==February 13, 2096, 8h
Transcript from LBC Communications, Inc.
Hello, and welcome to LBC News at 8. I'm Eliza Laim.
And I'm Kathy Kijap. World Aeronautics and Robotics showcased the second and third matches of their Mantis Project today, and we've got some highlights for you.
The first fight was between two mysterious individuals outside of WAR: a man named Trent, who apparently has no last name, and "Jane Doe", who is not allowed to divulge her identity under her contract from the Systex Corporation. In this clip, Jane Doe is the familiar human-shaped Jaguar on the right, while Trent uses a construction-oriented model called Flail. As you can see, the Flail has wheels instead of legs and two industrial-strength chains attached to the shoulders, so a pilot must use completely different tactics to defeat it. This gave Trent the advantage, allowing him to land several free hits with his chains, and although Jane Doe fought well, she was simply outclassed. Systex may have to reevaluate its decision to use only Jaguars for its security jobs!
In our second fight, Dr. Ibrahim Hothe, WAR's lead robot designer, used his intimate knowledge of the Jaguar and amazing endurance to defeat the Electra of space station designer Evan Stevens. Dr. Hothe simply parried every attack and made a few decisive strikes with his concussion cannon, knocking Stevens out of the fight for good.
This sure is shaping up to be an interesting tournament, Kathy. Every fighter has displayed impressive knowledge of both traditional martial arts and HAR strategy. The final championships are going to be something nobody will want to miss.
I couldn't agree more. Actually, WAR's effort may have some competition in the popularity area, with the newest toy craze sweeping the nation...
==February 14, 2096, 11h
Absentmindedly giving the driver a tip, Trent stepped out of the taxi in front of one of the less impressive buildings in New York City. It looked just like any other monolithic, soulless skyscraper, rows upon rows of glass windows rising to the sky topped by a microwave receptor and satellite array; its most distinguishing feature was that it sported no gaudy corporate logo on the fortieth floor. The building actually housed several tiny companies on the lowest floors, none of them aware that above them lurked the headquarters of the infamous mercenary band Iron Fist. The run-down factory and smoky back rooms of the 20th-century cowboy days had given way to the insidious spider in its ultramodern web. Trent gulped, then remembered what he was doing this for: if he couldn't win the Mantis Project, he had no chance of ever recovering his real identity. Steeled by this reaffirmation of purpose, he strolled in casually.
Trent told the elevator to go all the way to the fortieth floor, and was impressed when it dumped him out on the twenty-ninth: he didn't think the mercenaries had enough equipment to determine his identity before the elevator had finished ascending. Confident the secretary had been informed of his status, he strolled in and confronted her behind a genuine fir desk and abstract art, in keeping with the general slick opulence of Iron Fist's operation. He looked at her, then did a double take: from his research, the hawklike black features, solid blue contact lenses, and distracted air could only mean he was facing Pandora Carlson, one of the world's most notorious hackers-for-hire. I thought she was one of Iron Fist's best operatives, Trent thought confusedly. Why is she out here where I could kill her easily?
Pandora looked at him with a fixed stare made all the more unnerving by the all-blue lenses. Her "You are Trent?" sounded more like a statement of fact than a question, and as she stepped out from behind the desk, the accompaniment of "Give me your weapons!" made it plain that she could hardly care less about him; she was simply doing her job the most efficient way possible.
Deciding to make the most of the situation, the warrior handed over his small pulse gun, then asked jokingly, "What's a smart girl like you doing in a place like this?" Trent then proceeded to be surprised as Pandora gave him a reassuring, most un-mercenarylike smile and ushered him through an innocuous-looking door reading "Office of the Coordinator, Do Not Disturb." The door closed behind him, a camera built into the wall whirred to focus on him, and Trent stood before some of the most notorious criminals on the planet Earth.
His research had told him the general identity of the members of Iron Fist's fabled Inner Circle, but this was the first time he had ever seen any of them. As he took his seat at one end of a long rectangular table, a range of extremes confronted him. On his left sat a man almost as big as he, with an ugly disposition, a look of hard labor or prison camps, and a twisted cross of tungsten around his neck: Edwin Farlane, the weapons and demolition expert, nicknamed "Brimstone" for his fascination with destruction and his fanatical anarchist beliefs. This spitting image of the street tough, down to the beetle brows and cheap suit, glared at him and studied him with keen, evil eyes, obviously sizing up his ability if he attempted to double-cross or physically overpower the mercenary band.
