Roman imagined the telepath that was tasked with sending this mental message to him, and he wondered briefly how many messages telepaths came across daily that left them either confused, disgusted, amused, or some combination of the three.
He messaged Harper back as well, telling her he would contact her if he had any free time. It was the right thing to do.
A message from Paris came to him, and as it played out in his head, a bitter look spread across Roman’s face.
You did a good job the other day with Ian, but I’ve asked you to gather more information, and you haven’t contacted me about it. I don’t want to make this a blackmail situation, but since that is what it is, I’ll be frank with you: If you aren’t providing daily information to me, information that you feel would be pertinent to what I am interested in, then you will be in violation of our agreement.
Roman shook his head. He’d had enough of this shit. Paris’s message continued:
I am assuming someone in immigration, someone who works for the government like yourself, would know what happens to a person who is found guilty of treason. From the info I’ve gathered, you have a pretty pathetic life. Your wife is practically dead, you live alone, and you spend your free time womanizing and attending Heroes Anonymous meetings. You contribute nothing to society, you have no real skills or assets aside from your good looks, and you’d be one of the first to go if the immigration office ever downsized. Let’s not add treason to your list of accomplishments.
“I’m done with this shit,” Roman whispered to himself as he saw Coma ahead, waiting for her clothes to be manufactured.
The animated doll smiled, her red eyes softening when she saw him. Roman had a brief flash of what he should do next, but it was just a small nugget of realization. Paris needed to go, and with Celia and Coma around, as well his ability to animate other things—if anyone could make her disappear, Roman could do it.
It was odd, contemplating murder, and he nearly ran into a woman carrying two large shopping bags as he tried to figure out his next step.
“Sorry,” Roman said, pushing past the woman, his thoughts returning to Paris.
And if he did this, if he tried to take her out, he would have to have his mind wiped from any future telepath that needed to look into it for government purposes. This was possible, but it wasn’t cheap. Nor was the procedure readily available.
Maybe Nadine would know of something…
Roman had a feeling that once he became an exemplar, or an official exemplar, they would put him through another background check similar to the one he’d done when he’d started the non-exemplar administration level. He’d definitely need Nadine’s help at this point, and that would require revealing his power.
Perhaps he could do both at the same time: reveal his power and tell her about Paris, asking to have his mind-wiped. It would likely be no sweat off Nadine’s back; a dead spy from a different country would matter little to her.
Paris had made a mistake not getting closer to him; had she gotten closer to him before trying to manipulate him into serving her, it may have been harder for Roman to make the choice he was planning to make.
We can meet whenever you’d like, he finally thought back to Paris. This would give him time to see his wife one last time and prep for the fight that lay ahead.
If he died fighting Paris, at least he’d get to see Celia first.
“What about my new mask?” Coma asked. It was a masquerade-style mask rimmed in gold, and upon further examination, he saw its fabric had been stitched together with red thread.
She had two new outfits in boxes that had been wrapped with purple paper, which was customary in this particular market.
“What now?” Coma asked. “I want to wear my new clothing.”
“What if we went back to my, ahem, our place and changed? Then we could go out for a drink.”
“We can’t drink,” Coma reminded him.
“True, but you can show off your new outfits.”
Roman had his reasons for picking the seedy bar a dozen streets to the east of his building. He had a reason for wearing a stylized cape, popular with non-exemplars, and his own mask, something he’d found in a closet that he’d used at a costume party ages ago.
It was common for non-exemplars to wear masks when they went out. It was considered fashionable, sexy, and while Roman didn’t normally wear a mask, he thought tonight would be the best time to strap one on, especially since he was planning to test his powers.
“It’s great to finally get out of the house,” said Celia, who wore a sleek, silvery outfit with a circle cut in the fabric over her breasts and a headpiece. Her epaulets matched the blue lines running down the sides of her long leggings, the material thin enough that Roman could make out the line of her boy shorts underneath.
Coma was also wearing her new clothing, a ruffled brown dress with a corset that exposed a good amount of cleavage. She was in a pair of Celia’s red heels and white pantyhose offset by the darkness of her dress.
Roman had a lot of money on him—counterfeited money, of course, but enough to live the life of a big spender for a few hours. Which was what he wanted. A distraction, some time with the two living dolls, anything to bury the guilt raging through him.
He knew, even as he led the ladies into the seedy bar, that he would need to see his wife tonight; he felt stupid for even thinking he should be doing anything else, yet here he was.
Roman had come to this particular bar for a reason, and considering he had only a day and a half to get Celia, Coma and himself up to speed, he would need for this to go down rather quickly.
And it did.
Roman had barely taken a sip from his first cocktail when a large man approached him, sized up the masked immigration advisor, grunted, and told Roman to meet him outside.
“At least let me finish my drink,” Roman said over the live band playing a popular song about Centralian independence.
