by Cebelius
He opened his mouth, closed it, and glanced at his companions before saying, "Do you really need to do this now?"
"I catered to your wishes, Terrence Mack. Now my patience is at an end. You have a debt owed to Mamma Moo. You will pay that debt to me. I challenge you to single combat, in the pit. No weapons, no magic. When I win, you will give me what I want."
He blinked, and Al could see a glimmer of genuine interest in the template's eye as he said, "And if I win?"
"You won't."
T-Mack rolled his eyes and drawled, "Fuuck you ... I don't have time for this. Either you give me something for a win or this isn't terms. It's bullshit."
"Very well," Astur said. "If you win I will give you anything within my power to give."
The template's eyes narrowed as he stared at the dragon proxy for a long moment, then glanced over at Euryale and said, "She can't kill me and get what she wants, so it won't be a fight to the death. What do you say?"
The lion man's gaze shifted to the gorgon, whose many snakes hissed and wove through the air in agitation for a few moments before settling. The voice of the tiny woman was deceptively cheerful given the raw power she commanded.
"I look forward to watching you kill her, Master."
The gorgon turned her masked face to stare fixedly at Asturial's proxy as she pointedly added, "Again."
"Laina?"
The template turned to the minotress, who frowned at him, then shrugged. "You're right. She can't kill you and get what she wants."
Laina smiled then, and said, "Not every day you get to see a dragon taken down a peg or two. Beat the hell out of her, Boss."
Al watched T-Mack think it over, then with another glance at his companions he said, "Fine. When I beat the ever-lovin' out of you, you'll fly me and everyone here with me to the Eastern Steppes. You'll do it safely, following all instructions from pick up until we touch down at our destination, and then you'll fuck off. I'll need at least a day to recover before we throw down. Agreed?"
"You'll 'ave a week, my lover."
Mamma Moo bounced to a halt, clearly out of breath. "An hour before sundown on t' seventh day. I've gotta get it all ship shape first an give people round 'ere a chance to se'le down. We'll put the word out 'oo killed the Locutor, an' gin up a crowd. By week's end we'll 'ave the fight of a lifetime on our 'ands."
Terry looked at Al and asked, "You okay with this happening in your city?"
The lion man blinked, surprised that the man had thought to ask, then shrugged and said, "Dragons do what they like. We'll make it aboveboard and public for all I care. Giving people a spectacle to look forward to isn't the worst idea I've heard. I come from a city that revolves around the coliseum anyway. As long as I get a front row seat, I'm good."
The man nodded and looked at Mamma Moo as he said, "Set it up. I get the agreed-upon cut."
"Aye, five an' fifteen."
T-Mack's eyes blazed as he stared at the minotress, and after a moment she tapped the side of her head as though absent-minded and said, "Five an' twenny. My bad."
With a last, dire glance at Astur, T-Mack looked back at his companions, jerked his head toward the doors, and passed the group that'd come to meet him on his way up the steps.
None of the others said anything. Even Euryale seemed tired, her snakes gazing around listlessly as she passed.
Astur watched them go, then looked down at Al, visibly perplexed as she asked, "What happened to them?"
"Well, from what they told me, they went out and saved the city from a Twilight Zone Arch-Locutor. A behemoth. I'd say they've earned their rest, wouldn't you?"
Albrecht met the dragon's eyes steadily, and finally she nodded and said, "Fair enough. I will require a room here. My proxy does require some sleep, and sustenance. Provide these."
"I'll see to it."
"Find me in the throne room when my needs are prepared," she said, and stalked away.
Finally, Al turned his attention to the minotress and said, "Mamma Moo was it?"
"Aye, Commander Ross?"
"We have preparations to discuss. That piddly underground ring you've got won't do for the fight."
Mamma Moo batted her big blue eyes at him as she said, "Sing, my lover! So far I love wha' I'm 'earin'!"
She smirked, then added, "'Cept for that bit 'bout not knowin' my name. I seen you round abou' my pit a time'r two."
Commander Ross grinned at her, showing all his teeth, then led her away as he told her what he had in mind.
24
Time Alone
Desultory parting words saw the Kolenkos and Marcus away to their rooms as Terry opened the door and trudged into the suite set aside for his women and himself. There was a bathing area a few corridors away, and after Laina put the still unconscious Shy in one of the beds, both women told him in their own way that they'd see him in the baths when he jerked his head meaningfully toward the closet that had what passed for restroom facilities in this place.
He stripped out of his clothes, dropping them carelessly on the stone floor, then looked down at Prada and said aloud, "Off."
'Why?'
"Because it's in your fucking contract. Absent personal danger, you do what I ask."
He got a curious sense from her, but Prada slipped off of him and poured herself into a sizable globule on the floor next to his clothes. He stared at her dully for a moment, not a single thought in his head, then said, "Back in a few."
She made no reply, but he hadn't been waiting for one. He closed the door behind him. A narrow slit in the wall let in the morning light, and it was enough to see by. He did his duty and absently began to wash his face.
