Prying Eyes

Rumors of Jury's defeat at the hands of a newcomer spread like wildfire. Whispers filled the facility—some insisted the fight was rigged for a crooked payday, while others were electrified by the upset, praising the raw spectacle.

Regardless of the opinion, all eyes followed Spark as she emerged from the arena. Orion was right behind her, with D-Mo quickly moving to support Spark's unsteady frame. Together, they guided her toward The Plant's makeshift repair bay.

"That was insane, Spark! Absolutely insane!" Orion said, his voice a mix of awe and barely contained panic. "You didn't tell anyone you signed up! What were you thinking?!"

Spark, unfazed, shrugged the question off. "Did you see how bright that bolt was at the end? Firelight's definitely going to show up to congratulate me any second now."

She looked around confused, and then spoke softer. "Any second..."

She glanced around, a flicker of confusion crossing her face, then spoke more softly. "Any second now…"

Orion decided it wasn't worth pushing her further. Spark never answered the question asked—only the one running through her mind at the time.

When they arrived at the workshop, a full repair crew was already waiting. They moved with such practiced precision it resembled a pit stop at a race track. Despite their speed, the repairs would still take time.

Orion stayed close, watching every move with a sharp eye. He didn't trust easily, and the crew's seamless professionalism only made him more cautious. Everything here felt out of place—the workshop was clean, high-end, and efficient. Nothing like the rest of The Plant. No rust. No scraps. No shortcuts.

"…But why would Jury go through the trouble of getting patched up by Arthur?" Orion muttered, just loud enough for D-Mo to hear.

"I don't like this, D-Mo. Not one bit," he added, his voice growing firmer. "We get the money, and we're out. No big displays, no lasting impressions. Just win and walk." He exhaled hard. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on Spark—much as I'd like to see you in action."

D-Mo gave a nod and started toward the arena.

"Give them hell!" Orion called after her.

She raised a fist in acknowledgment, not looking back. But beneath her steady exterior, doubt gnawed at her. She was facing another Phantom Class, and after seeing what Spark had pulled off… she wasn't sure she could measure up.

Phantoms had always been the wild cards. You could count on an Enchanter to be twitchy and erratic. Hounds were cold, tactical, and built like bunkers. But Phantoms? They were unpredictable by design. She was proof enough of that.

The announcer's voice blared through the speakers: "Here we go, folks! The second ArchTek showpiece of the day. You're in for some top-tier carnage—make some noise for Warden!"

D-Mo entered the arena without theatrics or showmanship. The crowd responded in kind—mild applause. Nothing compared to what followed.

"And facing her, the reigning queen of catastrophic losses! You know her, you pity her, you love to see her get flattened—give it up for Siren!"

The crowd erupted in a blend of laughter and boos as Siren made her entrance. She approached D-Mo with a sluggish gait, her frame barely holding together—more scrap than soldier. If she carried any spell cartridges, they were likely more of a threat to her than anyone else in her current condition.

It was clear what the crowd wanted: a spectacle of cruelty. They didn't come to see a fair fight—they came to see someone get torn apart. At least one Phantom trait held true: the element of surprise.

The starting signal echoed across the arena. Siren moved first.

D-Mo didn't see the attack—she felt it. A pulse of sound, low and overwhelming, crashed into her like a tidal wave. Her chassis vibrated as though something had reached inside and struck her core.

It didn't harm her—but it didn't have to. In that moment, D-Mo realized: Siren wasn't engineered for Unit-on-Unit combat. That kind of sonic assault would've incapacitated an entire crowd in seconds—rendering them deaf, disoriented, and defenseless.

She was made to hunt humans.

D-Mo couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for whatever chain of misfortune had dragged Siren into the arena. But sympathy wouldn't change the fact that she herself was barely staying afloat. She pressed forward, step by step, as the ongoing sonic assault buzzed against her chassis. The closer she got, the more intense the vibrations became, slowing her movements with every pace.

And then she noticed it—a fraction of a second too late.

A trap, hidden in plain sight between them. Siren had baited her in. The ground erupted beneath D-Mo, the blast drawing a gasp of surprise from the crowd as dust and debris filled the air.

Siren leaned forward looking through the settling haze, searching for any sign of movement. D-Mo was nowhere to be seen.

"Did... Did I actually get her?" she asked, half in disbelief.

A moment later, a crushing impact landed against her shoulder, severing her arm in a single, brutal strike. Siren didn't even see D-Mo move—only felt the aftermath.

Siren turned to face D-Mo, only to be met with a blow from her enchanter-charged knuckles slamming into her visor. But it did no real damage—just sent her spinning.

She crashed face-first beside her severed arm. It wasn't destroyed—just detached.

Without hesitation, D-Mo placed a hand against the back of Siren's head and discharged a surge of energy through her system, short-circuiting her body and bringing the fight to a swift end.

The crowd erupted in boos and curses, hurling trash into the arena in protest. This was their response to mercy. But D-Mo didn't flinch. She knew no one had bet on Siren—at worst, the audience lost nothing. At best, they were just angry they didn't get the carnage they came for.

She hoisted Siren up by her remaining arm and slung her over her shoulder. The crowd reacted with even more contempt.

"You're different," Siren murmured.

D-Mo waved her free hand dismissively, uninterested in conversation.

"It took me a while to recognize you. You've changed so much since we first met ten months ago. But it's you—"

SPELL CONTAINMENT UNIT

D-M0