Grizz entered the pit. Stripped his coat— scrap plating and hydraulics, all crude and heavy. The fighter was faster. Newer augments. But Grizz knew how to take hits, how to wait, how to break things that thought they were unbreakable. It was brutal, but it felt wrong to watch someone fight like they'd already accepted dying. The crowd loved it. Grizz won. He collapsed after.
Got him back to the workshop. Blood and hydraulic fluid everywhere. His spine was grinding, nerve dampeners fried, plating cracked. Hours of work ahead. Twitch hovered, anxious. "I can do this," I said. Grizz looked at me through pain-glazed eyes. "Yeah. You can." Trust. I started with the spine, hands steadier then my heart. He didn't make a sound.
Three hours in, Grizz finally spoke. "Fought there for years. Built that place in Groundside with the money." His voice was rough. "Got tired of being a thing people bet on."
"You're not a thing."
He laughed, bitter. "Sure I am. We all are down here."
Quiet for a moment. Then, "You're good at this. Taking care of broken things."
Something in my chest tightened.
Beginning memory fragment recovery. Neural pattern scan complete. Archival process initiated. Subject memories will be restored in reverse chronological order. Degradation detected. Restoration accuracy: variable.
Stand by.