He stopped after realizing he'd washed it three times, then slowly started to wash the rest of himself, using a small cloth obviously meant for much less demanding duty. For the duration, he thought of nothing, felt nothing. His physical aches and pains seemed dull, far away, and meaningless.
By the time he'd gotten the majority of the grime off, the cloth was black and fit for nothing but the burn pile. He held it in his hand and stared at it, idly wondering how much of what he'd just scrubbed off was blood, and just how much blood had really been spilled for him. Blood he would never know about.
Shu is dead.
There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Ephe's death and his subsequent loss of her gift had confirmed it. While it was technically possible that Shy's speculation was still true, the thought rang hollow. He realized that he'd always known it was a possibility, one that he'd tried hard to keep himself from considering. She'd been a passing fling, a few moments of fun, but still ... she was dead, and it was all but certain that his presence in this city had killed her. What made it even worse was that he hadn't even known she was in danger, and now it was too late to do anything. He couldn't save her. She was just gone.
Everywhere I go.
He dropped the cloth and leaned on one hand against the wall as he stared down at the floor, just breathing as thoughts and emotions he wasn't equipped to deal with welled up inside him, breaking through the blanket of nothing he'd hidden himself in, threatening his composure.
"There's no way I can do this ... there's just no way. It isn't right, it isn't fair. I don't want to be here. Why God? Why am I here?"
No answer was forthcoming, and none had been expected. Still, he felt compelled to ask. The horror of this world seemed to have no end to it, and no point.
The behemoth's words came back to him.
'You're in terrible danger, Mr. Mack. Your soul is being torn apart.'
"I want to go home."
His eyes squeezed shut as he pressed his forehead to the cool stone, face twisting in agony as he murmured, "I just want to go home!"
I had my chance. I blew it. It was right there. All I had to do was take two steps, just TWO STEPS ... and the nightmare would be over.
It wasn't for his family that he wanted to go home. His feelings, or lack thereof — for them hadn't changed. He wanted to go home for himself. He w
anted to save himself.
Still, I should have been thinking of them. A good man would have thought of nothing else.
His youngest sister Sara had never betrayed him, had always been kind, been grateful, helped where she could. If he'd been thinking of her — like he should have been — he would have taken those two steps. She at least still deserved his help. Still needed it. Yet she hadn't even occurred to him when the chips were down. When it mattered.
Instead, the only people I gave a damn about were the ones I met here, and for all I know they're either imaginary or stealing my soul away one piece at a time.
He saw with crystal clarity why Thomas was doing what he did. He wondered if he really was playing for the wrong team. This wasn't his world. This place hated him. It was nothing but sweet promises surrounded by unending lies, violence, and death. Fighting was one thing, but killing? Being constantly forced to kill, and watching the people around him die ... who could want that? Who could face that?
If I save this place, this will happen to others. So many more. If I can help stop it, shouldn't I?
It was a siren song, and as the moments turned into minutes, Terry listened to that song as he leaned against the wall. At last though, the song ended, and his thoughts turned in another direction. That deeply held part of him that warned him when he was about to be too trusting, too easy, stepped up and gave him what he needed.
I can't live my life as though what I'm doing doesn't matter ... and I can't betray Laina. She's good through and through, and she believes in me. So does Shy. If I go to the zone, if I turn against them, how many more of THEIR people will suffer? Isn't that what I'm trying to prevent? Isn't that what I PROMISED to stop?
He spun to put his back against the wall and slid down to a seat, his arms draped over his knees as he stared at nothing.
No matter which side I choose, no matter where I go or who I try to help, people here will suffer and die because of me. People I never met. People who might never even know why they're suddenly mixed up in a situation they never asked for. Just because I'm nearby.
No one deserves that.
He looked at his hands, and without really thinking about it, he closed the fingers of his right into the image of a gun. He stared at it for a long moment, then quickly pressed his fingers to his temple, cocked his thumb sharply, and closed his eyes as his hand dropped away.
I could do it. My knife is right outside. Why did I take my clothes off out there? If I'd done it in here my knife would be in my hand ... right now.
He covered his face and started chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Every decision he made was wrong. Every choice, every move cost him more than he could pay, or worse, cost someone else.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself, T-Mack.
That quiet, cynical survivor inside him did what it always seemed to do. It put him to a decision.
If you're going to end it, get up and go get that knife. If you're NOT, put it out of your head and tighten the screws, man, before you completely fall apart.
Terry cast about inside himself, searching for either the conviction to go get that knife, or the inspiration to move past his want of it.
Inspiration came from the last place he'd ever think to look.
'Tough times don't last, Terry. Tough men do. Just remember that. Stick it out, and you'll be okay.'
He snarled at the thought. It was so trite, so meaningless. He wanted the man who'd said it in front of him so he could beat the living shit out of him.
But the thought persisted. It stuck, and refused to leave his mind. He'd relied on that phrase more than once during the worst parts of his life. What made it so bad was that the one who'd said it to him had been his worthless, drunkard, good-for-nothing father. The same man who'd sold his own daughter to a drug-dealer to pay gambling debts.
