1988

Rory chugged down half a gallon of ice water in a single breath before pouring the other half down his shoulders and back. The liquid cooled his heated metallic flesh, causing steam to rise and fill the air in the locker room. He let out a sigh as he felt his muscles relax.

The cry of spectators could be heard from out in the ring. They were making quite the hubbub. More than usual. Although the larger crowd had been expected in part, the nerves had caused a hard lump to form in his throat.

Rodeo Rory versus the Scotch Unicorn. It annoyed him that, despite every ounce of effort he had dedicated in the past month, he couldn't be more sure of his victory. In the face of a scrawny fairy horse, why was he the one squirming?

He had long since warmed up to life in the ring. He couldn't even remember how long it had been since he'd taken a loss. Of course he'd occasionally get requests through cybermail to throw a fight but that just made the bull rage harder.

"Rory!" His manager's voice rang from the hall. "Cucumber boy's here to see you."

Rory chuckled at the nickname that had been assigned to the gangly borg. Ever since the day he'd appeared in the lockers, the Hacker had been a constant presence around the ring. It was rare that the bull went a week without a sighting. Sometimes it would be from among the throngs of spectators, though quite often Rory would find him waiting after the last bout of the evening.

On these occasions, he would bring with him a collage of photographs ripped from the Deep Space press. Polaroids of borgs who hailed from the smaller rings around Cyberspace. Mt. Olympus, Happily Ever After, Gollywood; His expected opponents in the coming months.

No matter how fresh or unknown his manager would proclaim them to be, the Hacker would somehow find a way to track each of them down. His information was as reliable as it was detailed, so much so Rory had begun to doubt his sources were what he'd claimed. Deep Space reporters were a gutsy bunch, but generally more interested in their tabloid stories than collecting the pedantic figures the Hacker always provided with ease.

"Tell him I'll see him after the fight," he hollered, the sound of his voice ricocheting off the flimsy metallic walls. The only future combatant he was concerned about was the one he was about to face.

At a mere thousand pounds, the pixie horse should have been someone he could overpower with ease. But the memories of the unicorns that ran with him in the derby flashed through his mind and stopped him from assuming such straightforward victory. He recalled his muscles burning as they trotted effortlessly past him. If he were to give him a chance at victory, he had to play defensive for as long as possible. Shield his face and bide his time before launching a single hard hit that would knock the pixie off its feet and turn the tables.

The night before, while sleep played its elusive game, he found himself running over scenarios in his head, trying every move in his repertoire to see which would leave him least vulnerable to counterattack. The exercise had left him mentally paralyzed. His mind pitted against itself and found no more clarity than the jumble of thoughts it had begun with.

Before exiting the showers he snatched a bottle of petrolatum jelly from his locker. One of the tricks he'd picked up on the job; a scattering of petroleum to make it harder for his opponent to get a good grip. Though the brand was one the Hacker had provided him after assessing that the typical sauce wasn't strong enough to be absorbed by his unusually rough hide.

He'd popped the cap and was about to start applying it when the vegetable in question sauntered in, hands stuffed into the pockets of his white coat. Whether his manager had let him through unchallenged, despite Rory's request, or the borg had mastered his ability to bypass the stocky satyr, he wasn't certain.

"My round's about to start," he said, half as a reminder to himself and half to urge the business the borg has brought him along.

"And what a glorious battle we're in for," the borg said, airily.

"You sound confident. You know something I don't?"

"I've already told you all there is to know. The rest is your hands, my well sculpted friend."

Rory frowned. Part of him had hoped the borg's sudden arrival was for more than just shooting the breeze.

To an outsider his predicament seemed one where he had little to lose and everything to gain from this fight, but from Rory's perspective, that was anything but the case. Him coming as far as he had was only natural considering the renowned strength of the Minotaurs of old. He had practically been built to dominate.

Now that they were on the precipice, Hacker wasn't the only one who had snelfu signs in his eyes. This was Rory's chance to go from steady, to set for life. To support not only his young family, but the clan who had already faced so much hardship. If he lost after already coming so far, how could he face them?

Stepping out onto the ring was like emerging onto the brightest stage in Cyberspace. Beyond the lights that rained down on him from above, he could scarcely see the faces of the crowd. But the sound of their uproar gave him an idea as to the size of his audience. Though he supposed most of them had come instead to see his opponent. Someone who would put a dumb cow in its place.

The thought drew a hot puff of air from his nostrils.

"Gettin' ya whipped up into a wee frenzy already, laddie?" The unicorn cackled from his corner.

He was an older, bearded creature, who's overall appearance stood in stark contrast with his reputation. His squinty, muted eyes were almost inattentive.

"Save your strength for the fight. I've heard good things about you and I want a challenge."

Rory let out a grunt and retreated to his corner of the arena. The mouthy horse could pay for his remarks after he pounded him into sand.

By now, his eyes had fully adjusted and he could see the Hacker among the spectators closest to the stage. Both the borg's fists were clenched and raised in anticipation. Whatever his endgame, it seemed he too was depending on the Minotaur's victory.

