by Roh Morgon
“Do females fight?”
“They do, but in a separate organization. Their pool of fighters is much smaller. As with human women, most females prefer to exert dominance by means other than physical. That’s why they’re so lethal when it comes to the Game.”
Before I can ask more questions about the female fighters, a thunderous roar rises through the warehouse and the spotlights once again beam down onto the red-carpeted entrance to the arena.
The black curtains part. A Chosen male walks through, his build similar to Colin’s but not as tall. He’s barefoot and wears nothing more than a pair of tight, sky-blue shorts, like bicycle shorts. His pale skin gleams as though it’s been oiled, as does his curly red hair. Faint freckles dust his arms, upper back, and shoulders, and his aura pulses in amber and pale blue, laced with a thin thread the color of rust. The caption below his image on the overhead flat-screens proclaims him as Mike “The Crazy Celt” Kelly.
He raises his fists to the crowd as he strides in, and they acknowledge him with both cheers and boos. He responds with a bare-fanged snarl and heads to the holding cell on the left of the fight cage.
The curtains open again, and this time the roar is even louder. Another Chosen enters, same size and build. This one, in pale-green shorts, appears to be half-Asian, and for him the cheers far outweigh the boos. Amber and light green, threaded with orange, hovers about his trim body. His name, Garry “The Ragin’ Cajun” Cho, indicates he’s likely from Geneviève d’Orléans’s territory in Louisiana.
A flurry of hands exchanging cash in the audience accompanies his strut to the other holding cell. As he enters, the red-headed Crazy Celt growls and lowers himself into a crouch.
Colin once again leans over to me.
“Just to prepare you, there are no rules—except one. If a fighter signals submission, his opponent must honor the request.”
“No rules. Does that mean—?”
The cage doors clang open. The two fighters launch through their doorways and the cage erupts into a snarling chaos of claws and fangs. Their bodies entwined in a writhing ball of fury, all I can see is flashes of color—the pale skin of the Celt, the darker skin of the Cajun, the sky-blue and pale-green fabric of their shorts. And red. Not red hair.
Red blood.
The rubber-matted floor slickens with it beneath them, and as they crash into the bars on one side of the cage, it splatters in an arcing Rorschach inkblot across the plexiglass. The audience behind the glass recoils, the surprise on their faces quickly shifting to feral excitement.
The purpose of the glass suddenly becomes clear.
I’m struck by the savagery of the battle below us. There’s nothing human about it. They look more like lions or tigers fighting, like something you’d see on a nature program on TV. The chilling growls and snarls only accent the horrific scene.
The fighters abruptly separate and move to opposite ends of the arena, the tension nearly vibrating the air surrounding them.
“Well. Now that they’ve gotten that out of their systems, perhaps they’ll settle down and we’ll see some real fighting.”
I look at Colin in amazement.
“You don’t call what they just did a fight?”
“No. They were just testing one another for strength, speed, and reaction time. Right now, they’re gauging how quickly their opponent heals.”
The fighters move toward the center and slowly begin circling one another. The Cajun flashes out with a lightning-quick kick, barely missing the leg of the Celt as the redhead whirls away.
“That was a Muay Thai kick—the most lethal in martial arts and, if it lands solidly, it will shatter bones, even those of a Chosen.”
The fighters close again, unleashing a frenzy of punches upon one another before spinning apart. The Cajun continues his spin, converting it to a high kick. The Celt’s head snaps back and he goes down. The Cajun’s upon him with the speed of a rattlesnake, and the fight devolves once again into an animal battle of claw and fang.
Blood coats the mats, thicker than before. The seething motion slows, revealing the squirming Celt on his back, locked within a tangle of limbs by the Cajun above him. As the Cajun tightens his hold, panic darts across the redhead’s face, and with a wild burst of energy, he frees himself and leaps to his feet.
But he doesn’t take two steps before the Cajun has him down again, this time on his belly, and before he can twist onto his back, his limbs are once again trapped by the Cajun’s.
