Raga was tall, roughly the same height as Arthur. Brown hair. A light scruff as a beard. Blue eyes and an odd triangular face. An average build, but he wasn't skinny and had broad shoulders. A raincoat and loose black pants.
A slightly crooked nose and faint bruises from hard sparring stood out—Raga had been a fighter in Cask's gym far longer than Arthur.
Arthur nodded at him, packing up his gloves into his designated locker, taking a quick shower at the bathroom stalls and putting on a fresh set of clothes he'd taken with him.
He came out to see Raga conversing with Coach Cask.
Raga putting on his usual smile that seemed etched onto his face. Always smiling, he was.
"...better now, coach. Thanks for askin'." Raga said. His voice was deep, laced with the Aussie accent. "I'll tell her you said hi."
His gaze fell on Arthur.
Coach Cask was looking at him too, now.
"You be careful around this one," he said to Arthur, grabbing Raga by the arm and tugging at him playfully. "He pissed away his championship potential by drinking and sleeping with broads. Lost a fight he could'a won in his sleep."
"C'mon, coach," Raga protested, smiling. "It was just the one broad—and she's my wife now."
Coach was unamused. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not gettin' over it. Where're you two going?" He paused and shook his head. "Nevermind, don't tell me. Just be safe."
"Will do, coach," Raga said with a raised fist.
Coach Cask walked away, but paused and gave Arthur a glance. "And Artie?"
"Yeah?"
"Give me an answer by the end of this month, son."
"Will do, coach."
Coach Cask nodded at the both of them and walked away to a junior fighter working the heavy bag, uttering heavy words of critique mixed with curses.
Raga walked out and Arthur followed him behind.
"You got your iron?" Raga looked at Arthur and asked.
"Always," Arthur responded.
Raga slapped him on the back. "Good man."
The two left the building and faced the morning sun.
Outside, the air was humid. Hot. Sunshine made the asphalt glimmer in the heat. The high-rise buildings were mere silhouettes—aside from the holograms and colorful adverts.
The city seemed docile. Like a machine without charge. It was like that during the day. Cars drove through the street mundanely. Traffic wasn't so heavy today.
In the parking lot, the pair arrived to a sedan that Raga had ignited with the push of a keyfob. Not a pretty car, but not ugly—a Juano Ultima, with its cursive J etched on the hood of the car.
"What answer did Coach want?" Raga pulled his car door open and sat in.
Arthur did the same. He gave a reserved answer. Privacy was valuable, and Raga and him weren't exactly friends—more like coworkers.
"What else? Asked me to fight for him."
"Go pro, you mean?"
"Something like that." Arthur took in the interior. It was decent, but having sat in a Vilero, his standard of cars had gone far above his budget and reach.
Smell was cigarette smoke mixed with mint air freshener hanging from the rear mirror. The dashboard was analog—a rev counter and a fuel gauge running low.
The instrumental panel consisted of a small screen in the center above a row of buttons controlling the AC and whatnot.
Car was automatic, judging by the stickshift lined across a set of letters. Seats were a touch torn, but comfortable otherwise.
"You don't wanna go pro?" Raga asked curiously. Awfully talkative today.
"Not sure yet. Besides, I'm a merc now." A killer. "And I'm already in trouble with the Jack Boys. I don't want to start chit I can't finish."
"If you're worried about anonymity, there's a simple fix." Raga put the car in drive and eased into the street. "You can go by an alias, ask the SCBF staff to hook you up with a Fask. They'll do that no problem. Gives them a character to promote."
Fask was lingo for Face Mask. No, not a face mask you wear to cover your cough or facial herpes—but an actual face that can be designed, shaped and fitted on your head, seamlessly altering your appearance. Quite expensive.
Arthur put it in the back of his mind. "I'll think about it."
"Ey man, if you're ever in need of a crewman, I'm there. Besides, it pays way more than what we've got goin' on. At least, in the big leagues."
Arthur said nothing, stared out the window. "How long you been a merc?" he asked Raga.
"Well… three, no, four years, now."
"Why'd you start?" Arthur asked.
"Money, mate." Raga smiled and turned a left. Isn't that the truth. "It's always money. Just found the right girl, wanted to spend my life with her. I wanted to make that life worth living, y'know? Can't if I stay a broke bloke."
"Uh-huh," Arthur said, then asked: "You like this line of work?"
Raga just smiled. "Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. Why does it matter, mate? I still do it. I have to."
Arthur didn't have much of a response there. People did things to survive. Yes. To survive. Can't blame a hungry man for stealing food.
The rest of the ride was quiet. Arthur tapped into his feed, scrolled through Instagram and watched boxing clips, tutorials, new ground-breaking unaffordable tech, shootouts in poverty-ridden districts and movie snippets.
His mind slipped and he fell asleep, just to jolt awake when Raga nudged him by the shoulder.
"Woah, calm there, mate." Raga smiled calmingly. "You a'right? Didn't mean to spook ya."
"Yeah." Arthur caught his breath. "I'm good."
He looked around. They were outside at Nino's Nightclub, the street and alleyway strangely quiet compared to the previous night.
"We waiting on someone?" Arthur asked.
"Yeah. Two more for this job. You didn't think we'd walk into a notorious gang hideout with just you and me, did you?"
Arthur paused. "Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't."
Raga laughed.
From the club entrance, two figures emerged.
The first looked had black piercings on his ears. Little glass stones. Long black hair tied to a bun. Soft brown eyes. Saber-like brows. Long nose. Tall. A head taller than Raga and Arthur. Muscular, too. An intricate polynesian tattoo on his bottom lip.
His left arm was corded with lines that resembled veins, but upon closer examination, were too straight and unnatural to be. A biomechanical implant, then. It seemed larger than his right arm.
The second was an Asian man.
Square jaw. Black hair trimmed short. Thin eyebrows. Short but muscular. He wore all black, dressed like a minimalist with his plain softshell tactical jacket with a hoodie cover and sweatpants.
Something about his eyes made Arthur cautious.
"Guy with the Goon Arm—don't call it that in front of him—is Kai. Don't let his looks intimidate you. Second one…" Raga stopped smiling, his face deadly serious. "He's Grim. A fruckin' psychopath."