Eyed locked with his opponent, Rory allowed his mind to drift home for a brief instant. He pictured himself beside a blazing fire with Mimi, together with the family of calves they hoped to raise together. Holding one another close during the dry and perilous winters. His village no longer needed to hope for a better tomorrow, as their future in Sensible Flats would forever be secure despite what any Judge had to say.

That was when the gong sounded.

The Scot made the first move, charging with such speed that Rory barely had time to blink before the point of a horn shot past his nose. In response, the bull flipped himself onto all fours, trying to put some distance between the two before his opponent could gear up another attack. His strategy yielded little as the Scot continued to come hot on his heels, forcing Rory back onto his hindlegs in order to parry with the backside of his arm.

As he staggered away, he felt a sharp stinging pain radiate from where the horn had made contact. Thanks to his thick hide, no cyberplasma had been drawn, though Rory didn't know how many blows he could take before the horn succeeded in penetrating. Had it been anyone else in the ring, a match to first pierce would have ended quickly with such a potent weapon of choice.

Rory could hear the triumphant boos from the audience even over the labored beats of his CPU. To some of the spectators, it didn't matter that the athlete on the other side was a fan favorite and nearly guaranteed payout for anyone who had put snelfus on him. They could not resist the opportunity to jeer.

Not letting even this show of support slow him down for a moment, the Scot charged at him again. This time, Rory anticipated his movements and was prepared to parry the attack with the back of his hoof. As anticipated, his blows were far more powerful than that of the spindly equine who found himself immobilized in his grasp.

The state was not held for long though as the Scot retreated and positioned himself to launch another strike. Before he could make this move, Rory was upon him, launching blows to the unicorn's ankles and thighs before pinning him to the ground.

"It's to first pierce, man-eater," the Scot spat. His wiry, smirking lips held a taunt as he wiggled away just enough to smack the side of Rory's face with his horn. The proximity of such a sharp object caused the bull to instinctively recoil.

His opponent, now free, lunged at him again, forcing him into a battle of dodges and parries. His own horns, much like his strategy, were built more for defensive purposes than for penetration. His victory had to be slow and methodical, which might have been easier if defeat wasn't always veering itself like a well sharpened kabob.

To his satisfaction, he realized his opponent's movements were slower than before. Either his blows had succeeded in sapping some of his strength or he was beginning to reach the limits of his stamina.

As the Scot came at him again, Rory launched an uppercut that struck him squarely underneath his jaw and sent him sprawling across the dirt. With his chance at victory flashing before his eyes, Rory swung his head back for momentum. One, quick headbutt to the nose would be enough to pop a tube that secured him his victory.

With his opponent still as a rock, he threw everything, his shoulders, back into a single downward blow, aiming for the unicorn's snout. He had hardly made it halfway before the horn was thrust through his face.

The pain was almost indescribable. The stinging sensation which radiated across the left half of his face left him paralyzed and barely conscious on the dusty ground of the ring. Faint shouting bounced back and forth around him. Although it was impossible to discern words, he managed to assign voices to people.

His manager, the referee and the onsite mechanic, running around in a disordered panic, all while a high pitched alarm passed in violent waves through his head. The blares he recognized as part of his body's automatic emergency response. He must have been in pretty bad shape.

That little fairy horse. He had fought dirty.

Rory continued slipping in and out of consciousness as his body was suspended in the air and carried out of the ring. He wasn't sure at what point he was set down again, only that when he finally drifted back to the surface, his back was against something solid.

"Rory! Rory!"

He must have recovered from the initial shock as his senses were operating more clearly now and the alarm wailing in his head had silenced. He recognized the panicked voice at his side as belonging to the cucumber.

The borg had managed to wiggle past his manager again. Even as a weak smile came to his face, concern bobbed up in his mind. Where was his manager? Or the mechanic for that matter? As much as he strained his ears to listen, their voices were no longer audible.

With a great effort, he attempted to peel open his eyes, only to find the left side remained stoically shut. Through his right, he could see the Hacker standing over him. His look resembled that of someone accidentally stumbling upon a particularly grizzly car crash. The kind that embedded the images in your hard drive for the remainder of your warranty.

He hated that look. A short step from pity. Though he could hardly blame the borg for what must have been a very natural reaction.

"That puny little cheat. I had him," he grunted.

"Don't worry. I'll fix this."

Rory felt fingers pry open his left eyelid, though his vision remained impaired. With his good eye, he searched the Hacker's face for a new reaction, already expecting to be angered, but prepared to swallow the feeling like a bitter medicine. It was better he get a preview of what was to come from this borg than be forced to see if for the first time from Mimi or Emmett.

But instead of the face glazed over with horror he wore before, the borg's eyes were calm and focused. He stared into what must have been his hollow eye socket with the analytical aloofness of someone staring into the void with perfect clarity.

"Is that how he wants to play it?"

"That bad, huh?" He forced a frustrated chuckle, averting his eyes from the borg. Somehow he didn't think the mechanic was just taking his sweet time to get him help. The jury had already come in on his condition. He was spent and no longer worth spending time or money on.