The Cajun slips a hand free and grips the throat of the Chosen pinned beneath him. He waits a half moment, the Celt continuing to struggle beneath him, then slowly begins squeezing. Blood drips, then starts streaming past his buried fingers.
The crowd, so far silent, buzzes to life with muttered conversations. Here and there voices rise above the others.
They’re chanting.
“Kill. Kill. Kill.”
Horrified, I look at Colin.
“Is that legal? Can he do that?”
Colin’s grim smile gives me all the answer I need. I find my gaze returning to the brutal exhibition below us.
“If Kelly signals his submission, then Cho must release him or forfeit the win.”
“If he doesn’t submit?”
“It’s Cho’s decision then. He can either show mercy or not. Most fighters at the lower levels choose not to kill their opponents—it’s far more beneficial for future alliances. But at the championship level, it’s anyone’s guess what a fighter will do. Depends upon whether or not there’s history between them.”
I watch, fascinated, as the Cajun eases his grip, giving the Celt another opportunity to surrender. The Celt tries to yank himself loose and, as the grip around his neck tightens once again, goes completely limp.
The Cajun mutters something into the blood-slicked hair and the Celt nods. He then looks up at the crowd, whose chants to kill have become louder and louder.
He looks back down at the beaten Chosen, then abruptly releases him and leaps to his feet amid a cacophony of boos and cheers. As he parades around the arena’s perimeter with a fist in the air, he smears the Celt’s blood across his face and chest. The cheers of those collecting on their bets soon outweighs the disappointment of those anxious for a death to start their evening.
As the Cajun leaves the arena and heads toward the platform, several attendants move in and help the bloody Celt to his feet. Another two-man crew enters the arena, and pulling a hose from a recess hidden within the floor, begins washing down the mats and plexiglass.
“Well, Sunny—what did you think?” Colin looks at me curiously.
I snort.
“That was one of the most barbaric displays I’ve ever seen.”
He laughs.
“I couldn’t agree with you more. But we’re not here for entertainment. What you just witnessed is typical of Chosen whose instincts overcome their training. I’m frankly surprised to see such a lack of discipline at this level. I suspect the Celt won his fight slot on a fluke. He seemed quite outmatched, and his opponent just waited for the right opportunity to exercise his superior skills. There is much you can learn from this fight. But we’ll talk more about it once we have the others to compare it with.”
I don’t even want to see the other fights. I can’t help but imagine myself in the Celt’s place, panicked and begging for mercy as witnesses chant for my death.
CHAPTER 66
Colin settles back into his seat as we wait for the next bout to start, which turns out to be no more than a few minutes. It features the middleweight finalists, Henry “The Clayman” Clayton and Steven “Double S” Sanderson. Their entry into the ring is more controlled, as is the rest of their fight. According to Colin, both are using various martial arts moves based in taekwando, kung fu, and karate. He keeps me engaged in analyzing their techniques, which provides a distraction from the sounds of breaking ribs and grunts of pain as the fighters trade solid strikes. The round comes to a sudden end when Double S delivers a
bone-crunching kick to his opponent’s thigh and it snaps, dropping the Clayman to the ground. He quickly signals his submission as Double S threatens to stomp the crippled Chosen’s face.
Though I’m relieved when it’s over, comments from the surrounding audience indicate their disappointment in both the shortness of the bout and its lack of blood.
That disappointment doesn’t extend into the final round.
The heavyweights, Tom “The Battering Ram” Moore and Samuel “The Hurricane” Henderson, tear into one another like two grizzly bears, each using their weight to smash one another against the bars. Their battle has none of the finesse of the last bout, resembling a street brawl more than a championship fight. Blood splashes across the mat and up the plexiglass as the Ram pummels the Hurricane’s face, who responds with a downward slash across the Ram’s belly that nearly disembowels his opponent. They continue to inflict damage upon one another, then finally separate, each trying to buy time to heal.