It had been early in life, before his dad had lost his job for the last time. He'd come home with a smile on his face and gathered all the kids up and hugged them and told them everything would be all right. That tough times didn't last, but tough men did. He'd gotten a new job at the mine, and they were all going to be okay.
Tears — held back so far — spilled down Terry's cheeks.
When's it going to be okay, Dad? When? What do I have to do to make it okay?
Nothing he could do would change the way people in this world reacted to templates. It was an absolute. To rail against it was to slam one's head against a brick wall.
So I have to allow it. I have to accept it. I have to permit these people to be who they are and not take their actions onto myself. How do I do that? How can I just ignore the suffering my presence causes?
His father didn't have those answers. His father had, ultimately, been a failure. But Terry had other sources of inspiration. People he'd looked up to, wanted to be like. Not all legends were monsters. Some were heroes ... and some were movie stars.
"Be like water."
He whispered the word like a prayer. "All I have to do is adjust and flow. I keep trying to force this world to conform to my expectations. I keep waiting for it to satisfy me. Instead ... can I abandon my expectations? Can I flow?"
You talk a great game, Bruce Jr. Talking and doing are two different words for a reason.
Though he was pretty sure Bruce Lee had never dealt with chicks that had snakes for hair or oceans of arachnid children or dragons the size of the capitol building, he had been famous for — among other things — keeping his shit together. He was cool, calm, and collected no matter what life threw his way, and right now Terry desperately needed some of that.
Journey of a thousand miles, T-Mack. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get up, and go figure out how to make things work. You picked your team, now stick by them like they've stuck by you. If you're not strong enough, get stronger. Not skilled enough? Train harder. Too much you don't know? Learn from someone, or read a fucking book. There's always a solution. Always.
I just have to get my head in the game, and find it.
He grinned as a new thought pulled him up short and it occurred to him that, in fact, his dragon problem had walked up and practically solved itself. No tricks, no magic, no bullshit. All that particular problem asked of him was to step into the pit and do what he did best. Simple ... and he had a week to train.
I just need to get my head right, and I can do this.
He got up, glanced at the black water in the wash basin, then scrubbed his palms across his cheeks and blinked the tears away. He shook his head violently, put his game face on, and opened the door.
Prada had moved a bit and now sat squarely on top of his pile of clothes, including the knife in its sheath. When he laid eyes on her, words fizzed up through her bulk. "Feel better?"
He shrugged and said, "I'll adjust."
She started to slide toward him and he said, "No. Stay here. I'm just going to sit with Shy for a while."
"You still don't trust me?" Prada asked, sliding back to cover the clothes again.
"This has nothing to do with trust. Sometimes ... a man just needs to be alone with his thoughts."
"With all due respect, Master, I'm not entirely certain your thoughts are the kind I want to leave you alone with right now."
How did I ever let myself get mixed up with this self-serving fucking blob ... always an angle, always hustling. Sitting on that knife like she'd be able to fucking stop me if I wanted it.
His lips curled into a snarl as he thought it, but he did his best to stifle his rising anger. It wasn't rational. It also wasn't necessarily true that just because Prada COULD be entirely self-serving that she actually WAS.
It's just likely.
Doing his best to keep the simmering resentment out of his voice he said, "If I need couch time from here on out, I'll ask. Maybe next time we negotiate, you can put it in the contract."
He put the sanguine devil firmly from his mind as he stepped into the bedroom, realized there were no windows here, and left the door open for the light as he took the one
chair and put it next to the bed.
When he sat in it and turned to look, he saw the soft green glow of Shy's open eyes as she gazed up at him.
"You're awake."
It was a stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing that came to mind.
"Tee ... I felt that. I don't know the details, but I felt it. There was no way I could not feel that. What you're going through, I'm so sorry!"
Terry reached out for the bottle that Laina had left on the dresser and handed it to Shy in an effort to brush her words off as he said, "You still look rough. Drink this. It'll make you feel better."
She shook her head and put the bottle back on the dresser, then reached for him instead. He leaned forward for her and she wrapped arms around him and pulled him with gentle insistence into the bed.
The grain that was usually so dark and beautiful in her skin was dull and gray in the near darkness. Splinters of bark clung to her elbows and shoulders. Traces of her wooden armor remained in her hair, but all he could see were her eyes as she shifted on top of him and pressed the length of her body to his.
She rolled her hips against his, but her gaze never wavered.
"I hate what this place is doing to you, Tee. I try, but it seems everything I do is too little, too late. I want to help you, I want you to be happy. You are everything to me, and to feel, that, from you ..."
He shook his head, again stifling anger and resentment, this time at the fact that even his inner-most thoughts were no longer entirely his own. It was easier this time at least. He knew — at least as much as he could know anything — that she loved him. "It's not your fault. None of this is on you, Shy."
He wrapped his arms around her and she pressed her forehead to his as she moved sensually against him. The effect her body had on him was irresistible, and with a small gasp she sank down on him, pressing him deep.
Terry winced, but the sensation wasn't pain. Not even close. She moved slowly, and he could feel each slow flex of her ass as she rode him. She kissed him, and he lost himself in the slightly citrus flavor of her lips and tongue.
