Niko was going to be late to his first night at the critique group despite his best efforts. He’d mapped out the route using the Bay City Transit website but the BCT overestimated his speed on the bike. And he underestimated the percentage chance of getting a call right before he needed to leave to ride to the train station.

Then there was the drode he cycled, the first one, in a long, long time.

It was a laundromat near South Valley City’s municipal rose garden. He found a faulty drode in a washing machine, so he replaced it, but the owner of the laundromat got chatty. Leaving that conversation felt like swimming with anvils tied to his feet.

When Niko got back into the Pig, he held the faulty drode in a container. The daemon still carried a charge. It was probably a five-dollar drode, child’s play, and not functional. Instead of taking it back home, however, Niko placed his hand over the Whitney. He then drew the drode into him. The vape had opened his prana channels, and his core was stronger, more flexible. Still, when he cycled the drode into his core, it felt icy, uncomfortable, and he grew nauseous. He was already late, but all he could do was close his eyes, focus on his breath, and slowly let his system get used to the new prana.

The drode might not be faulty where circuits were concerned but it added a bit of strength to Niko’s core. It would take a good twelve hours to cycle through all the energy, mostly because he was so out of shape. It might slow him down at the critique group. Fine. He wasn’t there to impress anyone, only he was.

Pete had said it—Niko liked an audience.

Feeling sick to his stomach, he drove the Pig back to the Fit-It Shoppe, got his bike, and then hustled off, bouncing over the sidewalk, on his way to the BTC train station which would take him up to Bay City. It took a little over an hour just to get to downtown.

He slid his bike in the holders inside the train and took a seat. He had his satchel, filled with his Artist robes, an apple, a sausage, and some dried crystalized ginger.

He didn’t try to eat, not with the drode, and the waves of nausea. He could imagine him finally getting to the critique group and puking during his first fight. That sure would impress the hell of them.

He cycled his prana in five-minute increments, reciting the Duodecim—Sanguine, two, three, four. Masonry, two, three, four, all the way to twelve. He sat with his hands folded in his lap. The people around him would know what he was doing, but others were doing the same. He didn’t stick out.

He rested for fifteen minutes between cycling. He’d tell his parents he cycled the level-one drode. They wouldn’t be upset. And if they wanted, they could dock him five dollars. Mamo would. Tato would grin at him. Why was his father so gung-ho about him fighting again?

He couldn’t vape on the train, which was fine, because he hated how that made him feel. It was like he was pouring Diet Mountain Dew directly into his lungs. He’d finally get a few breaths in before his stomach ached as his prana processed the chemicals. That was more pain, less nausea. Yay.

He preferred the pain. Wanting to throw up made him feel weak, whereas the pain felt more normal.

The minute the train stopped at the Bay City terminal, he grabbed his bike, and shuffled down through the line of people getting off. Then down steps until he found pavement. At least he wasn’t feeling so sick anymore. But trying to cycle the drode on his first night probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had.

It was 6:30. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t a half an hour late.

He flung himself on his pedals, dodged a slow-moving Chinese woman, and then hit the streets, working his legs furiously. The sidewalks were packed. He’d have to take the streets. He wasn’t alone. A dozen other people were on bicycles, and they made a good strong presence, so they wouldn’t be run over by a car, a bus, or even an old trolley car. Bay City was famous for their trollies.

He pulled up to the seafood warehouse at 7:10, covered in sweat, breathing hard. He was so out of shape. Thank you, Dr. Wochick, for pointing out the obvious. No more snickerdoodles for Niko.

He locked up his bike, took a deep breath, and then went around to the side of the big building. Yes, he smelled fish, but mostly, he smelled the bay waters, and the sweet cotton candy and the popcorn from the Pier 39 down the way.

Bay City did have a booming tourist industry.

A handwritten sign on a gate said, The Premiers Critique Group, in big red letters. It was on official BCBA stationary, since this was a Bay City Battle Artist group. The BCBA was a non-profit organization that held quarterly fights through the year at several different local venues. They encouraged Artists at every level and were completely separate from the League of Battle Artists.