Their temporary truce ends when, without any warning, they charge at each other like maddened bulls. Their impact knocks the Hurricane to the floor, and as he rolls away, the Ram leaps into the air and drives both feet down onto the fallen Chosen’s back. The sound of the Hurricane’s snapping spine is echoed by his scream. When the Ram jumps down onto the Hurricane’s back a second time, the defeated Chosen passes out.
The crowd roars its approval as the Ram struts around the arena floor with both fists in the air. His voice joining theirs, he takes several laps while the unconscious Hurricane is carried out.
But when he heads toward the exit to claim his championship belt, the announcer shouts into the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is unbelievable! Your evening’s not over yet—I’ve just received word that a former champion has issued a challenge for this year’s Heavyweight title!”
Already halfway out of his seat, Colin stops, then sits back down.
“Well, this should be interesting. Moore’s suffered some fairly significant blood loss, and though he’s one of the toughest fighters on the circuit, he’s going to have his hands full with a fresh opponent. I wonder who his challenger is.”
The Ram’s only response to the announcement is the triumph on his face sliding away into a frown.
As the announcer prattles on about an unprecedented intermission, I turn to Colin.
“Is it really necessary to stay for this? I’ve seen enough.”
“We should stay. This will give us the opportunity to analyze how a fighter changes his tactics when confronted with different fighting styles.”
I have mixed emotions about this whole fighting thing. Though I know it’s critical to have good defense skills, Colin’s obsession with my training has me a bit worried about what I’m getting myself into once I embark on my search for Nicolas.
The entry music blares once again from the loudspeakers. The Ram makes his entrance into the arena amidst cheers and shouts of encouragement, his fist held high in the air, then grimly takes his place in one of the holding cells. He’s been bathed, and wears a clean pair of shorts, and the faint color in his skin indicates he had enough time to feed and recharge his system.
I shudder to think how many humans it must take to support these fighters, and whether or not they do so willingly.
The shouting emcee and matching roar from the crowd announces the entry of the challenger. When I look up at the nearest flat-screen, it takes a moment for the image to register.
The Chosen walking through the curtains is tall and well-muscled, with reddish-brown skin and an angry glare. His fight shorts, similar to bicycle shorts like the others, are black, a color not represented by any of the nine sections.
The name emblazoned below his image declares him as The Tasmanian Devil.
It’s Taz.
My ears ring with a sudden rush of emotion as I watch him stride down the red carpet and head to the holding cell.
I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I’d hoped he was out of my life for good.
“I’ll be damned,” Colin says. “Thought his arena days were over. He retired—undefeated—ten, maybe twelve years ago. Though I did hear he’s been hanging around the scene lately. I just didn’t think he was fighting.” Colin scratches his chin as different sections of the audience begin chanting “Devil” and “Ram” in a verbal competition to outshout each other.
Taz ignores the crowd and enters his holding cell, his fierce gaze fixed upon the Ram across the arena. His black hair is oiled and pulled back tightly into a braided bun at the nape of his neck. His dark coppery skin shines with oil as well, a defensive measure which makes it difficult for an opponent to get a solid grip.
It also highlights his well-honed physique, which becomes the new topic of the night for the females in the seats behind us. So far, I’ve paid no mind to the running dialogue they’ve maintained all evening as they compared the fighters and whether or not they’d be worthy bedmates.
But it’s Taz they’re talking about now, and I can’t help but feel a flash of jealousy as they discuss his potential as a lover and bloodsport playmate.
And the more I listen, the more I want to turn around and rip their heads off, and tell them he wouldn’t waste his time on such empty-headed, shallow twits, let alone share blood with them.
“Are you all right?” Colin says quietly into my ear.
“I’m just fine,” I snap. Then, recalling who I’m with and how perceptive he is, I apologize. “Sorry. I’m just hungry and want this to be over.”
Colin nods, apparently accepting my lame excuse.
I focus inward and try to suppress the unwelcome turmoil Taz has triggered once again within me.
