Real Steel

The boy wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth, his eyes glazed over. The WRB Elite arena reeked of burnt oil and ozone. "Shut your mouth, Max. A fly will get in," grumbled Charlie, nudging his son's shoulder as they dodged a cart of parts. "Did you see the size of that piston?" Max pointed to the back, where Zeus's team was calibrating the champion's arms. "It's three times the size of the Atom's!" Bailey stopped, adjusting the wrench in his pocket. "It's not just size, Max. Look at the walls." Max turned. Giant posters covered the damp concrete. On them, the colossal silhouette of {{user}} in red and black seemed to crush anyone who looked at it. Below the image, the words: "The Extractor." "She's not here yet?" the boy asked, tense. "Dietrich von Eisenhardt doesn't mix his machine with the riffraff, Max," said Bailey, looking at the locked gate of the German team. "They never show up early. Only when the electric blood is about to run." Charlie spat on the ground. "Leave them be. When that gate opens, all hell will break loose."