by K. A Knight
His face contorts in pain as he screams raggedly. The bazaar erupts in laughter and I can’t help but smirk as two large scavs scuttle forward and drag the still screaming man away without making eye contact. Signalling for another bottle I let my eyes wander around. Everyone goes back to what they were doing before my little performance, and only four people make eye contact with me. Not locals or anyone I recognise. They sit in the far corner with their eyes locked on me, beer bottles littered in front of them yet their eyes are clear and their bodies sharp.
Their clothes are clean with no holes so definitely out of towners, and if I had to guess I’d say they were from the cities. As I get a look at their weapons I re-evaluate their threat level. They are carrying at least one shooter each that I can see and so many blades that I lose count. The dark skinned one has a sword or machete poking over the collar of his shirt and one of the others has a crossbow strapped to his side. My assessment is finished in the time it takes for my eyes to flit over them. When a bottle is gently placed on my table I look away feigning disinterest with my usual empty mask in place. I wonder what four city boys are doing at The Rim. They don’t tend to survive to get this far, the stretch of roads between here and the cities is full of gangs, ferals and unforgiving terrain. Half demolished buildings block the way and finding food out there is like finding a whore without an STD. Taking a swig of the lukewarm liqueur I decide it’s not my problem.
The whores make their way into the bar seating area, looking for their next paying customer. They wind around the tables purring at men, stroking them through their dirty tattered clothes. One man grabs one of the girls and pushes her face down on the table and pulls up her skirt while throwing his money down next to her. Something moves into my line of sight and I lean back with a groan. Why the fuck can’t people take a hint?
The four men from before stand around my little table, all with unreadable expressions. Either they are stupid or brave, I can’t decide which yet. They glance at each other and with a nod, the middle one steps forward. He goes to open his mouth but I beat him to it.
“Fuck off.” My voice is hard and cold. It makes him falter and blink in astonishment at me obviously not expecting that.
He’s really good looking for the Wastes, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. I think it might even be combed. A neat brown beard and trimmed moustache, muscles that are obviously earned, and the best bit? I can’t even smell him from here. His skin is naturally tanned, an olive colour with eyes that are darker than his hair. A wide barrel chest full of power strains against the tight shirt covering it. My eyes follow his chest and widen at the size of his arms, they must be double the size of my waist.
I let my eyes wander to his friends ignoring the questioning stare. The two to his left look nearly the same, I’d guess twins. They both have scruff instead of a beard. One has grey eyes and the other has green but they both have blonde hair-- probably lightened from the sun-- longer on the top and tight on the sides. Their skin is tanned, but not burnt and they’re both tall and well built. Sleek and well-defined muscles show as they move, highlighting the swimmer's body they hide under clothing.
The one to the right-hand side of the first man is a dark-skinned man. His black hair is trimmed short almost to his scalp and barely visible. He has scruff highlighting his sharp cheekbones and a wicked looking scar running through his left eyebrow which makes him look like a fighter. Muscles contract as he moves with an almost hypnotising strain. He’s taller than the others but only by half a head. I watch the way they move, fluid grace in deadly packages. They move like fighters. Great. They look like gods walking through this rough lot. Predators among their prey, their presence fills up the place. I’ve fought some strong men in my time, but these four? They are in a different league. They make me feel dainty and exposed. Their eyes devour me, burning away my calmness leaving only anger in its wake.
“We just want to talk.” This comes from the dark-skinned man, his voice is deep, the deepest I’ve ever heard. It has a roughness to it like it’s not used often or he spent a long time screaming--out here either is possible. I let my eyes wander away from them and notice some of the scavs are watching us. Their expectant looks have me almost smiling. I scan the men again, I could take them or I would die trying. I know how to use their strength against them but I think I might meet some surprises. Intelligence shines in their eyes and they don’t stop scanning the area as they wait.
“What part of fuck off don’t you understand? Would you like me to break it down for you?” I tilt my head with narrowed eyes and then slowly enunciate every word like they are idiots. “Fuck. Off.” with that I take another drink, the liquor burning a path down my throat.
The first man steps forward and takes a seat opposite me and stares. The others glance at each other again but also sit. He’s got balls I’ll give him that, he just saw me cut some guys ear off, which still sits on my table like a trophy, and here he sits like we’re having tea.
I stroke my blade under my arm making it obvious I’m concealing weapons. He lays his palms on the table face down -- a sign of peace. Well fuck. His knuckles are scarred like mine showing me the amount of fights he’s been in. His face is set in determination. I sigh knowing they won’t leave until I hear them out. Dropping my hand from my blade I take another drink knowing I’ll need it to get through this conversation.
“You have the two minutes it takes to finish my bottle.” Sitting back I take the bottle with me and cross my legs and wait.
“We need your help,” I snort and he waits for me to stop before carrying on.
“We asked around, you’re the one everyone told us to go to.”
That’s it? I must admit it piques my interest to know they asked around. I’ll have to remember later to ask to see what people know about them.
“For what?”