Roman finished his beverage, wiped his face with his sleeve, and nodded for Celia and Coma to follow him out to a converted court behind the club. There were lights on at the top of the court, and the stands surrounding it were half full with bookies taking bets while one of the bar’s waiters handed out drinks.
The man who had called him out stood in the center of the court, his fists at the ready. There were no rules at this particular fight bar about exemplars versus non-exemplars; it really was a “fight at your own risk” type of place.
“You have any friends?” Roman asked as he approached the man. Celia and Coma stood behind Roman, watching the proceedings with indecipherable looks on their pretty faces.
“Why are you asking that?”
The man was a head taller than Roman, scars running up and down his right eye giving him limited vision. Roman could already see the activity around them, bets being placed, mostly against Roman, few people going for the underdog.
“There are three of us and one of you.”
The man snorted. “I don’t know what you pulled out of the red-light district, mister, but these two bitches have never fought a day in their life.” He grinned from cheek to cheek, showing Roman his missing teeth.
“Last chance,” said Roman as he took off his overcoat. He rolled up his sleeves and loosened his hands, mostly for show. He would end this quickly.
It’d been a while since Roman had come to this club, and last time he’d left with a couple broken ribs.
That had been right after the incident with Celia, and Roman had been angrier than he’d ever been in his entire life. What made it even harder was that his rage had mostly been aimed at himself. He’d tried going to the gym, exercising more outside, and taking personal days until he got in trouble with Selena.
Nothing worked, until he got his ass kicked.
And he couldn’t forget that man that had pinned him that night, striking him in the face, Roman taking the punishment and knowing he deserved it. He’d tried to fight back in the beginning, but it quickly became
clear that the guy knew what he was doing.
So a few broken ribs, Roman took those—and in his head, he equated them with what he had put Celia through, and that she would likely never wake up again.
The things he did to forget only etched what had happened deeper into his memory.
Still, like sex, fighting had a high to it, a numb feeling of euphoria that Roman enjoyed.
While these fight bars were frowned upon by the Centralian government, no one did anything to stop them. The clubs paid their taxes, they allowed citizens to let their aggressions out, and as long as nobody died, officials generally turned the other cheek.
“I don’t know what you’re paying these ladies, mister, and I don’t know what kind of sick shit you’re into, but if my last statement wasn’t clear, I’m not fighting them. You on the other hand…”
“I don’t really think you have a choice.”
Coma stepped in front of Roman, baring her teeth as she brought her fists up. If the man was a head taller than Roman, he was two and a half taller than her.
The man’s shadow moved over the petite woman wearing gothic Lolita clothing as she approached.
The thing was, while he hadn’t demonstrated it last time he’d been to this particular fight bar, Roman actually knew how to fight. He’d grown up fighting, mostly in torn-down places like this, but for a spell, in his early twenties, he’d taken it pretty seriously.
Celia had changed all that.
She hadn’t allowed him to do it, and he’d listened to her, one of the only people who could ever get through to him.
“You need to get out of the way, little lady,” the big guy said.
Rather than respond, Coma pulled her fist back and drove it into his stomach. The man stumbled backwards, fury wrinkling his brow.
“Please hold these,” Celia said as she gave Roman her high heels.
The crowd around the abandoned basketball court had started to grow in size.
The people that came knew there would be crazy fights, but usually those happened later, after more drinks.
This was a rare treat: two hot women fighting a beefy brawler.
The man swung at Coma and she stepped aside just in time. She brought a fist into his ribs, and he managed to crack her in the back of the head with his elbow, sending her straight to the ground.
Roman saw his power dial flash as panic lifted in his throat. He calmed himself with a deep breath, not yet ready to make his attack.
“Sending your women to fight me!? Come on, you fucking coward!”
Celia kicked at the man, and he blocked her first kick with his forearm. She backpedaled, got her balance, and charged forward, where she was quickly laid to the ground by the man’s big fist. It was a cringeworthy punch; it only reminded Roman that they needed much more work, and they didn’t have a lot of time to do it.
Well, Celia anyway.
Within seconds, Coma was back on her feet trading blows with the man, which was causing some commotion in the crowd. She stood her ground even though his punches had started to rearrange her body—no blood, no broken bones, but they were actually indenting her skin, something entirely new for Roman and those watching to see.
He saw now that they had unlimited stamina, but they weren’t as strong as he would like them to be, and because they had no real bone density, it became very clear that they were not human.
The crowd had noticed it too, and people were already whispering that Roman was an exemplar.
Roman called both women back to his side, where placing a hand on each of their shoulders was enough to reform the parts of their body that had been dented by the man’s powerful knuckles.
I can heal them too, he thought as he eyed the man.
“I’m sorry you two had to go through that,” Roman said under his breath. “I will finish this now, and we will learn from this. There’s a reason for doing this, and it’ll make more sense sooner rather than later.”
Celia locked eyes with Coma, and they both looked up to Roman.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to handle this?” Coma asked. “I can keep going.”