The door squeaked as Niko pushed through.

It was an open space, near the loading docks of a seafood warehouse, however, the hundred-and-forty-four tiles were there on the asphalt, with the twelve signs of the Zodiac on them. Big sodium lights glared down off poles, giving them light as the sun set. A big iron gate lay on the other side, showing a number of boats docked to a long pier extending out onto the water.

Two women were fighting on the tiles, one blonde and middle age, thick around the middle, but moving gracefully. The other was younger, probably around Niko’s age, tall and thin. Both fought with weapons.

The middle-age woman’s copper-colored staff was more manifested; most likely she was metallurgist. The other woman’s sword was more indistinct, a Radiance’s weapon, shining and silvery. The weapons clashed, low, then high, as the pair moved across the space.

By the loading docks themselves were the rest of the class:

A black man in his thirties, standing with arms crossed

An Asian woman near him, frowning as the pair fought.

And a tall, thick man, with a beard. Well, a neck beard to be precise. He was frowning as well.

They all wore white Artist robes, practice robes, cinched with a simple brown leather belt. He had no clue what belts they had. That would make it harder to spar, since he wasn’t sure how advanced they were. Asking wouldn’t be appropriate.

“Diana, Marjory, stop!” Neck Bead commanded. “Artists to their corners.”

Both retreated to opposite corners, the young woman by the iron gate. Her silver sword faded away. She looked relieved. The middle-aged Artist walked next to Niko, gripping her staff, like it was nothing to keep her prana so manifested. “We start at seven.”

The black man laughed. “Marjory, cut him some slack. He doesn’t know the rules just yet.”

Neck Beard came over and stuck out a big meaty hand. “So, you’re the new guy. Andrew said he’d try to make it, but you know, AJC is a busy man. Barton should be here any time now.”

Niko loved hearing those names. This was a legit critique group. He was lucky to be standing there, and he felt it, keenly. He shook the man’s hand “Thanks. I’m so sorry I was late. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” The big man shook away their handshake. “I’m Timothy Cooper. Timothy. Not Tim. And you’re Nikodemus? Last name something with a ‘k’?”

“Kowalczyk. Niko is fine.”

“Uh uh.” Tim introduced the others. Diana, Marjory, the black man was Henry, and the Asian woman was Seo-yun.

“Seo Flames,” she insisted.

“We’re just doing our real names. Goddamn, everyone wants to use their stage name, and it gets confusing,” Timothy was obviously in charge. “Normally, we don’t ask new people to fight, but we’re all curious. You came highly recommended.” His smirk had a smarmy edge to it.

Niko didn’t care. He’d survived a visit to Wochick’s. He could deal with Timothy.

“No,” Niko said, “I want to fight. It’s why I’m here. I’m a little rusty, but I’ll get better. With your help.”

Finally, Timothy smiled. “That’s the exact right attitude to help. We’re serious about this, and if you have thin skin, or if you can’t take criticism, there’s the door.”

Niko dropped his bag. “I won’t need it. I grew up fighting. I know how it works.” Mostly, that was true. He’d had some coaches in his life that liked the hard-ass approach. He wasn’t sure how effective that was, but he wasn’t going to run home weeping.

“Oh, a veteran,” Henry said with a laugh. “Hear that, Marjory? He grew up fighting.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I can just watch. Diana and Marjory were already in a fight. They can continue.”

“Oh, so we have your permission?” Marjory asked sharply.

Timothy raised a hand. “He didn’t mean it like that.” He kept his eyes on Niko. “We’ll see what you can do. You can have your pick. I’m a Sanguine, Marjory is Metallurgy, Diana is Radiance, Henry is Sunfire, and Seo-yun is a cusp, Sunfire into Gravitas.”

“She’s trying to do both,” Marjory said with some distaste.

‘I’m a cusp. Quintessence into Luna,” Niko offered. “But I’m only focusing on Quintessence.”

“Smart.” Timothy turned. “So pick someone. We’re all ready.”

