When Bran stepped forward, the strong reek of his cell mate’s breath made him screw his nose up. It smelled like something had died in his mouth overnight. He pulled back. “Let’s say I win in the arena, which I may not, then where will I be? I’ll be in some horrible bar full of degenerates and alcoholics. I’ll be that loser trying to find solace in the bottom of a glass again. No matter what I do, I’ve already lost everything I hold dear and winning a fight won’t return that to me. Before Moses bought me here I was pissed every night, getting egged on by losers hoping to see more violence. I was their entertainment. I was a fucking clown. Why would I want to go back to that?”
Although he stepped back a pace, Bran’s cell mate still kept the conversation going. “What about the money you could bet on yourself? Put your life savings down on the fight. If you die you won’t need it anyway. But if you win, you can walk away from here with a huge stack of credits. You can change your life.”
“I can’t get my family back.”
“At least you’ll be free to try.”
Fury swelled through Bran and he jabbed his finger at his cell mate, spittle flying from his mouth when he said, “You don’t fucking know me.” He stepped closer, his blood boiling as he loomed over the smaller man. “You don’t know my life and you don’t know what I’ve been through. If I fight, Moses gets what he wants. The cameras get what they want. The spectators get what they want. But I get fuck all. My freedom means nothing to me… nothing.”
Before Bran could say anything else, the bolt on their cell door snapped open. When he turned to look, his stomach lurched so violently he was nearly sick.
Standing there were two guards, two girls, and a woman. The guards stood resolute, the prisoners cried; their washed out faces limp with grief.
Bran stared at the guards. Inhabitants of this world, they looked like Moses. Almost human in their form, but at ten feet plus, they stood taller than any human had ever been. Wider too. They also had gills in their necks. One of them pointed his gun at the three hostages and the other one pointed his gun at Bran.
The one with his gun trained on Bran stepped forward and smiled. “Moses wants you to fight, Bran. Now, he can’t force you—he knows that—but now he has your family booked to leave on the next ship to the slave markets and he thinks he may have a little more…” the guard paused and grinned, his tone dropping and taking on a forced sweetness, “leverage.”
Bran brought his cell mate with him to the locker room. The guy wouldn’t shut up about it, so he finally gave in. Besides, who else would he take? It had been a long time since Bran had someone he could call a friend.
Dressed in nothing but boxer’s shorts, Bran bounced up and down on the spot. To remain still would be to freeze in the metal room. Even the floor stung his bare feet from the contact.
The same two guards who’d brought his family to him stood at the door and watched Bran. Bran stared back.
While hugging himself for warmth, Bran’s cell mate said, “Apparently the natives don’t feel the cold. That’s why they decided to make everything from metal.”
Other than the punching bag hanging from the ceiling, the metal room could have been another cell. Instead of continuing the conversation, Bran kept his focus on the guards as the pounding of his own pulse thudded in his ears.
The one who had given Bran the ultimatum stared back, his dark eyes impossible to read, his wide grin less so. When he blew Bran a kiss, Bran stepped forward.
Both guards snapped the butts of their guns to their shoulders and stared down the barrels at him. “I’d save it for the arena if I were you, sweetheart,” the goading guard said.
A quiver ran through Bran and he continued to bounce. After a deep breath, he managed to keep his tone even. “When I get out of here, people are going to pay for what they’ve done to me.”
The guard blew a sharp shot of air through his lips. “Whatever, princess.”
Maybe the guard had a bet for Bran to lose the fight. Wind him up, send him in, and watch him get torn to shreds by some gargantuan monster. Surely Bran would be the favorite, so it wasn’t a bad plan and could be a nice little money maker if it paid off.
Having that thought didn’t stop adrenaline from turning Bran’s stomach into a rock. It didn’t remove the tension from his shoulders. It didn’t take away the blood lust as he stared at the smug guard’s face.
With his feet now numb because of the cold ground, Bran looked up at the light above the door. It still glowed red.
