Chapter 114 Cue.

Chapter 114: 114 Cue.

I zeroed in on the idiot. Well, well. What did we have here? He looked like a cyberpunk reject who had wandered into the wrong VIP section.

Bulky, sporting aggressive spiked hair, cheap tattoos, and some kind of tactical visor pulled over his eyes.

I pushed off the wall and wove through the crowd of influencers to get a better look, tuning my magnetic senses directly onto him.

The cybernetics weren’t obvious from the outside, which immediately gave me a bad vibe.

Most people who bought civilian augments wanted them to be flashy and noticeable.

Concealed tech usually meant combat tech. The guy also had a certain wired intensity to him as he watched the Superstars perform.

Everyone in this room knew a villain was going to crash the premiere—Firefly had to tell the heroes not to intervene somehow—and this guy was clearly here to play hero rather than enjoy the show.

Best to nip this in the bud.

I mean, I get it. Seeing corporate capes let the "bad guys" escape week after week had to be incredibly frustrating for the independent vigilantes.

Even the heavy hitters in the Hall of Excellence usually had a strict no-kill rule, which didn’t exactly help when a rogue clown broke out of the asylum for the twentieth time to gas a parade.

But come on. Don’t take out your righteous indignation on a highly choreographed, fully insured theatrical event.

If you want to stop real monsters, go crawl through the sewers or pick a fight with the Nights syndicate.

I sighed. Nothing for it.

I stepped up behind the punk, letting the interlocking metal plates of my right gauntlet slide out from my bracer with a soft snick. I tapped the streeter on the shoulder. He spun around, his pierced lip curling in a snarl.

"What?" he snapped.

"Let’s have a little chat," I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed behind the visor. Bingo. No more doubt he was here to hijack the script.

"You with the villains?" he demanded in a low, gritty whisper.

"Who wants to know?"

He smirked, turning fully to face me, clearly thinking this was his big comic-book moment.

"I am Cyberfist," he declared, flexing his arms as hidden servos whined beneath his jacket. "After a tragic automotive accident, I was fitted with experimental mechanical limbs that grant me the strength of a dozen—"

"Yeah, that’s great," I interrupted, driving my armored fist directly into his stomach with a localized magnetic thrust to really sell the impact.

Cyberfist’s eyes bugged out of his skull. He doubled over, groaning, and violently emptied his stomach onto the polished floor.

Ew.

A circle of high-society guests gasped in horror, recoiling as I grabbed Cyberfist and hauled him up, wedging my shoulder under his armpit like I was supporting a wildly drunk buddy.

"Aw, fuck, man! I told you not to eat the VIP shrimp!" I yelled, loud enough to be heard over the Superstars’ backing track. The elites around us instantly grimaced in disgusted understanding as I started shuffling him away. There is absolutely nothing like the threat of getting puked on to part a dense crowd of wealthy socialites.

"’Scuse us. Coming through. Bad shellfish," I announced to anyone in our path.

"Hrnnnn..." Cyberfist groaned, trying to thrash. I felt the intricate metal gears in his right hand start to shift, attempting to deploy whatever concealed weapon he had built in.

With a surgical tweak of my magnetic field, I yanked the primary power couplings out of his internal servos. His arms went completely dead, dropping limply to his sides as he let out a pathetic moan.

"Yeah, yeah, walk it off," I muttered, dragging him through a side door and into the concourse.

He was lucky he was just some clueless amateur. If he had been one of Delirium’s synthetic hit squads, I would have crushed his spine into a metal knot.

But I try to give independent heroes who crash my jobs the benefit of the doubt, as long as it isn’t life or death.

Fortunately, this guy was just a streeter who’d probably only ever fought muggers and lacked any concept of how the big leagues operated.

I found a pair of heavily armed Firefly security contractors stationed near the exit and shoved Cyberfist into their arms.

"Here you go, boys. Found a crasher looking to cause a scene."

The guards nodded, immediately dragging the protesting, limp cyborg out of the arena. I had zero sympathy. Fucking streeters. They made my job so much harder.

I slipped back into the auditorium just as the real show began.

The transition was flawless. The Superstars’ upbeat pop-anthem abruptly cut out, replaced by a deep, booming cinematic bass drop that rattled the floorboards.

The massive IMAX screens surrounding the stage flickered, glitching violently from corporate logos to aggressive, pulsing static.

The crowd went dead silent. Then, the doors locked. All of them.

The heavy, reinforced acoustic doors of the Omnidome slammed shut in perfect, terrifying synchronization. The heavy clattering of the automated deadbolts engaging echoed ominously across the massive room.

A ripple of genuine alarm swept through the VIPs, but before anyone could panic, the ’ushers’ made their move.

Dozens of Steves—who had been perfectly blended into the event staff—suddenly stepped into the aisles. They threw off their roadie uniforms to reveal sleek tactical gear, brandishing glowing, intimidating shock-batons.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Please remain in your seats! The exits are sealed!" the Steves announced in perfect, synchronized unison, their voices amplified by the acoustics.

They began herding the standing crowd back into the plush velvet chairs, spinning their batons with extravagant theatrical flair.

It wasn’t violent, but it was incredibly dominant. The crowd, realizing this was the immersive 4D experience they’d paid thousands of dollars for, let out a collective gasp of thrilled terror. Fans pulled out their phones, eagerly recording the hostage situation.

Thick, neon-pink smoke hissed from the stage vents, washing over the Superstars, who were currently doing a fantastic job of acting bewildered and trapped.

Laser arrays shifted from pristine white to a harsh, blinding magenta, slicing through the artificial fog.

Standing by the wall, I felt the familiar, buzzing pressure at the front of my skull as Psyren’s psychic aura finally washed over the room, heavy and intoxicating.

Right on cue.