“We want to go North. We want to go deep into The Wasteland,” I raise my eyebrow not expecting that. My estimate at the size of his balls just doubled but the thought of going North again has me wanting to stab something. Memories fling themselves at the crudely built wall inside me, the one I fashioned to be able to function again, brought forward by the mention of my old home.
“Apparently that’s where you’re from, they say you’re the only person to make it out alive. We need a guide,” he glances at his friends before continuing “we need to find...” I hold my hand up and down the rest of the bottle. I watch his face as I do it and nearly sputter when it goes from annoyance to amusement. His lips quirk in a sexy as hell way and my eyes are drawn to their plumpness. I flick my eyes back to his to see they’ve heated with knowing, time to leave.
“Let me stop you there buttercup. I don’t give a shit why you want to go into the waste,” I bang the bottle down on the table and stand shrugging on my jacket as I go, “and your two minutes are up.” Without another word, I walk off into the maze that is this city.
My instincts are one of the only things that has kept me alive this long and right now they are screaming at me that they’re bad news. Worse yet is the fact that they didn’t fall for my games. One look in the eyes of the man who first approached me and I know he would fight and play as hard as I do. He’s a man who knows what he wants and does whatever it takes to get it. It doesn't bode well for me.
I make my way to the edge of The Rim, people move and make a path for me as I walk but I keep my eyes on my target. High up on the edge sits an old hotel, the shit hole I call home. Probably a posh retreat in its day, now the walls are cracked and stained and most of the floor is destroyed. The hotel itself is leaning, the outer walls scorched from the sun. The front door hangs off at an angle making me smile, it’s perfect.
I make my way through the lobby and the bodies that are sprawled everywhere. There’s a guy fucking in the corner, his grunts loud in the reception. Two scavs are playing cards until one of them flips the makeshift table they sit at and flings himself at the other man. Home sweet home. Ignoring it all I make
my way to the desk and ring the bell an annoying number of times.
“I’m coming hold your tits.” The old weary voice rings out spreading a genuine smile to my face. The old hunched over lady shuffles through the door and behind the desk with a fierce glare at me. No one knows how old she is, or how she came to The Rim. No one dares ask, not even me.
“Hi Nan.”
She flicks her eyes up and purses her wrinkled lips.
“Whatcha want kid?” She gripes. I lean on my forearms on the dust covered desk.
“Missed you too, you old crone. I need a room.” With one last glare, she turns around. She mutters as she looks for the keys. A body slams into the desk next to me and I turn slightly to keep them in my eyesight.
His eye is ballooning shut and blood runs in rivulets down his face, he slumps against the desk like he just got knocked here. Following his eye line, I see a big bastard coming for him. This should be fun, I kick my legs and lean further on the desk waiting for the show.
A shot rings out and a ceiling tile comes falling down. I turn to Nan frowning, she’s holding her gun that she keeps under the desk. The old crone always spoils the fun.
“No fighting or you can get the fuck out!” She yells her voice no longer weak but full of steel, the weak old lady disappearing in an instant to reveal the true Nan. The two men nod and head back to their beds for the night.
“Aww, why you gotta ruin the fun?” I wink at her as she slides her gun away with a smooth precision born from years of using it. She ignores me and throws me a key, I catch it in mid-air.
“The usual.” She shuffles of before I can reply.
“Love you too.”
She flips me the bird over her shoulder and I chuckle. Grabbing my bag from the floor I make my way down the corridor to the left.
Sauntering to my room which is the only door left at the bottom of the corridor, right next to the emergency exit. Using the old-fashioned key I unlock the door but it bloody sticks. I barge it open and then slam it shut behind me marvelling in the peace and quiet. I throw my bag down on the dirty bed and grab the broken chair from the unused desk and jam it under the door handle. It’ll give me the time to wake up and react in case anyone tries to come in. I look around and let the tension finally drain from my shoulders. All my sarcasm and bravado drops away leaving the damaged women in their place.
Looking around at what I’m pretty sure is the best room in the whole hotel but still, the walls are peeling and a yellow colour. The carpet is dirty and covered in stains you’re best not to ask about. The bed is just a metal box with a mattress on, it beats sleeping out in the open though. The four walls and roof are a godsend, protecting me from the elements and wandering hands that I would have to cut off. Plus I can never really sleep when there isn’t a locked door between me and the rest of the world. I sniff myself and instantly wrinkle my nose, trekking through the waste all day doesn’t have a good effect on anyone. I eye the bed, so ready to sleep but if I don’t wash first the sand and sweat will just stick to me and be a bitch to get off. Turning to the bathroom I start to strip my weapons as I walk.
The door to the en-suite isn’t there anymore and the tiled floor is half torn up. The bath and toilet are covered in grime and the sink is partially clean, only from use. The mirror has a huge crack running down its centre from the last time I looked in it, I keep my eyes averted from it not wanting to see myself.
I flick on the light, the yellow bulb flaring to live with a buzz. I throw my jacket off and my top too, so I just stand in my bra that has seen better days. Is that a blood stain on it? With a frown, I fill the sink and plug it laying my knives down on the counter within easy reaching distance.
