, but his manager gets too close for him to ignore. He glares at Leon.

“You wanna get bothered, fine,” he says, bitterness in his tone, “but things could be much worse for you. You could be an ACA agent, like your older brother. Be some knockoff police officer in his 20s, using that nice arm of yours to solve petty crime and get cats out of trees.”

Leon glances down at his bionic right arm, flexing and relaxing his joints. He looks up. “Firefighters. It’s firefighters who get cats out of trees. And he chose to become an agent. It’s not long before the ACA agents completely replace cops, you know.”

“Don’t get smart with me.” Leon’s manager softens his gaze and places a hand on his shoulder. “I just want you to succeed. You know that, right? You know that I want what’s best for you?”

Leon nods. “I know.”

“So what are you gonna do when you get out there?”

“Prove myself.”

He wraps his arms around Leon in a gentle embrace. The doors into the arena begin to open, and the crowd roars. He takes a few steps back from the opening door and from Leon. “You know, ACA agents don’t win medals and championship titles!”

Leon tilts his chin up and takes a deep breath. “I don’t do it for the prize, Dad.”

The bright lights of the arena illuminate Leon’s face. His lips grow into a smile. He trots out to the center of the arena, absorbing all the energy the audience is pouring into him. The title of “Champion Tournament Fighter” has never mattered to him, only to his father; the crowd’s adoration is all the reward he needs.

The way Leon engages with the crowd is captivating. Jumping up and down, punching the air, blowing kisses-- he’s bold and unafraid to get them excited. He flashes a bright smile to Amiran when their gazes meet. The two are familiar with one another; but most everyone is familiar with Leon to begin with. The feedback of the announcer’s microphone silences some of the crowd.

“Let’s get our first fight of the finals going, shall we?” she shouts. “Now, I’m sure you’re all aware with our game, but for those of you tuning in from home, we’ll give you a rundown.”

Leon continues to entertain the crowd. He’s thankful his father isn’t in the stands, but it’s only a matter of moments until he emerges to monitor his son’s performance. “Tournament Fighting is a bionics-only sport where teams, or sole individuals, go toe to toe in the arena. Teams are best three out of four, solos are best two out of three. Each round of competition has randomly chosen parameters that dictate the nature of the fight.”

Amiran stretches his arms behind his back. “Eat a good breakfast?” he asks Leon.

“Oh, for sure,” he responds amicably. “They really don’t waste a dime getting these nice hotels to host us.”

“I take it you don’t need it anyway. You feed your ego enough to keep you satisfied for weeks.”

The announcer continues. “In the ring we have New York’s golden boy and a young man with, quite literally, a backbone made for this sport. He qualified in second, breaking a long streak of firsts, but let’s see if he can make up for it here, in the finals. Everyone, please welcome Amiran Marcello!”

The audience cheers. Amiran waves humbly and bows to the audience. His spine is strong, almost unbreakable, and his character reflects that; his modesty in social settings is made up for in his no-holds-barred combat style.

“On the opposing side, we have everyone’s favorite crowd-pleaser. Reigning champion of the Carolinas. Taekwondo blackbelt at age 12. Beautiful bionic arm and a beautiful face to match!”

Leon rolls his eyes playfully and rakes his hair back with his right hand. With his combat accolades and the deep black arm with its blue accents, he has the most iconic look in the arena.

“He knows how to bring the audience up and take his opponent down. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Leon Anastasio!”

The crowd roars with exhilaration. Leon breathes it all in. Twenty-two years as his father’s son, and an audience of strangers is the only place he truly feels like he’s making someone proud. He spreads his arms out to the sides and bows gracefully. The referee blows his whistle.

“Anastasio, Marcello, the parameters for your matches are as follows: unarmed combat, melee weapons, and platform knockout,” he shouts. “When the buzzer sounds, the fight begins!”