The Musashi Flex Read Online Free Page A

wasn’t going to be able to ask those guys for a reshoot, since one of them was dead and the other had gone straight to a medical center to be glued back together. Too bad for them, but she was more concerned for what she’d lost.
    Another few matches, and she’d have enough for the whole documentary. Yeah, it was all spec, but she was sure she could sell it—the entcom market was like a starving monster, it was always hungry for the new and different, and nobody had done an in-depth work on the Musashi Flex before—bits and pieces, sure, but nothing nearly as deep as what Sola had. A primecast hour-and-a-half, easy, and with any luck at all, she could get a miniseries, three, maybe five segs, system syndications, maybe even GalaxNet—wouldn’t that be something? She could write her own ticket then, direct, produce, she’d be set, and only twenty-eight T.S. years old. That would give her fucking father something to think about, seeing her name on the ’proj.
    It was a nice fantasy, being rich and famous. She’d have to stop chasing it pretty soon, because she was gonna be out of stads. And if she couldn’t sell this, she was going to have to get a job, and there was a sad prospect . . .
    Pale and Al, the giant snake, continued to circle, and while she had learned the moves all meant something, if not always what, a general audience wouldn’t know that much, so she’d better spice things up some.
    “Two-shot, closer,” she subvocalized.
    The cam’s POV snapped in tighter. What a great toy. It should be, it cost enough.
    “Solarize, refield, refade to previous shot,” she said.
    The color washed out to a bright monochrome, then faded back in to the same image. Yeah, she could do all this on the editing comp later, but the more you could do in-cam, the better—it saved you a lot of work when you did EFX on the fly, plus in the moment, your instincts gave you a better flow. Usually. And hell, if it didn’t work, you could always fix it later—
    Al lunged, moving in very fast, and fired a punch at Pale’s face—
    Pale didn’t back up, but angled to the outside of the incoming strike—
    “Wider!” she said, louder than she’d intended. “Include both!”
    The cam’s field expanded, to include the fighters’ feet. Yes, yes, she needed that—
    Pale ducked and shot a punch under Al’s incoming fist, hit him under the armpit, hard. Sola heard something break—whether it was Al’s rib or Pale’s hand she couldn’t tell, but it was another sound she had learned to recognize, that wet snap of bone cracking—
    Al grunted with pain, then dropped lower and brought his elbow down, trapping Pale’s hand against his injured ribs. With his other hand, he slapped at Pale’s ear, but continued past, shoved his hand under the man’s jaw, and wrenched his head backward—
    Pale tried to step away from it, but Al hooked his left heel behind Pale’s ankle, and Pale went horizontal suddenly, falling straight back. He was going to hit the plastcrete hard—
    —but no, somehow, Pale twisted and turned the fall into an angled dive, hit on one shoulder, rolled, dived again, with Al chasing him. Pale came up, spun, and was ready when Al got there. He kicked, his left boot connecting with Al’s knee. Another gristlelike pop! and Al wobbled to the side, turned, awkwardly, and put his weight on his good leg.
    Pale stayed back. “That’s the lateral ligament, Al. Plus the rib. Time to pack it in.”
    Al shook his head. “Fuck you, Timson!”
    “You wish. Come on. Lose gracefully. It’s only a few points. You could maybe dance the rib, but you can’t win with that knee fucked-up.”
    “You might be surprised.”
    “Hell, we’d both be surprised, you more than me. Come on. It’s not like you have to give me your tag. We’ll catch a hack to a medic, and you can call it in. This is a done deal. No point in suffering any more damage, hey?”
    Al didn’t say anything. He was apparently thinking about the