Chapter Text
There is something different about street Motorball by night. Even without the roaring crowds and glitzy lighting of the stadium, it always feels more authentic to the pro game, like you really are playing out your own lower league in miniature. The daytime variant, by comparison, lays the truth of the thing a bit too bare: scrap urchins passing wasted time by clobbering the brains out of one another for cheap thrills. A pointless distinction, maybe, but you were always good at wielding artifice to your own ends—a fine skill in such a hopeless city.
You and seven others are gathered in the old water canal south of Factory 33, dank and mossy and absolutely perfect for some serious Motorball action. Three of them—Saku, Vela, and Greaser—are old friends of yours, and can be trusted to play the game straight-up. Two are unknowns; always a concern. One is an aspiring Motorball player named Eiserne whom you've rolled with a few times in the past; a sweetheart off the track, she has a tendency to lose herself on it. And there is, of course, Alita, likewise and then some.
The ramps are set, the scoring mortar hastily affixed to a concrete column, and soon enough you find yourself strapping in to your equipment when Alita approaches, a twinge of worry tugging at her brow. She always does this.
"Make sure everything's on tight, okay?"
"I'll be fine."
"Remember not to stay behind Vela for too long or she'll get you with that quick feint."
"I'll be fine."
"And be careful around the third bend, it gets really narro-"
You put your hands on her shoulders and give her a quick kiss on the forehead. She shivers, taken aback, before coming to her senses with a sensual bite of the lip.
"Let's just have some fun, alright?"
You line up furthest outside, next to one of the unknowns. You take quick inventory: he's a younger sort, not yet twenty if you had to bet, but built like a Hunter Warrior and with a murderous gaze to match. Of particular note is the cybernetic right hand you suspect will soon be set on ending your night early. Greaser starts the game with a shout, the Motorball is sent flying, and you duck down just quickly enough to avoid eating a haymaker. You've won this opening exchange, but you think better of laughing.
Soon enough, Alita scoops the ball from the slick surface and cuts clean through the first turn, well out in front. Though still working her way through the lower leagues, she's the only pro of your group and typically controls the pace. Eiserne, not yet a pro and rather sour over it, drops stance and rounds wide to build speed, looking as always to score one good hit on Alita. No worries, you think—she never does.
You can't claim to have much of a knack for the game and are content to score a few clean grinds off the center highrail while staying clear of your increasingly-frustrated starting mate, all muscle and much too slow to contend. Sailing smooth out of the final corner, you ready yourself for another attack on the rail when you see them: Alita and Eiserne are storming back down the far half of the canal, fighting furiously and rapidly closing in.
Something isn't right. Eiserne leads with the ball, wearing a sickening mask of crimson; blood is flowing from every inch of her face and soaking down deep into her collar. Alita, left arm locked in a gruesome bend, swings high up the sideslope and has a feral look in her eyes that strikes your heart cold; you've seen that visage only a few times before, and it always ended with someone getting hurt. Or worse. You land hard on the highrail, nearly losing your balance in the process, just as Alita charges back down into the canal with terrifying speed straight towards Eiserne. And yourself, incidentally.
There isn't time to think. You try to call out a warning to Eiserne, though you manage little more than a guttural yelp. For the briefest moment you wonder if she even noticed, until she smashes the Motorball into the concrete below with such force that it launches her skyward in a twirl. For an eternity she hangs there, pirouetting across the night sky, neon lights of towers far above shimmering against the red veil—a pro's maneuver.
You only see Alita long enough to register the contortion of fear taking shape on her face as she launches bodily through the shadow of Eiserne, a fraction of a second before you collide. She twists sharply in midair, but to no avail; her shoulder drives deep into the side of your chest with a sickening crack and sends you flying from your perch. Time slows again, colors meld together, and your last conscious thought manifests as a pair of grim realizations: that you have been quite seriously injured, and that Alita was going to blame herself for it. Landing face first on the concrete below, your vision snaps black.