Niko kept to the sidewalks because riding in the street was a suicide gambit in Apricot and South Valley. The cement was cracked and creased from tree roots buckling the concrete. He bounced around, winding his way into the machine shops near 101, north of South Valley. He could’ve grabbed a bus, or a light rail train, but now that he wanted to fight again, he had to get back into shape. Biking in the Bay Cities was a survival of the fittest type of deal. If you were slow, or not focused, you wound up dead.

The fog was burning off, and while it started off chilly, it would get into the low 80s by the afternoon, but not hotter, not until summer actually started. Spring temperatures brought out the perfume of flowers and trees budded. The world was coming alive.

Niko felt somewhat similar. He tried not to think too hard about Wochick’s doom-filled prophecies of failure. Yet, he could only imagine what the doctor saw: some stupid kid, grasping for the glories of high school, without any real chance of making it.

Niko saw the Pig, parked next to a squat concrete building. He had his keys, so he could get into the van, and there was just enough space to wedge his bike into the back.

Pete was just coming out, a big Whitney unit dangling off his shoulder. He also had his backpack, full of his tools. Niko recognized the place, Schraeder Precision Machining. They were a reliable client and paid their bills on time. They burned out drodes on a weekly basis.

Peter Kowalczyk was smaller, thinner, and beardier then his brothers. Whiskers hung from his cheeks and chin, not completely filled in, but not bare either. His muddy green eyes were a bit brighter, but the girls liked his eyelashes more than anything. He’d shaved the sides of his head but let his bangs hang down. So far, he only had the one dragon tattoo on his left arm. He wore black jeans and a FIX-IT SHOPPE long-sleeved black shirt. He wasn’t the best representative for the family business, but that was okay, Pete didn’t work that much. Only on special occasions, or when the moon was right.

Pete grinned at his brother. “So, there he is, the next great Artist. When I heard you were going to start fighting again, I wasn’t surprised at all.”

Niko didn’t believe him. It was a nice thing for Pete to say, which meant it was the expected thing to say, which meant it was total bullshit.

The two drifted into the shade of the Pig. The smell of hot metal and drodes drifted across the parking lot. “I saw Wochick, and he gave me a vape. So, it looks like I have to smoke, at least for now.”

Pete nodded his head. “All right. Niko, finally getting cool. And he turns to his troubled little brother for help. And I thought today was going to suck.”

Niko shoved his brother. It started out playfully, but the end result was anything but. “You know you make us worry. Like this weekend. You bail on us Friday, and I have to take a call. Then you don’t tell us where you are until Sunday. What the hell, Pete?”

“I’m Woda, man, you know, not tethered to the world, liquid, man. I’m liquid. I take on the shape of my surroundings.” Pete stepped backward. He had a slightly dazed smile on his face, though his eyes were hurt, and he kept his gaze down.

“Where were you anyway?”

Pete swept an arm dramatically to the east. “Devil’s Edge, at the clubs, on the outskirts, playing near the Wilds. You know me, always on the Edge.”

Niko couldn’t help but lapse into older brother. After Aleksey abandoned them, Niko had inherited the job. “I get you’re twenty-one. So move out. Find another job. We’ll figure it out. But if you stay in the apartment with us, you’re going to have to let us know where you are. You’re going to have to be accountable.”

Pete waves his hands crazily above his head. He was also smiling while he did it. “Maybe I want to be accountable. Maybe the home and the family business keep me somewhat accountable. Maybe I am counting on the familial accounts and that makes me countable. I don’t know. I do know, you biked over here so I could help you. So, let’s do less fighting and more helping.”

“So you’ll call next time? I’m fine taking on call, if I know you can’t make it.”

Pete’s sigh turned into a frustrated grunt. “Yes, I will call. All the calls will be made. There will be so much calling, it will be amazing. I’m assuming texts will work. From here on out, I will be Count Peter Kowalczyk. Let’s see what you got.”

Niko’s brother filled the e-cigarette’s reservoir with the batch of pre-packaged eJuice, cherry-flavored nicotine. He showed Niko the basic operations and then he tried to explain how you inhaled. He hit the button and sucked in the vapor. He let it out slowly. “There’s nothing to it, Niko. You breathe in the vapor. Knowing you, you’ll do the Duodecim, and then you’ll cycle. That will get Wochick’s eJuice into you. Here. You try.”

It took Niko a few tries but he eventually breathed in while at the same time hitting the button. This battery was run off a quarter drode, if that. The thing was meant to be disposable, but Niko could transfer a fresh bit of daemon energy into the battery.

Niko coughed. He hated feeling that stuff in his lungs. And the nicotine made him a bit dizzy. The vapor tasted like spoiled cherry cough syrup.

“Wanna spar?” Pete asked.

This was an unexpected turn of events. “Spar?” Niko tucked the e-cigarette into his satchel and lowed it onto the driver’s seat through the open window. When they motored away, he’d be the one behind the wheel. Pete had various issues. Driving was one of them.

Pete nodded and put up his fists. He was a Mercury Belt, Second Study, and he hadn’t been bad, though the minute Niko dropped out so did Pete. In Niko’s way of thinking, he had a reason while his brother didn’t. He’d always thought it odd, though, that Pete hadn’t gone with another Study. Starting out with a strong defense was not a normal choice. Then again, Pete wasn’t normal.

