[Comntator: It was an elbow strike!]
[Comntator: Ladies and gentlen, just monts ago, right as the ga started, Elimos from the Pampas Warriors team number 11 made his move with a typical Demon-style ball snatch!]
[Comntator: His target, number 9 Matt, suddenly leaped up, neutralizing the impact and... elbowed Elimos in the head during the dodge!]
[Comntator: Elimos is out! The referee signals that the play is advantageous, and the ga continues!!!]
"Elbow!"
An elbow strike to the temple is a particularly vicious move, especially in online gas.
To simulate pain, advanced neural implants, not restricted by safety limits, generate extrely high voltage feedback currents in the vicinity. Due to strict equipnt requirents for the gas, players wanting to safely disconnect could only do so physically by unplugging the wires.
However, such sudden, swift, unforeseeable impacts hardly allow any ti to react; the current forms instantly, then produces an effect similar to a Hacker attack—
Although the intensity of the current isn’t as severe as a typical Hacker attack, it’s still enough to disrupt a normal person’s nerves.
And this is deadly for teenage athletes—no one signs a youth who’s suffered serious injuries.
A brutal truth, hence intoxicating!
In Dog Town’s black market square, broken TVs broadcast occasionally flickering mosaic images, surrounded by a group of ragamuffins poorly dressed—
Outside, they are wanted criminals; here, they live on borrowed ti, constantly worrying about their next al.
But getting food is more challenging than getting drugs, so taking jobs and then buying drugs is the only thing they can do.
Without surprises, it’s also the only thing they can do in the final stages of escaping or avoiding life.
"Haha!" A skin-and-bones guy suddenly smashed his bottle on the ground, his face turning purple with excitent, sparks flying from the neural interfaces on his body, his fra trembling slightly.
But this didn’t prevent him from deriving pleasure from a young athlete’s imminent crippling, soon turning into worthless junk like him.
"Nice elbow!"
He wasn’t the only one feeling that way.
Everyone gathered around the decrepit TV squeezing out their last bit of joy, with no motivation to continue any action—not just physically unable, but ntally as well.
But honestly, compared to the addicts who might die in a pile of trash from overdosing, they were sowhat better since even they couldn’t get drugs anymore. Dying while watching an exciting sports match might even be sowhat peaceful.
However, at that mont, a thin man dressed in rags returned carrying a trash bag full of bottles and cans—
"Co on, brothers, let’s have so drinks today!"
"Shit, where did you get that?"
"Hey, drink first, talk later..."
The thin man distributed the alcohol, and the rest hesitated only briefly before starting to drink—they could not resist alcohol, they could not resist any form of temptation.
As for what sches the new skinny guy might have? Sorry, their brains don’t support thinking about such deep issues.
[Comntator: Number 9, Matt! Number 9, Matt has broken through and kicked the opposing defender’s leg in the shins clash!]
The passionate comntary from the TV suddenly froze the smile on Skinny’s face, his hand movents stopping as well, leaving the fat guy on the ground puzzled.
"What’s up? They can drink and I can’t? Hey..."
The impatience of the fat swine didn’t make Skinny imdiately hand him the drink.
He stared blankly up, looking at the athlete on the TV...
[Comntator: Number 9, Matt, from Night City! Look at his outstanding performance!]
[Comntator: My God, another faultless move, the referee’s eyes are sharp, it seems young Matt has not only a pair of Iron Elbows but also a clever, restrained mind...]
[Comntator: But the damn key thing is still those damn Iron Elbows!]
"Give it to !"
The roar from the fat swine snapped Skinny back to reality, he sharply turned, his sinister glance startling the fat pig—
"Fuck you, fat pig, showing you so respect!"
Crash!
A bottle filled with liquid smashed fiercely onto Fat Pig’s head, sending blood foam, shards, and alcohol flying in all directions!
"Ah—"
The scream abruptly stopped: Skinny Pole rcilessly jamd the broken bottle into the bloody ss of Fat Pig’s head!
This scene stunned the holess who had just received their drinks; people took another shocked sip, swallowing noticeably.
Then...
"Holy shit, aweso!" "Sick!" "Intense!" "Always hated that damn Fat Pig!" "Can you still eat it?"
Skinny Pole ignored those cheering, weird, and varied voices; he never paid attention to those who were drinking anymore—
He originally planned to properly deal with these people and sell them off.
The Scavenger had a reason for disliking these sickly forms, but he knew how to forge healthy organs: even if the forgeries weren’t perfect, finding a buyer was still possible.
Now, however, he no longer cared about those things.
He watched the television, instinctively suppressing his excitent, yet the excitent surged forth a bit, losing control without the prosthetics.
He looked at Matt on the television and murmured:
"Holy shit, son, badass... Dad’s coming to join you now..."
...
"How is that not a foul by the Elbow King?! Is the referee blind?!"
In another part of the world, at a sports academy in Argentina, the director watched the match in a fury.
This was U14; unlike the official clubs, many U14 teams, even their revenue streams, ca from sports academies like theirs, used as a venue to showcase athletes.
The director was completely furious.
Two athletes were disconnected on the spot!
One, when lifted out of the simulation pod, convulsed like an epileptic, and the seizures intensified once connected to the neural diagnostic equipnt, his neural data scrambled, and brain signals chaotic—simply put: ruined.
The other was slightly better: a virtual in-ga broken lower leg, but in reality, it was prosthetic leg overload and burnout, with joint deformation due to excessive artificial tendon stimulation, repairable.
But although this was better for the athlete himself, for the sports academy, this type of injury would already affect the team’s bid for him.
In other words, also ruined.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, have you found out which place that kid nad Matt is from?!"
He paced back and forth, fingertip against his ear communication device as he spoke.
[Hacker: I’ve compared it, the signal cos from Night City, but definitely not from those official sports academies, probably from Dog Town.]
"Dog Town? That bitch Fiona?! Isn’t she all about sensitivity and coordination? Since when did she produce such a monster...
No way, we can’t let the match continue like this, it’s no longer just about two athletes!"
Fucking Dog Town... Dog Town... find soone for ! Isn’t that place a war zone?!"
[Hacker: Umm... you might not know, but I just checked the local info, a very notorious gang leader recently moved to Dog Town, seems to have so connections with Luxor Sports Academy.]
"What do you an? Can’t I spend money on rcenaries to handle one bitch in a war zone?!"
[Hacker: I can try, but this criminal organization is said to be equivalent in Night City to... you know.]
"Bullshit, what underworld power could dominate in a war zone, help find soone..."
[Hacker: I’m out, this feels too spooky, you better find soone else.]
The speaker exploded with rage!
He was about to vent his fury on the objects on the table, but he suddenly received a ssage—
[We can help you attack Luxor Manor.]
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