Two hands clamped on the top of Bran’s shoulders and he flinched.
“You’ll smash whoever you end up against, Bran,” his cell mate said as he massaged his back. “You’re the toughest there is. Fight for your family and don’t give up. You’ll be able to build some bridges with them when you win.”
Bran’s entire back locked tight. Had his cell mate never heard of personal space? Were it not for the guard watching him, he would have broken his fucking nose by now. While biting down so hard it hurt his teeth, he said, “My family’s broken and I can’t undo that.” He stopped bouncing and rocked from side to side, his stare remaining on the guard. “All I can do is make sure they’re safe. After that, I have scores to settle.”
The smile fell from the guard’s face. Black eyeballs stared back.
Bran growled at him.
The guard tapped his gun.
A buzzer sounded and the light above the door turned from red to green.
The door slid open with a whoosh and the guards parted.
The sound of the crowd rushed in, hitting Bran like a stampede. Taking a deep breath, Bran walked toward the arena.
“How much did you bet on yourself?” Bran’s cell mate called after him.
“Nothing,” Bran replied, stopping to lean into the guard’s face. “The only reward I need is the freedom to exact revenge.”
When Bran stepped into the arena, the noise of the crowd hit him like a sonic boom. It came at him from every angle and made him dizzy as he looked around. The fighting area was about the size of four football fields—it looked much smaller on TV. A twenty foot wall skirted the outer edge, containing the gladiators and elevating the crowd to a safe distance from even the largest of fighters. The spectator’s seats started at the top of the wall and stretched up and away to the high ceiling. Although Bran squinted as he searched the crowd, he couldn’t see any empty seats. Over one hundred thousand spectators jeered, cheered, and whooped.
Bran’s opponent entered the arena from the other side. The thickset biped stood about eight feet tall. Reptilian in his appearance, he had snapping jaws as wide as Bran’s arm span. Fuck knows what planet he was from. He looked both stronger and faster than Bran. But did he have his experience and skill? Did he have the safety of his loved ones on the line?
While everything settled down, Bran continued searching the crowd. Then he saw him; Moses! Surrounded by sycophants, the large Stoonrayer grinned from ear to ear. He had the same black eyes as the guards who’d watched Bran and a mouth full of pointy white teeth that made him look like a shark.
To Moses’ right was a cage containing Bran’s family. His ex-wife and two daughters hugged the bars and stared down at him. Grief made their faces hang limp. They looked like they hadn’t slept in days.
When the crowd finally died down, the commentator stood up in his commentary box. Hundreds of speakers surrounded the arena, and the commentator’s voice rang through every one of them. It sent an echo through Bran’s skull. “This is it, the big event; Bran the Warrior versus Isillit from the swampy planet Grount. On paper they seem evenly matched.”
Bran looked at his opponent. What sheet of paper was the commentator looking at?
The entire arena fell silent. Anticipation hung in the air.
“Readyyyyyyyyyy,” the commentator called, “fight.”
Isillit charged at Bran, his jaws spread wide, his forked tongue snaking out in front of him like he had a boa constrictor in his mouth.
T
he vibration of his heavy gait ran through the floor. It felt like standing in the way of a charging rhino. Bran held his ground. Wait for the right moment to strike. Use energy wisely. Fight smarter, not harder.
When Isillit—the one creature stampede—got close enough, he lashed out with one of his large clawed hands. The blow connected with Bran’s side, driving air from his body as it sent him flying.
Searing pain ran through Bran’s shoulder when he hit the hard metal floor and he tasted his own blood.
With Isillit bearing down on him again, he rolled onto his back, lifted his legs up, and flipped the large creature over the top of him.
It felt like the entire arena shook when Isillit hit the ground behind him.
Bran jumped to his feet, spitting blood as he leapt on top of his opponent. Just as he wound back to punch the creature, Isillit snapped at Bran’s face. His sharp teeth were just millimeters away from the end of Bran’s nose, the fetid stench of rot filling the air between them.