“The part of you that was able to fight—that was part of me.”
Roman stepped up to the man and raised his fists.
“Finally, the man that has two bitches fight for him decides to step forward. I’ve been waiting for this.”
It was going to be too easy; the competitor in Roman didn’t like this fact. But he’d come here to see how well these two skills of his meshed, his fighting ability and his newfound powers.
Roman knew the action he planned to take against Paris would put him on a collision course with people who wanted him dead. He wanted to be ready; he also wanted to see the real Celia.
He needed to make this quick.
The man’s belt began tightening around his waist.
He dropped his hands to it, trying to figure out what was happening. It didn’t take long for the belt to slither around the man’s body like a snake, where it wrapped around his neck and quickly tightened, his face turning red.
This got the attention of a couple men on the sidelines, men who worked for the club and were there to make sure the violence didn’t turn to sudden death.
Roman showed everyone his palms, and the belt fell to the ground, the big man wrapping his hands around his throat as he coughed.
“You’re… you’re a fucking exemplar.”
“We can end this here,” Roman told him.
There was a reason Roman wore a mask, and that reason had presented itself.
A guy with white hair, orange eyes, and a mask could be any type of exemplar, as many of them had odd features. Not that he thought anyone would rat him out—that was a punishable offense in a place like this. But he wanted to play it safe.
Which was also why he stepped back, allowing the man to decide if he wanted to take this any further.
“Step aside,” Roman heard a booming voice say.
Emerging from the shadows was a huge man with red skin, his forearms covered in fragmented bits of bone-like armor.
Roman recognized him immediately: Ian Turlock, the man whose immigration paperwork he’d changed using his abilities.
Ian was clearly drunk, evident in the way he staggered and the glaze over his eyes.
He didn’t recognize Roman, which was a damn good thing, because this was the exact type of challenge Roman had been looking for—a way for him to truly cut his teeth.
Not wanting to get involved with two exemplars, Roman’s original opponent disappeared into the crowd, cursing under his breath that he’d been tricked by the superpowered.
“Are you ready?” Ian took off his shirt, revealing a muscled body covered in bone and keratin armor.
It was disturbing to look at, and as Ian loosened up, the protrusions began to grow from his forearms.
He punched his fists together, slapped himself a few times, snorted and spat.
Ian nodded, indicating he was ready.
“Coma, take care of Celia.” And without saying another word, Roman powered Celia down. Coma caught her just in time, holding the limp sex doll in her arms.
A few in the crowd gasped; others simply placed more bets.
It was a cheap trick, but it had worked with the other men, so Roman went for it.
The ground beneath Ian rumbled. Rather than lose his balance, the towering man caught himself and exploded towards Roman.
If it hadn’t been for Coma, Ian’s attack would have taken Roman’s head off.
Coma pressed forward just in time, leaving Celia to fall to the ground.
She shoved Roman out of the way and took the brunt of Ian’s hit, squeaking as she flew backwards into the stands.
“Coma!”
The wooden planks ripped off the frame of the stands, morphing together and forming a tripod, which galloped over to Ian and began striking him with its wooden legs.
Ian blocked the attacks with his arms, his protrusions tearing through
the wood, showering the air with splinters.
Roman tried rumbling the ground again, which only seemed to piss Ian off even more, the big guy clearly able to adjust his balance on a dime.
Since Ian wore pants, Roman animated his pants, which tore off his body and tried to strangle him. Even while being beaten by the tripod, Ian managed to rip his attacking pants to shreds.
“I thought you wanted to fight me!” Ian, now in his boxer briefs, smashed what was left of the wooden tripod and moved towards Roman, murder in his eyes.
Roman pulled all the concrete up, paying no attention to his power dial, and slapped it against Ian, wrapping him in it like he was rolling him up in a blanket. He twisted the ends of the concrete, temporarily preventing Ian from escaping.
The red bar on his power dial flashing, Roman stumbled towards Celia and Coma, realizing that Coma had actually been split in two by Ian’s punch.
“Fuck,” he cried out, then grabbed her lower half and dragged it over towards Celia and the rest of Coma.
One more glance at the crowd, their cries for death, and back to Ian, who was seconds away from breaking free of the concrete that enveloped his body.
Roman called a telepath; he was in over his head.
Chapter Forty-One: Two Assets in One Week
Nadine always checked over her shoulder. It was a habit, a paranoia with true implications. Once she was sure she wasn’t being tailed, she knocked on the door and waited for the slit to open.
She was greeted yet again by Oscar’s dark-purple eyes.
“Long time no see,” said Oscar as he let her in. As always, he stood in the shadows, his presence felt but hardly seen, the communicator likely in some of Centralia’s finest clothing.
“I can’t find you. Where are you?” Nadine joked with him.
“You always have to make a comment when you come in here, don’t you?”
“I think it’s the shadow act. It’s a little… much?”
House of Dolls Page 20
