It was getting harder and harder to perform her daily exercises over the last few weeks. It had started gradually, but the additional bulk had built up more and more over time. She could still do all of them if required, but she had been told by the physician she hired that it might damage her baby. Her baby was not as strong as her, or its father, not yet. Graciously, she allowed it this reprieve before training would begin.

Just as her mother and father did for her, her baby would be strong and healthy and beautiful. But before it could be strong it had to grow, and thus she had to wait. How frustrating all this waiting was. She was restricted to light exercises now, rather than the invigorating start to her day that she enjoyed before.

With the slight weight of her belly supported by her raised thighs, she finished her thirtieth chin-up on the mounted bar. Pausing for a moment, she reached a hand down to support the weight and slowly lowered herself to the floor with the other chrome arm. Her bare feet hit the floor, and she stood fully. She glanced over to the full-body mirror mounted on her bedroom wall, looking at the slight curve to her stomach.

A baby took forty weeks to grow. It had been about twelve. She wasn't particularly worried about what it would look like when it came out, her CRISPR womb implant ensured it would have no defects or lackluster genes, only the best from her and it's father. It would be the best possible baby she could have, she wanted to know nothing about it until it was born. It was supposed to be a surprise when the baby came out, so she would keep it that way.

She crossed her arms over her chest, which would have been impossible had she not had supersized cybernetic arms. Her bust was always rather large, and that made some activities difficult before she had gotten her arms replaced with superior models. Supposedly they were to grow in size later into her pregnancy, and she was dreading it.

Of course, she didn't suffer any discomfort from them. Her bones were twice as strong as a normal woman's, her skin was firm and elastic enough to aid against bullets, and her muscles were outright superhuman. So many problems that might crop up for mundane women were not a problem for her. She was Victoria Armstrong, she was vastly better than normal.

Nodding to herself in affirmation, she began to dress herself properly. She could tolerate a much wider range of temperatures than a normal woman, so sleeping in clothes never appealed to her. Fabric that would get in the way of her skin and the wonderful comfort of the bed and sheets. Arnold had been kind enough to bring her featherbed over from Russia when he fled the country, he was a thoughtful brother, even if a bit too worried about inconsequential things for her tastes.

Honestly, her brother needed to go find a woman and some alcohol instead of worrying about her. No, wait, multiple women, a single woman would not be enough for a man of the Armstrong family. Maybe they would be able to pull the stick from his ass.

Pausing to adjust her clothes, she looked in the mirror to make sure everything was in order. She was responsible for the Pacifica Arena, a wonderful job that ensured she was more than wealthy enough to afford her needs, but that meant she needed to display a certain professionalism and dominance with her attire. Combat boots and stockings, miniskirt and button-up shirt, a neo militaristic jacket over her shoulders like a cape, and a cute little beret.

She twirled one of her golden drills of hair around an index finger. She was beautiful, it was a fact of life. Her attire only accentuated this.

She walked out of the door and into the main room of her wing in the repaired area. This was a former office space before it was converted into a living space for her and up to three others. It would eventually be demolished, but for now it would serve her well enough. She paused at the doorway to see the light armorjack next to her door. She grumbled to herself as she removed her jacket and put it on before placing her jacket back on. Her brother was entirely too worried for her tastes.

She would indulge him by wearing it, else he would shoot her annoying looks for the entire day.

She walked into the main room to the smell of cooking. Smelled like eggs, a variety of vegetables, and actual meat. It wasn't SCOP, which had the distinct tang of sterile copper underneath its normally meaty aroma when cooking. She frowned as she walked over to the kitchen. She saw her brother, carefully reading a tablet with cooking instructions on it and managing a small number of pans with cooking foodstuffs on them.

"Good, you are here, sit and wait for the food to be done." He arrogantly commanded while squinting at the relatively tiny tablet in his hands.

"You did not need to cook, take out is more than enough calories." She complained, taking a seat anyways.

"Take out is unhealthy, you have baby, sit and wait." He shot back without looking at her.