Cupping the water I throw it on my face and then get to work removing the grit and dirt. I wash my arms and face first before moving on to the rest of my body. I have to scrub at my breasts and flat stomach before draining the now dirty water. Looking down at my now red skin I frown, this world would be so much easier if my boobs weren’t as big and obvious. It makes me stand out from the men, some slaves used to be able to bind theirs and with a haircut, it disguised them, but not me. I shake my head from my morbid thoughts and fill the sink again.
I have to shimmy out of my jeans, the sweat making them stick to me in a way that makes me cringe. I quickly wash my legs and then drain the water again. Next, I wash my jeans and then throw them over the bath to dry. Turning to leave I accidentally catch a look at myself in the mirror. Bruises mar my tanned skin from recent trysts in the waste. My scars are easily visible with my back being the worst, it covered in crisscrossing long ones pointing up to my slave mark, which stands out at the bottom of my neck.
A thick black circle with the Berserker symbol stamped in the middle, which looks like two diamonds connected with a sword piercing through the middle, it was the first tattoo I ever had. I know I could get it altered. Hell if I wanted rid of it so bad I could burn it off, but to me, it’s a reminder. Of where I came from and the struggles I’ve faced. My eyes fall to the lines down my spine, each one represents a person I killed. It’s a tradition for a fighter to carve their kills into their skin, I struggled and begged for them not to. Why would I want a permanent mark of the blood on my hands? But I grew to see them differently and now one look reminds me that no matter how broken you are-- as long as you’re still breathing you can live to fight another day.
Roses surround the harsh marks, a memoriam to the lives lost, there are so many that they run up my shoulder and down my arm bracketing my champion brand. Which stands proudly on my shoulder, a mark I happily accepted. After all, it represents my freedom, my fingers run softly over the black brand. The design is beautiful, two swords crossed in a circle of leaves with my number of fights in Roman numerals. As I pull my fingers away my nail catches on a raised scar, I freeze and fight away the memory it triggers. Chest heaving my eyes lock on my orbs in the mirror, they’re depths holding secrets that should never see the light of day. I watch the ghosts and pain reflected there, the raw emotion sucking me into my own head.
You think you can live without me? You think I will ever let you go? Your nothing, you're worse than nothing! You’re a broken toy that no one will ever want and I’ll make sure of it.
I push the memory away with a cry and lean my head against the cracked glass. All my hard earned walls crumble around me leaving me the broken creature he named me. No, not broken. Gritting my teeth I painstakingly rebuilt them, the cracks on its decayed surface plain as day but it holds. I shove everything behind the flimsy structure, the memories, the pain even the love. When I’m more myself I straighten and meet my eyes once again, this time the determination and anger which keeps me going shines brightly back at me. They drop to the tattoos once again before I drag them away to drink in the sight of myself.
My long brown hair hangs in a curly mess down to my curvy hips, the ends of it lightning to almost blonde from the sun. Soon enough it will all be blonde, maybe that’s a good thing. A rebirth of sorts. My eyes like the colour of the rain kissed earth from my childhood gleam with things I don’t want to look too closely at. I drag them away and flick the overhead light off vowing to myself to never look in a mirror again.
Making my way into the room in just my panties and bra I slump on the bed and pull a worn paperback from my bag. Opening it to where I left off I immerse myself in the tale of pirates and princess. The words create a world where my nightmares can’t reach, my escape from reality.
CHAPTER THREE
Town of Spring
Pulling on my still damp jeans I almost groan at the lack of sand in them. Once I’ve strapped my weapons on I shrug into my jacket. Grabbing my bag from the desk I move the chair away from the door. I check my weapons once more before I make my way down the corridor. I got about four hours sleep last night, a good amount for me. The rest was spent in a cold sweat from my memories, with faces begging for their lives and the devil himself stood in front of me with his whip. I decided after that there
was no point going back to sleep, so I got up and got ready.
It’s still early which means all the roadies and scavs are still sleeping off their hangovers from last night. Striding down the corridor, my steps are muffled by the horrible green carpet. I pass an open room and glance in. A man lays in a pool of blood on the floor, a broken chair leg next to his caved in head. I don’t bother stopping, but I almost laugh, Nan is going to be pissed.
The rules of her house are simple. No fighting, no killing, and no fucking staining the rooms. With a chuckle, I head to the desk. I ring the bell a couple of times which causes groans and curses from the men passed out behind me. There’s a bare white ass sticking up from the pile of passed out men and the fire in the corner is just dying out enough to see they are bedded down for the day. Half of them use whatever they can find for blankets and pillows while a few actually have them. Nan charges half her normal rate for the reception compared to the rooms, which means it’s always filled to the brim.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
I turn back to the desk when I hear her tell-tale shuffle. She stops behind it, her curly grey hair perfectly held in place and I shit you not, she has on a pearl necklace and a faded red cardigan. She looks like someone's sweet little old grandmother - I asked her once why the get up and she told me people see what they want to, they never expect a little old lady with pearls to shoot them in the face. She earned my respect that day.
