Data broke in waves against the caged arena like high tide. Nuri’s green eye collected the feed, harvested it from the nanotech swimming in the crowd’s guts.
The women in the cage each bent, tensed, muscles corded, instructions from the chittering cortex rigs on their backs cracking through them like whips. They stalked each other like lionesses. Nuri and Marquez could see changes in the vitals, brainwaves, could see the enhancements spinning up and bodies overworking to compensate.
They’d been given ring names. Mojave, or at least his voice, called out each as she’d entered the ring. One with a red rig on her back grew claws. She was Bastet. Curved, braced titanium between each knuckle, enhanced speed. Bastet launched herself at Fury, a tattooed girl, green rig, with spiking adrenaline and strength bursts. Fury was sweating bullets and looking everywhere at once. She caught Bastet in mid-air and slammed her to the ground in a fluid motion. For a split second Fu