Niko considered his options. Timothy was probably the worst choice, since his sign was at its zenith. They had tiles, but they didn’t have an Arena Master, so the energy couldn’t be switched. Challenging the leader might be the best way to go. Also, Niko wouldn’t have to worry about weapons. If only he hadn’t lost a belt. Then he’d have his First and Second Studies. He let go of the regret. Already, his little bit of meditation was helping him.

The Pranad said, For the Artist, there is no yesterday and there is no tomorrow. There is only the eternal now. Truth is in the moment. All else is a lie.

“I’ll pick you, Timothy,” Niko said.

“You will pick me?” The big man eyed him. “There is no yesterday, and there is no tomorrow.”

It was semantics. Niko played along. “I pick you. Should I change?”

“Should you?” Timothy asked.

Niko only had his black fighting robes and his Mercury belt. He didn’t want to reveal how weak he was. Again, semantics. He’d have to watch what he said.

“I’m fine fighting in jeans.” Niko walked to the edge of the tiles. They’d been recently cleaned, so they were bright white against the asphalt of the parking lot. He sat down and took off his jeans. “The tiles are nice. And they look permanent.”

Timothy reached up to stretch out his shoulders and back. He bent forward to lengthen his hamstrings. “Barton and Andrew bought them for us. I think Barton is half-owner of the warehouse.”

Marjory final let her copper staff disappear. She and Diana joined the others by the dock.

Niko stood on the southeast corner of the tiles. All eyes were on him. He liked it.

Timothy went to the opposite corner. “Marjory, call it.”

She came forward.

“Minds sharp?”

“Yes.”

“Souls strong?”

“Yes.”

“Let the Artistry commence!”

Niko had no idea what belt Timothy had. But he expected the big man to come out brawling. Sanguines usually loaded up their melee abilities first.

Niko was mistaken.

Timothy flung his head forward. A flash of prana, gold-colored, rocketed toward Niko, catching him off guard. The energy struck him in the face. He had no idea what his sharira levels were. It didn’t matter. The blow rang his bell.

Timothy had thrown a Third Study ability, Head Butt, at him, so there was a good chance he was at least a Venus Belt. Which mean Niko had to be careful. Another hit would drop him.

Timothy barreled forward.

Niko danced forward, feinting left, then right. He lashed out with a foot. Timothy shoved it down, hard. A sharp knife of pain spiked into Niko’s foot. He backed away.

Timothy struck, throwing punches, each blurring with energy. If Niko tried to block them, he might end up with a broken arm. Timothy wasn’t pulling punches, not a single one. Instead, Niko dodged them, ducked back, but didn’t attack.

Timothy turned his head to the side and hurled more energy at him. This time, Niko could see ram horns forming in the energy. He leaned away, letting the energy roar past him.

There was no way he was going to win. He wanted to land at least one punch, though, so he could walk away with some dignity. Getting close to Timothy was going to be rough. He had the first Studies of Sanguine, definitely, which confirmed Niko’s suspicions that he was a Venus Belt. Ram Strength. Ram Speed. And Head Butt.

Niko sprinted forward, igniting Twin Damage, and letting Timothy see exactly what he was doing. The Sanguine Artist was fast enough to block his real fist, and one of his prana hands, but the third fist drove home into Timothy’s face.

It wasn’t nearly good enough to do much damage.

Timothy reared back and clocked Niko in the face. He was sent down to the clean tiles, his hand striking the smooth surface.

Timothy wiped at his nose. No blood. There wouldn’t be. The Sanguine had prana coursing through his entire body, toughening every cell.

Niko, though, felt the salty warmth spill down his top lip and into his mouth. He stood, turned, and spit it onto the pavement beside the tiles.

Marjory called out, “Timothy wins!”

“How’d I do?” Niko asked.

Everyone burst out laughing. Timothy sobered first. “Okay, who wants to critique Niko K.?”

All their hands shot up.

The gate creaked open. Barton Hennessey himself entered. He was going to hear every word as the critique group tore Niko apart.