To his right was the arrogant cyborg Steel Claw, whose once-handsome features were marred by slate-gray cybernetic implants. The bionic man eyed Trent disapprovingly, no doubt comparing his purported genetic superiority with his own ultrafast robotic mind. Steel Claw was the resident HAR expert, infamous for the time he took out an entire space station in a single HAR, using the engines he wrecked to propel himself to the next target. Trent looked into the cybernetic visor and was met by a formidable warrior, one who had no scruples to go along with his might and thus one who fit right in as a mercenary, doing the jobs that would send lesser crooks scurrying. Trent resisted the temptation to push away from the chair, refusing to let the others see his moment of doubt, and repeated the litany: This is my last chance. If I lose, I'll never know my identity. These people can help me.
The chair across from him was especially high-backed, and as it swung around to face Trent, Brimstone and Steel Claw, the lights dimmed for a moment. Then the occupant of the head seat was revealed: the face confronting Trent and the two mercenaries was that of Eliza Laim, junior news anchor for LBC.
Trent was stunned into silence. This just can't be true, he thought. There must be some trick, a stunt double or face alteration. Ms. Laim doesn't have the time to run a news show and a mercenary syndicate without someone suspecting. He glanced at Steel Claw to see the cyborg's reaction (faintly amused under the visor), and caught it, just for an instant, out of the corner of his eye: a flicker of chair back where Eliza should have been. He whirled back around to face her, an exultant look in his eyes. "A hologram! That's how you can lead a double life, you've never really left LBC headquarters!"
The hologram nodded in approval. "Congratulations," she said, "even Brimstone here didn't catch it as fast as you did." Her tone changed, taking on a bemused air, as she continued, "But then again, you're Lang's pet superman, right?"
Now Trent was sure of her identity: she could be none other than Iron Fist's supreme commander, known to international authorities as "The Talon". "Get on with it", Trent said. "You must know why I'm here."
"Very well", came the reply, "I shall explain. You do nothing but train for the Mantis Project, so you must be asking for our help in that area. You don't have the cash for more than a small job, so you must have a specific person you want us to deal with. The three logical choices are Ibrahim Hothe, Raven Menaza, and Jonus Augardi. So which one?"
"Dr. Hothe, of course. The other two don't have any experience in HARs, so they won't be expecting my Flail, but WAR's head robot designer knows all my tricks already." Trent shot a glance at Steel Claw, saw the silent assent on the cyborg's face, confirmation of his assessment of the competition. The topic had already passed Brimstone's area of expertise, and Laim's holographic projection remained emotionless as ever.
The Talon (Trent could no longer think of her as Eliza Laim) was quick to respond. "If you do win, you will be indebted to us. It would cause a scandal if the public ever knew how you really won. This, combined with your precocious fighting talent, makes you useful to Iron Fist. I accept your deal.
"Under the rules of the tournament, anyone can issue a public challenge to a competitor, even someone who is not participating himself. Dr. Hothe's pride will not allow him to refuse such a challenge from our operative here, Steel Claw. Hothe will be defeated and thus out of the tournament. Those in the know will fear Iron Fist the more; the public will know nothing."
Steel Claw sat up in his seat and nodded his acceptance of the mission. "Don't worry, Trent, I won't lose. You may, but that's your problem." The callous words were accompanied by a smile calculated to chill the marrow of Trent's bones, making abundantly clear that this cyborg was no one to be trifled with. Obviously, the cyborg was used to intimidating clients; by contrast, "Brimstone" across from him reclined with the ease of someone confident in his superiority.
Trent steeled himself and nodded. "Take the requisite fees from my account," he said, "I'm sure your hacker friend outside will have no problems." The door opened behind him, another sign that the Talon had no problem predicting him. He preferred to get as far away as he could before she learned anything more.
Pandora looked up from her desk to give him another small smile, her disturbing all-blue contact lenses reading nothing but sympathy. "Don't worry," she said. "If the Talon wasn't the best, wouldn't we all be working for someone else?"
Trent retreated from the no longer innocuous office and took the elevator straight back to the lobby. I've got to take my mind off this, he thought, trying to reassure himself. With Steel Claw on the job, I'll win the day and then I'll find out who I really am. At last I will have my revenge.