“When was the last time you cycled your prana?” Niko asked. “I don’t want you to strain anything.”

“You just worry about taking a punch.”

That wouldn’t be hard. Both could take a punch.

Niko still wasn’t convinced. “If you’re mad at me about the whole accountability thing, it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to get in a fight over it.”

“Not mad.” Pete walked out into the parking lot. “Let’s just throw some jabs, practice a bit. You can show me your Twin Damage again. I haven’t seen it in a month of Sundays.”

“No one says that anymore.”

“Mamo does.”

“Proves my point.” Niko moved out into the sunshine, which was bright enough and hot enough to get him sweating. He bounced up and down on his feet.

Pete stretched. “I’m not mad. I knew when I took my mini-vacation, I’d get the lecture. That Peter, when will he ever grow up? What is that young man doing with his life, out on the Devil’s Edge, carousing.” He fell into his fighting stance.

Niko did as well, weight lowered, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, giving his opponent his side rather than his body. “Mind sharp? Soul strong?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Pete said. “Let the Artistry commence.” It was March 25, so Pete’s sign wasn’t at its zenith.

Niko danced forward, jabbed and danced back.

“Still got your moves, Niko. Not bad.” Pete came forward and gave Niko his face. When Niko feel for the feint, Pete pulled back and kicked him in the side. Not with full force, just enough for him to know he’d been kicked.

Niko didn’t back up. He closed with his brother. He hooked a punch into Pete’s chest. It was like punching a wall of ice—Cold Bones, his Second Study. He’d reinforced his skin with prana.

“You’ve been fighting,” Niko said.

Pete shoved him back. “The Devil’s Edge isn’t safe. Let’s just say I’ve been protecting myself.”

With a flurry of punches, Niko was on the defensive, protecting his face as well as his diaphragm. Not well enough. Knuckles struck his cheek. That was going to leave a bruise. It was a numb feeling, not so much pain, as annoyance. Anger flashed into him.

Niko bent, ducked, pushed Pete back, then forced a bit of prana into his hands. He wasn’t using his First Study ability, no, just protecting his bones. He hammered a fist into his brother’s face.

Pete stumbled back.

The door to the machine shop was thrown open. Schraeder, another big man, and a woman in overalls, came forward. “Hey, you two, what’s going on?”

Pete turned. “Just me and my brother, sparring. This is Niko Black, don’t you know? He was a big deal back in the day.”

“We can stop.” Niko was kicking himself. The parking lot was deserted, but he’d forgotten about the business itself. This wouldn’t look good.

Schraeder, a man with thinning hair and a solid moustache, only smiled. “Yeah, I know about Niko Black. Your dad never stopped talking about you. Mind if we watch?”

Pete laughed a bit too loudly. “No, watch away. My brother loves an audience.” Something about the way he said it didn’t sit right with Niko. It was a jab at him, as solid as punch, and it hurt. Niko did like an audience.

Pete turned back to Niko, fists raised. “Tato loved to talk about you. Maybe that’s why Aleksy left. Me? I never cared two shits about all that.” His eyes told a different story.

Niko had an audience. And he was still mad about that blow to the cheek. He came forward, showed Pete his left, and then hit with his right.

Pete took the blow on his face. Sure, that wasn’t a problem, but he was keeping his Second Study ability fueled, burning through his prana.

Pete lashed out with a foot. Niko dodged it, just barely. Instead of hitting Pete, he slapped him, which stung both of them, or so he hoped.

Pete caught Niko’s wrist, spun him, and then lowered a shoulder. An icy shoulder slammed into Niko’s chest. This time, he was the one who staggered back. He opened himself up, luring Pete in, and then, when his brother charged, Niko activated his First Study, Twin Damage, and two fists made of silver light joined his flesh knuckles. All three hands rammed into Pete.

Niko didn’t use his full force, not like he had with Stan Howling, but it was enough to drive Pete backward. His skin seemed to waver, growing a bit indistinct, and he was out of prana. Or he’d dropped his Second Study.

Niko leapt forward. Instead of slapping his brother, he tweaked his nose. “Got your nose, Pete. If you’re nice, I’ll give it back.”

Both were breathing heavily, both were sweating, and yet, Niko knew, Pete was in much better shape than he was.

Pete lifted his hands. “You win. Give me my damn nose back.”

Schrader and his people clapped.

Niko wasn’t sure he’d won, exactly, and in a real fight, Pete wouldn’t have given up.

“Nice little match, guys, “Schraeder said. “So that’s the Niko Black of legend.”

“Not yet,” Niko muttered.

Pete heard him. “That’s right, my brother. You better get back into shape. Or next time, I won’t go so easy on you. I’ll be the one with a pocketful of noses.” His face was flush, and yet, Pete could’ve done another five minutes easily.

Niko bent over and tried to get control of his breath.

A line from The Pranad came to him. Each drop of blood is a jewel. Every bruise is a trophy. He’d collected two more of them. It was ironic. He’d lost against Stan Howling, and that felt like a victory. Here, he’d won against his brother, but damn, it felt like a defeat.

He wondered what kind of reception he would get at the Wednesday critique group. Would it be another mixed bag of victory and humiliation, adrenaline and defeat?