It had been enough to upset Bran’s balance. A sharp buck and Isillit flipped Bran off him, sending him tumbling to the hard ground.
The pair jumped to their feet at the same time and circled one another. Aches gripped Bran’s already bruised body as he searched the armored creature’s form for his weak spot. Everyone had one.
Isillit panted a phlegmy rattle as he stared straight back, a slight limp to his gait.
Isillit ran forward again.
When he swiped for Bran a second time, Bran jumped to the side and drove a heavy blow across the creature’s jaw as it passed him. A sharp sting ran through Bran’s knuckles. It felt like he’d just punched a rock.
Two unsteady steps and Isillit hit the ground again.
Before he had time to recover, Bran jumped on top of him. Despite the throbbing pain in his right fist, Bran threw another punch; this time to Isillit’s eye. There was a loud squelch and Isillit screamed. Bran punched him in the other eye.
Blinded by the blows, the creature snapped his head from side to side and gnashed his jaws. Blood ran from both of his eyes down the side of his face.
Bran pushed underneath the creature’s jaw, forcing his head to one side and exposing his neck. Opening his mouth wide, Bran dove in and bit down hard. The leathery, sinewy skin resisted his bite at first until Bran clenched his jaw harder.
A hollow pop sounded out as Bran’s teeth both penetrated Isillit’s skin and broke his windpipe. The taste of his opponent’s oily blood filled Bran’s mouth.
Keeping Isillit’s face pushed away from him, Bran remained locked onto him like a pit bull.
After a minute or so, the final gargling breath left Isillit’s body. Bran sat back, opening and closing his mouth several times to relieve the ache in his jaw. The treacle like blood with its rich taste of oil, dripped from Bran’s chin. A large pool had formed around his knees.
Bran staggered as he got to his feet. With his heart pounding, he wiped his jowls, threw his arms in the air, and roared. The crowd screamed with him. Over one hundred thousand people yelled and shouted as they stamped their feet and clapped their hands. It sounded like thunder booming through the building.
The audience came alive with camera flashes, and television drones buzzed around Bran like flies. Each one beamed the footage to a different solar system. Billions of planets would have watched the fight. Everyone would know that Bran the Warrior wasn’t to be fucked with.
When one of the cameras got too close, Bran took a swing at it, his fist stinging when he connected with its hard metal body. The bot fluttered through the air and crashed to the ground a distance away from him, sparks splashing up from where it scraped across the metal floor.
Bran roared again and turned to the crowd. Then he saw them; his ex-wife and daughters.
Deflated in an instant, Bran’s entire being sank. They looked at him through scared eyes. Their skin had turned pale. Their mouths hung open. They were the only people in the arena not celebrating. And why should they praise a man who’s more monster than human? They’d only ever seen rage from him. Once a beast always a beast; but sometimes the world needed a beast. Sometimes somebody needed to fight. But a beast couldn’t be a dad and this beast wouldn’t be given the opportunity again.
The screams and cries from those around him meant nothing as he made eye contact with his youngest, Abigail. She trembled as she stared back at him.
When Moses stood up, the crowd fell silent. He clapped his hands and it was the only sound in the entire place. “Wow,” he said, “I think that was the quickest fight I’ve ever seen in here. So, it would seem your reputation is justified.”
Exhaustion ran through Bran’s legs and his head spun as he looked up at Moses. Sneering at the gangster on his self appointed throne, Bran said nothing.
“And without further ado,” Moses said. “I hereby free your family.”
There was a loud snap and the door to the cage lifted. The girls and his ex stepped out. Instead of staring at their captors, they stared at Bran like he was the one to be feared.
“But,” Moses said, a wicked grin cutting a jagged line across his face, “I never said you would get freedom for winning this fight.”
Bran shook his head. “No, you can’t. Those are the rules of the arena. When you win, you’re free.”