Transcript from LBC Communications, Inc.
Hello, and welcome to LBC News at 8. I'm Eliza Laim.
And I'm Kathy Kijap. World Aeronautics and Robotics showcased the second and third matches of their Mantis Project today, and we've got some highlights for you.
The first fight was between two mysterious individuals outside of WAR: a man named Trent, who apparently has no last name, and "Jane Doe", who is not allowed to divulge her identity under her contract from the Systex Corporation. In this clip, Jane Doe is the familiar human-shaped Jaguar on the right, while Trent uses a construction-oriented model called Flail. As you can see, the Flail has wheels instead of legs and two industrial-strength chains attached to the shoulders, so a pilot must use completely different tactics to defeat it. This gave Trent the advantage, allowing him to land several free hits with his chains, and although Jane Doe fought well, she was simply outclassed. Systex may have to reevaluate its decision to use only Jaguars for its security jobs!
In our second fight, Dr. Ibrahim Hothe, WAR's lead robot designer, used his intimate knowledge of the Jaguar and amazing endurance to defeat the Electra of space station designer Evan Stevens. Dr. Hothe simply parried every attack and made a few decisive strikes with his concussion cannon, knocking Stevens out of the fight for good.
This sure is shaping up to be an interesting tournament, Kathy. Every fighter has displayed impressive knowledge of both traditional martial arts and HAR strategy. The final championships are going to be something nobody will want to miss.
I couldn't agree more. Actually, WAR's effort may have some competition in the popularity area, with the newest toy craze sweeping the nation...
==February 14, 2096, 11h
Absentmindedly giving the driver a tip, Trent stepped out of the taxi in front of one of the less impressive buildings in New York City. It looked just like any other monolithic, soulless skyscraper, rows upon rows of glass windows rising to the sky topped by a microwave receptor and satellite array; its most distinguishing feature was that it sported no gaudy corporate logo on the fortieth floor. The building actually housed several tiny companies on the lowest floors, none of them aware that above them lurked the headquarters of the infamous mercenary band Iron Fist. The run-down factory and smoky back rooms of the 20th-century cowboy days had given way to the insidious spider in its ultramodern web. Trent gulped, then remembered what he was doing this for: if he couldn't win the Mantis Project, he had no chance of ever recovering his real identity. Steeled by this reaffirmation of purpose, he strolled in casually.
Trent told the elevator to go all the way to the fortieth floor, and was impressed when it dumped him out on the twenty-ninth: he didn't think the mercenaries had enough equipment to determine his identity before the elevator had finished ascending. Confident the secretary had been informed of his status, he strolled in and confronted her behind a genuine fir desk and abstract art, in keeping with the general slick opulence of Iron Fist's operation. He looked at her, then did a double take: from his research, the hawklike black features, solid blue contact lenses, and distracted air could only mean he was facing Pandora Carlson, one of the world's most notorious hackers-for-hire. I thought she was one of Iron Fist's best operatives, Trent thought confusedly. Why is she out here where I could kill her easily?
Pandora looked at him with a fixed stare made all the more unnerving by the all-blue lenses. Her "You are Trent?" sounded more like a statement of fact than a question, and as she stepped out from behind the desk, the accompaniment of "Give me your weapons!" made it plain that she could hardly care less about him; she was simply doing her job the most efficient way possible.
Deciding to make the most of the situation, the warrior handed over his small pulse gun, then asked jokingly, "What's a smart girl like you doing in a place like this?" Trent then proceeded to be surprised as Pandora gave him a reassuring, most un-mercenarylike smile and ushered him through an innocuous-looking door reading "Office of the Coordinator, Do Not Disturb." The door closed behind him, a camera built into the wall whirred to focus on him, and Trent stood before some of the most notorious criminals on the planet Earth.
His research had told him the general identity of the members of Iron Fist's fabled Inner Circle, but this was the first time he had ever seen any of them. As he took his seat at one end of a long rectangular table, a range of extremes confronted him. On his left sat a man almost as big as he, with an ugly disposition, a look of hard labor or prison camps, and a twisted cross of tungsten around his neck: Edwin Farlane, the weapons and demolition expert, nicknamed "Brimstone" for his fascination with destruction and his fanatical anarchist beliefs. This spitting image of the street tough, down to the beetle brows and cheap suit, glared at him and studied him with keen, evil eyes, obviously sizing up his ability if he attempted to double-cross or physically overpower the mercenary band.