But all my thoughts fade as the cage doors slam open.
The Ram steps out warily, keeping his distance from Taz as the Indian saunters across the floor toward him. Taz is an inch or two taller, and though his muscles are more defined, he’s not as stocky and thick-waisted as the Ram.
“I don’t think Moore stands a chance,” Colin says. “You’re looking at the most lethal fighter to ever enter an arena. It’s doubtful Moore will leave the cage alive, and I bet he’s thinking the same thing. The Devil’s already won this match before it really starts.”
As much as I hate to see the Ram, or anyone, destroyed in the arena, I’m mesmerized by Taz and his catlike grace. He glides over the mat, his movements as smooth and oiled as his skin. His eagle-eyed glare gives no hint as to what his next move might be and the Ram continues to give the Indian a wide berth as they circle around the arena.
The air above Taz blurs as he leaps with no warning to crash feetfirst against the Ram’s midsection. The Ram falls backward, twisting as he lands in an effort to regain his feet. Taz touches down beside him on all fours, like some big cat ready to pounce, and the snarling Ram scrambles to a stand. Taz’s golden eyes gleam above a feral smile as he springs up from the mat and delivers a slashing blow across the Ram’s chest, drawing the first blood of the match. The crowd shouts its approval.
The Ram staggers back then, true to his name, lowers his head and charges at the Indian. But as quick as he is, Taz is quicker. He dances to the side and, hooking the Ram’s arm, spins his opponent around then pivots to drive his fist into the Ram’s ear. Releasing him, Taz steps away and waits.
The Ram cradles his ear, then shakes his head. Enraged and likely in great pain, he turns and tackles Taz. It’s almost as though the big Indian lets him, and just before they hit the mat, Taz flips their tangled bodies and winds up on top. He punches the Ram in the face, once, twice, three times in rapid succession with his right fist, then does the same with his left. The Ram squirms beneath him and raises his arms, attempting to block the punishing blows. Taz slams past them several more times, then shoves himself to his feet and walks away to the other end of the cage.
The Ram slowly stands and wipes the blood from his battered face. Hatred contorts his features as he spots Taz quietly waiting across the arena.
A hush settles over the warehouse as though everyone in the audience is holding their breath.
“Well, you gonna just stand there lookin’ pretty or are you here to fight?” The Ram spits on the floor. “Mongrel outlaw son of a whore.”
The last word is barely out of his mouth before he’s slammed against the bars. Taz wraps his long fingers around the Ram’s face and smashes his head against the steel bars several times, then grabs it with both hands and pulls it downward as he drives a knee upward again and again. Blood splatters across the mat with each impact, accompanied by the sickening sound of crunching bones.
Still gripping the Ram by his head, Taz flings him to the floor and places one foot on the fallen Chosen’s back.
It’s the same move Nicolas made just before he almost tore Katerina’s head off.
Horrified, I can do nothing but watch.
And then Taz looks up.
He looks straight up at me, as though he knew I was there the whole time.
Without breaking eye contact, he twists his body and I cringe.
But when he stands, his hands are empty. The Ram, his head still attached, groans beneath him. Taz stares at me a half moment longer, then turns away and walks toward the exit.
The crowd goes insane. Outrage at being denied a kill saturates the air, accented with disbelief that Taz would leave an opponent alive. They’re even more stunned when he passes the platform without collecting the championship belt.
“I do believe that’s a first.” Colin looks at me speculatively. “He always takes out his opponent. His nickname is The Executioner, and it’s well-earned.”
I keep my gaze fixed on the bloody arena floor below us.
Apparently, as much as Taz disturbs me, I disturb him. Enough to change his entire Game.
With a deep sigh, I finally glance over at Colin. He’s still studying me, his expression unreadable.
“Well, then. Shall we?” He stands and offers his hand to help me up.
Other than a simple “good night” when he drops me off at the house, he says nothing more the rest of the evening.