"You need to find yourself a woman, and give your mothering to her instead of bothering me with it."

"You would die in a week. Just this month I've had to kill four agents out for your head, four! From four different corporations!"

"I would not die within a week!"

"You're right, I apologize. Three days."

She decided to not dignify that with a response, looking through the messages she had received over the night. Noticing something, she raised an eyebrow.

"Your best friend has requested a meeting, Arnold."

He was removing food from the pans and moving them to plates with a spatula when he responded. "My friend? You mean Mr. Beast? We are barely acquaintances at this point."

"You talk to him more than anyone else, best friends already."

"I've had a total of three conversations with him."

"Which is two more than anyone else, best friends."

He grunted, and clearly surrendered to her superior argumentation. Her brother set a plate of food in front of her, consisting of eggs, bacon, and grilled peppers and onions. She took the offered fork as he went back and set a glass of milk in front of her as well. Sampling each of the items, she found them to be delicious. The eggs were fluffy and well seasoned, the bacon was thick-cut and crispy, the grilled vegetables were grilled vegetables and therefore tasty.

"The eggs have too much pepper, the bacon is slightly overcooked, and the vegetables are too much. Also you forgot the wine."

He tossed a piece of toast at her head, which bounced off and landed on her plate. He grumbled and sat his massive bulk on the other side of the table with his own plate. It was about twice as large as hers, his caloric needs were higher overall.

"You cannot drink wine with the baby. Shut up and eat the food I have made for you, ungrateful parasite."

She grunted in a ladylike manner back at him. Fight good battles, drink good wine, eat good food, fuck handsome men. Two of her pleasures were gone thanks to the baby. She made a note to invite Adam over again, lest she grow bored with life.

…It had been some time since he last visited her. Her bedsheets were growing cold. She pursed her lips and strangled that thought. He had given her a child, shelter, and a lucrative job. It would be tremendously rude to ask for anything more out of their relationship. She had everything she needed already.

"Overbearing prude."

With that last snipe at her brother, she dug into the good food.

—

On the other side of the desk that she used for meetings, in a much-too-small chair, sat the massive form of The Beast. He was shorter than her brother, but not by much, and his always-worn armor added to his bulk in an outwards rather than upwards direction.

It was rather refreshing to be surrounded by men who were actually taller than her. She towered over other women at six feet and six inches, but as a consequence she towered over most men as well. Here in Night City there were at least three that were taller than her, even if one of them was her brother. The Beast was a rather reserved fellow, what with his habit of communicating with grunts and gestures more often than not, but he was polite enough and did his job well.

His job being overall security chief for Pacifica, on paper at least. In practice it was the tiny Arasaka woman who managed the day-to-day security. The Beast was here mostly to keep the all top fighters in the Arena from suddenly deciding to murder each other. If you started a fight outside of the ring, The Beast would come over and put you down. The other Animals were certainly threatening, but were ultimately manageable for the other gangs to kill.

The Beast was different, using a decent spread of bioware, top tier armor and weapons, and brutal intimidation tactics to become effectively unstoppable to the average ganger. She was fairly certain he had an auto-injector with combat stimulants underneath that armor, but she had never seen him take any sort of drug recreationally. If he was an addict, he was the most composed addict she had ever seen.

"Well, what did you want?" She asked, somewhat bored and dreading the paperwork of the day to come. She booted up the PC absentmindedly, watching the little Arasaka symbol fill and unfill over and over again.

"I and Tyger King will duel to death at end of week. Want to in the Arena."

She paused and processed that statement. She took a long drink of her coffee. She turned to look at The Beast, who had not moved since that statement, just patiently staring at her.

She groaned and let her head rest on the back of her chair. Cycling through a few menus and numbers in her vision, she messaged a number.

"Macguffin, whatever it is you're doing, stop and get in my office. I need you."

—

About fifteen minutes later a rather unspectacular man who was often a spectacular pain in her ass came through the door. He paused when he saw The Beast sitting at the chair, and looked to her. His face was flushed from exertion, his office was a light walk away for her and he was a mostly unmodified man. No wonder he was tired, to have gotten here in only fifteen minutes.