To his right was the arrogant cyborg Steel Claw, whose once-handsome features were marred by slate-gray cybernetic implants. The bionic man eyed Trent disapprovingly, no doubt comparing his purported genetic superiority with his own ultrafast robotic mind. Steel Claw was the resident HAR expert, infamous for the time he took out an entire space station in a single HAR, using the engines he wrecked to propel himself to the next target. Trent looked into the cybernetic visor and was met by a formidable warrior, one who had no scruples to go along with his might and thus one who fit right in as a mercenary, doing the jobs that would send lesser crooks scurrying. Trent resisted the temptation to push away from the chair, refusing to let the others see his moment of doubt, and repeated the litany: This is my last chance. If I lose, I'll never know my identity. These people can help me.
The chair across from him was especially high-backed, and as it swung around to face Trent, Brimstone and Steel Claw, the lights dimmed for a moment. Then the occupant of the head seat was revealed: the face confronting Trent and the two mercenaries was that of Eliza Laim, junior news anchor for LBC.
Trent was stunned into silence. This just can't be true, he thought. There must be some trick, a stunt double or face alteration. Ms. Laim doesn't have the time to run a news show and a mercenary syndicate without someone suspecting. He glanced at Steel Claw to see the cyborg's reaction (faintly amused under the visor), and caught it, just for an instant, out of the corner of his eye: a flicker of chair back where Eliza should have been. He whirled back around to face her, an exultant look in his eyes. "A hologram! That's how you can lead a double life, you've never really left LBC headquarters!"
The hologram nodded in approval. "Congratulations," she said, "even Brimstone here didn't catch it as fast as you did." Her tone changed, taking on a bemused air, as she continued, "But then again, you're Lang's pet superman, right?"
Now Trent was sure of her identity: she could be none other than Iron Fist's supreme commander, known to international authorities as "The Talon". "Get on with it", Trent said. "You must know why I'm here."
"Very well", came the reply, "I shall explain. You do nothing but train for the Mantis Project, so you must be asking for our help in that area. You don't have the cash for more than a small job, so you must have a specific person you want us to deal with. The three logical choices are Ibrahim Hothe, Raven Menaza, and Jonus Augardi. So which one?"
"Dr. Hothe, of course. The other two don't have any experience in HARs, so they won't be expecting my Flail, but WAR's head robot designer knows all my tricks already." Trent shot a glance at Steel Claw, saw the silent assent on the cyborg's face, confirmation of his assessment of the competition. The topic had already passed Brimstone's area of expertise, and Laim's holographic projection remained emotionless as ever.
The Talon (Trent could no longer think of her as Eliza Laim) was quick to respond. "If you do win, you will be indebted to us. It would cause a scandal if the public ever knew how you really won. This, combined with your precocious fighting talent, makes you useful to Iron Fist. I accept your deal.
"Under the rules of the tournament, anyone can issue a public challenge to a competitor, even someone who is not participating himself. Dr. Hothe's pride will not allow him to refuse such a challenge from our operative here, Steel Claw. Hothe will be defeated and thus out of the tournament. Those in the know will fear Iron Fist the more; the public will know nothing."
Steel Claw sat up in his seat and nodded his acceptance of the mission. "Don't worry, Trent, I won't lose. You may, but that's your problem." The callous words were accompanied by a smile calculated to chill the marrow of Trent's bones, making abundantly clear that this cyborg was no one to be trifled with. Obviously, the cyborg was used to intimidating clients; by contrast, "Brimstone" across from him reclined with the ease of someone confident in his superiority.
Trent steeled himself and nodded. "Take the requisite fees from my account," he said, "I'm sure your hacker friend outside will have no problems." The door opened behind him, another sign that the Talon had no problem predicting him. He preferred to get as far away as he could before she learned anything more.
Pandora looked up from her desk to give him another small smile, her disturbing all-blue contact lenses reading nothing but sympathy. "Don't worry," she said. "If the Talon wasn't the best, wouldn't we all be working for someone else?"
Trent retreated from the no longer innocuous office and took the elevator straight back to the lobby. I've got to take my mind off this, he thought, trying to reassure himself. With Steel Claw on the job, I'll win the day and then I'll find out who I really am. At last I will have my revenge.