While wagging an admonishing finger at Bran, Moses said, “Firstly, they’re my rules, so I can change them whenever I like. Secondly, you were never promised your freedom before you stepped into the arena, just the freedom of your family. You’re an animal. Animals should be kept in cages.”
“Fuck you, Moses. Fuck you and everything you—”
The sharp sting of a taser bit into Bran’s back, snapping his chest forward and throwing him to the floor. Bran looked up just in time to see the large fist of one of the guards hurtling toward his chin.
The light in his cell may have been weak, but it still burned Bran’s eyes like chlorine. A jackhammer of a headache clattered through his skull and his back ached from where he’d been electrocuted. Even his cell mate making tea rattled through him, the ching of the teaspoon against the inside of the ceramic mug jangling his nerves.
Opening and closing his jaw several times did little to ease the throbbing bruise that sat deep within it. He groaned as he watched his cell mate from his bunk.
After a few seconds, Bran sat up. He swung his legs out of the bed, the cold floor once again stinging his bare feet when he slapped them on the ground. He looked at his cell mate but his cell mate didn’t look back. In fact, he shifted further around to avoid Bran’s stare.
A pang ran through Bran’s chest. It was the same fucking reaction he always got; the same pattern repeating itself over and over again. Every person he came into contact with hero worshipped him… until they saw him fight. In their eyes, he turned from legend to monster. They always wanted the horror until they saw it.
A deep breath and Bran’s chest expanded, sending sharp pains up either side of his ribcage. Before he could inhale fully, he fell into a wheezy coughing fit that threw stars across his vision.
He spat blood on the floor and sighed as he stared at the red blob. Nothing fucking mattered anymore. Even if he had gotten free from Moses’ prison tower, he wouldn’t be able to escape who he was… what he was. He knew it, and everyone around him damn well knew it.
Once a beast, always a fucking beast…
Ends.
This is the story that led to me writing The Shadow Order series. You can get book one for FREE HERE
Captive
Because the room was always dark, it was impossible for Hope to know how long she’d been there. Weeks? Months?
Lying on the sodden mattress, the musty moisture permeating every part of the room, Hope sniffed hard. The dampness had wormed so far into her body, her sinuses felt like they were clogged with sand. Her tongue was lined with fur, her ears ached, and her muscles quivered with exhaustion.
She scanned the room. The ceiling was dark, maybe b
lack; it was hard to tell in the poor light. Even when they switched the bulb on, she struggled. They’d been doing that less and less nowadays. Maybe they didn’t want to look at her anymore. Maybe the guilt was too much for them. If Hope were to guess, she would say it was because of her appearance. About how much she repulsed them, rather than how much they repulsed themselves. Without a wash since she’d been there, she now stank of dirt and no doubt looked a lot worse.
As she lay shivering, she listened to the slow and deliberate footsteps approaching down the hallway. Since Lucien had abducted her and her family, she’d been his whore. If she didn’t behave, she’d never see her parents or younger brother again.
The footsteps got closer, each heavy click of a heel ratcheting up the tension in her back. This couldn’t go on any longer. She had to fight back. If her family was still alive, she had to free them.
The boot heels continued across the stone floor. Click, click, click. They stopped outside her door, and her heart went into overdrive.
The handle creaked, and she heard his clumsy breath. It was another John driven by his libido.
When he pushed the door wide, his large frame blocked out most of the light. For a moment, he stood there, breathing hard, close to groaning with each exhalation.
Balling her hands into fists, Hope’s entire body snapped tight when he stepped into the room. The debris of stones and chipped brick on the floor crunched beneath his heavy gait.
Without a word, he dropped down to his knees at the foot of the mattress. Breathing heavily, he sounded like he’d pass out, but no such luck. He rested a hand on either side of her head and lowered himself down on top of her.
The thin and dank mattress offered no support beneath his weight. Trying not to cry out, Hope clenched her teeth against the pain, her shoulder blades feeling like they would snap as they were pressed into the concrete floor by his huge mass.
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