The Hacker should have been smart enough to realize that. So why was he still here? Was he really so desperate for a payout? If he had thought Rory really stood any chance of winning he might have thrown a sizable fortune into the gamble. So he was probably flat broke now.

He should have probably felt bad for the borg. If he had told him there was no chance it had of winning the fight, the Hacker probably wouldn't have put his money on it. But despite everything the borg had done for him, Rory couldn't find much pity to muster for him. Once he accepted the loss, Rory probably wouldn't see him again.

"Just forget it. You've done enough," he spat, hoping the borg would get the hint and be on his way. Despite his protests, he felt the Hacker's finger digging into his empty socket and scrapping out whatever remained there.

He spread the unrecognizable pieces across the palm of his hand, carefully examining the wreckage left over. "It looks like there are a few pieces missing. Do you have any idea where they are?"

"Probably mounted on that pixie horse's headgear."

"Right."

The curt and resolute nature of his response irritated Rory to no end. As the borg marched towards the door, Rory rolled over on his bench and hollered after him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To catch up with our friend, before he leaves the arena."

"For what? Do you think you can just duct tape it back on?" he retorted, but the borg was already gone.

Rory brushed the tip of his hoof along the chipped edges of his eye socket. He stood in front of the mirror and in his reflection, he could see the edges where the paint had splintered off and the glint of raw metal underneath.

After allowing himself an evening of self pity, he decided there wasn't much to be done but to go back to work. Though not in R-Fair City. His career in the ring was more than definitely, bust. But he could still perform more than adequately as a field had on one of the many farms that surrounded Sensible Flats.

It was a job he had toiled away at in his days as a yet fully grown Minotaur. A job most able-bodied bulls in the village resorted to. It wasn't the flashest of professions and certainly not glamorous, but it would keep the lights on.

He tugged on a shirt before heading downstairs. Mimi had gotten up some hours before and had already taken to the fields, sparse as they were. The land the village had been built on was land she'd inherited from her ancestors. From the days before the Judge's word was law. And though there was quite a lot of it, it was difficult to maintain without a steady supply of snelfus coming in. With the borg village refusing to buy from them, the economy was stagnant. His people could barely raise themselves let alone consider a future generation.

They had all been counting on him. He'd had the chance to better life for everyone, but he'd come home no better off. As he dragged his hooves out the front door, he was greeted by the last person he'd expected to see.

The borg had his fist halfway raised, as if he had been about to knock. As his eyes flitted upward to keep the bull's, Rory observed the flesh around both his eyes were blackened and swollen.

For a moment he seemed stunned by the bull's sudden appearance, but quickly composed himself. "Impeccable timing," said the Hacker, sticking out his other first which held in it a small metallic box.

"What in tarnation!?" Rory cried, taking no notice of the box as he stood flummoxed in the doorway.

The Hacker's upper lip stiffened. His pride had been bruised, though not nearly as much as his face. "I asked him politely to return the rest of your eye. He refused so I was forced to get rough."

"I can see that. I'm surprised he let you get away with yours." The Minotaur cringed as he eyed the fresh marks. They would likely heal, but not anytime soon.

Whatever the borg had been made for, it wasn't fighting. From looks alone, one would assume a strong wind would be enough to knock him down. Though even if he did the borg would pick himself up again. Even if he looked like a turtle trying to get off his back while doing so. The guy had moxie in spades.

"Well, I had him scared, clearly."

Of that Rory saw reason to doubt, though he didn't say as much. Instead he retreated back into the cottage, inviting the Hacker in with a gesture.

"You'll wanna put some ice on that."

"I'm fine," he insisted as he subconsciously entered behind the bull.

Rory reached for the water jug and dug out a hoof-full of ice cubes. These he wrapped in a towel and tried to hand to his guest. Instead of taking them, the borg awkwardly stuck out the occupied hand, haplessly waiting for him to take the box before moving onto anytime else. Rory reached out his free hoof for the exchange before handing over the ice.

"Open it," the Hacker insisted, without taking his eyes off the bull. Rory hesitated. He had been raised under the custom of opening gifts only once guests had left. But seeing how focused the borg was on it, gave in.

What he found inside was a small, metallic object not much bigger than a marble. A small part of its surface dipped inwards and covered with a transparent film.

"Some of the original parts were so smashed up, I had to replace them. Still, I think I managed to compensate with some enhancements."

Rory stared at him, stunned to silence. Though he couldn't recall crying in his life, at that moment, it felt like a significant effort to hold back the liquid that welled in his eyes. What had driven this borg to come to him, do all he had, even take a beating, all so he could have a second chance?

His mind went back to yesterday's match. The Hacker squeezing himself into a front row seat, fisted raised as if he were the one about to fight.

Maybe he had been in a sense. Rory couldn't imagine anyone else going through everything he had just for money. It was a rare desperation. Not unlike what Rory himself had felt as he clawed his way to a loss. A need to believe in victory, even under impossible odds. Because doing so meant there was hope for him too.