He raised a brow at her and moved in to sit down.

"This kinda meeting, huh? Alright, what is it that you need from me this time?" He huffed as he opened up a cyberdeck and began to type away at it, plugging himself in.

She went ahead and dived right in. "Beastie and Sota Saito want to fight to the death in the arena at the end of the week. How do we make that happen and how do we monetize it most effectively?"

Macguffin paused, looked at her, then looked over to the Beast, who was still patiently sitting. He looked down at his cyberdeck and stared for a moment. He let it fall out of his lap and put his head in his hands. The cyberdeck fell to the floor and revealed a mostly full event schedule for the next three months.

He breathed in and out for a moment.

"...What are the stakes?" He eventually asked. She turned to the Beast, who took it as his cue to speak again.

"He wins, Animals leave Pacifica and say Tygers are good fighters. Recommend hire."

She frowned at him, and he ignored her under his steel mask. Macguffin nodded into his hands slowly. The Beast continued.

"I win, Tygers have tournament in Arena over who is next Tyger King. Open tournament."

She closed her eyes and took a slow drink of her coffee, brow furrowed.

Macguffin let out a long and muffled scream into his hands.

—

Adam looked at the AV flying towards him on the street, the massive Trauma Team logo on the side being a rather clear indication of who it was. That was to be expected, they had gotten here after a minute and thirty seconds. Pretty good for meatbags.

The AV flew over, marking the ground of its landing with the recognizable lights as it descended. Those lights were new, although he didn't quite remember when they were added onto Trauma Team AVs. Maybe sometime in the 2050s? It was some sort of health and safety measure that their HQ pushed out for public appeal, and the NC crews were forced to use as well.

Those lights were strictly for the benefit of those on the ground. If you didn't get out of the way, Trauma Team would crush your meatbag body to pulp as they landed. They were task-oriented that way. He looked over to the woman, still applying pressure and whatnot to the bowlcut.

"Oi, woman! Trauma Team's here."

She didn't respond to him, still going through the motions of stabilizing the halfmeat brat. He frowned, woman you better fucking listen to him while he spoke. The AV landed, and the side opened up. He was slightly surprised to see a Lifeline ACPA step out and brandish a 30mm auto grenade launcher. It stomped out quickly, followed by a smaller than normal squad of Trauma Team members with guns pointed in all directions.

One of them came up to him, he stood still to wait.

"The boy with the blue hair?" He nodded and the man waved a hand to signal his other team members to move forwards. He raised a brow at the ACPA that was scanning the street for hostiles. The man in front of him explained. "We received reports that there was a Junkerknight in the area, I presume it has been dealt with already?"

He grunted in confirmation and opened up his account to transfer the appropriate sum over. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the Trauma Team members about to shove the woman away from the boy.

He activated his sandevistan and stomped over. He grabbed the offending arm in a grip hard enough to hurt through his body armor but not enough to do permanent harm. He let his sandevistan deactivate.

The arm was stopped cold in his grip. Every member of Trauma Team raised their guns at him. The ACPA pointed that big Grenade Launcher his way. The brats were about to do something stupid, but he raised his gun to stop them.

He looked down and growled out. "Woman. Trauma Team is here. Step away from the bowlcut."

She focused on the present again and stumbled back. He let the man's hand go and walked back over to the first. Fucking meatbags, don't go touching his shit, next time he'll kill every one of you. The guns were pointed at him the whole time.

"How much was it again?" He asked idly.

"For laying a hand on a Trauma Team employee and Platinum coverage? Thirty-five thousand for a month of coverage." The man replied, deliberately light in tone. Fucking medical services, always taking a chunk of change out of his hide. He grumbled and forwarded the appropriate sum. The man's eyes glowed and he nodded to the rest of them.

They went about their job.

He liked that meatbag, that was a decent stare down. He always loved one of those.