Hoggish's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Hoggish reached the arena at last. Its walls burned with concert lights and graffiti. A crowd roared inside, arms up, mouths open wide. But a gate blocked the entrance, and two guards stood watch. Only ranked competitors passed through. Hoggish had no rank. He had no proof. He had a mic in his jumpsuit and a dog on his shoulder, and that meant nothing here. "Name and standing," one guard said. "No standing, no entry." Hoggish pulled the golden mic free. "I hold this," he said. "That should mean something." The guard laughed. "Anybody can paint a mic gold. Get in line with the other dreamers." Hoggish's face went hot. He looked at the crowd he couldn't reach. His whole road had led here, and a fence and a bored guard stopped him cold. Then a voice cut through. "Let him past." A man stepped out from the gate's shadow. Black-and-white suit. White cape. A glowing omega on his chest, glasses low on his nose. The guards straightened fast. The crowd near the gate went quiet. Hoggish had never seen him, but the name moved through the line in whispers. Omega Prime. A ranked champion. The kind of name that opened doors. "You don't know me," Hoggish said. "I know that mic," Omega Prime said. He studied it, then Hoggish. "I felt it hum from inside. Gold doesn't hum for a fake." He turned to the guard. "He's ranked now. I vouch for him." The guard hesitated. "You can't just—" "I just did." Omega Prime's voice stayed calm. The guard stepped aside. Hoggish gripped the mic tighter. "Why help me?" Omega Prime smiled, but it wasn't warm. "Because I want to face you fair. Not watch you turned away at a fence." He leaned close. "Word spread about the golden mic. Half the fighters in there hoped you'd never make it through this gate. I'd rather beat you than have them cheat you." Hoggish felt the weight of that. He was in. But every rapper inside now knew his face and his prize. "One thing," Omega Prime said. He tapped the omega on his chest. "They rank by wins here. You walk in with none. So they'll throw you at the hardest first." He straightened his glasses. "That's me." The gate opened. Sound crashed over Hoggish—thousands screaming, lights swinging across the seats. His chihuahua pressed flat against his neck. The crowd saw the golden mic and the roar changed, sharp and hungry. Hoggish stepped inside. He'd solved the gate. But he'd solved it by drawing the eye of the one man built to end his run early. Omega Prime walked ahead of him toward the stage. "Welcome to the arena," he called back. "First round starts when the lights drop." The lights dropped.