Let the Fights. . . BEGIN!
Shaad and Raine entered the fight arena side by side, each wearing newly bought clothes. Raine showed up in a skimpy, tight little black skirt that went just past her fingertips and hugged her curves like a second skin paired with a white blouse, left unbuttoned enough to expose an ample amount of cleavage, with a silver chain resting between her glorious breasts. Shaad, meanwhile, wore a similarly themed outfit: a pair of black slacks with a white dress shirt that left his muscled chest and silver pendant exposed, his fedora shading his face and swords strapped to his back in their cross sheath. The two also wore a moderate amount of other accessories as well as shades to counter the glare from the numerous bright lights in the dark arena.
The auditorium was large and spacious, an abundance of artificial lighting of all different colors to make up for the complete lack of natural lighting in the underground area.
"I can't believe there was something this huge under the hotel," Shaad exclaimed as his eyes, wide with wonder and amazement, instinctively scanned the vast space. "Not to mention that gigantic gym and the holding area."
"And there's plenty of money to be made," Raine hungrily added, mostly to herself, oblivious to Shaad as her mind was dominated by the sight of money exchanging hands like germs. Hundreds, thousands and tens of thousands of beli crossed under the table between the many high rollers present in addition to the exorbitant bets being placed through the arena's betting stations as an intense fight raged in the cage at the center of it all.
The place was so loud and hectic that the pair had trouble communicating as they snaked their way through the crowd to find a good pair of seats. Shaad went ahead and sat down as Raine signaled that she'd be back after she got a bit more information and made a few bets. Though heated, the battle going on in the ring was largely uninteresting: two muscle bound, gorilla like men clashing over and over in a test of strength with little actual skill involved.
Shaad was yawning when a heavy electrical surge phased through the air. He looked to the ring to see the tanner individual pressing the lighter skinned man against the electrified cage that surrounded them. After almost a minute, the man suffering the shocks began to go slack as the electricity seared the flesh on his back before he was thrown across the cage to the other side and fell down to the ground unconscious after being frazzled on that side of the cage as well.
While the match itself and the result were utterly uninspiring, Shaad took note of the cage as well as the strange collars around the fighters' necks. During the winner's celebration the loser lifted himself to his feet and attempted to escape through the open door only to be felled by what looked to be a strong shock.
"That collars an interesting little contraption." Raine commented, reappearing next to Shaad while he watched the staff carry off the attempted escapee, beating him along the way for insubordination.
"You know something?" Shaad asked, quirking an eyebrow at her.
"Of course," she responded smugly, stuffing a wad of bills along with a few betting slips into her breast pocket. "The collars were designed and engineered by that sexy Sangre character you shied away from. The design is based on the collars Nobles' slaves used to wear, but instead of just a bomb, they deliver a strong shock straight to the nervous system, and if that shock last long enough it activates a bomb at the front. It'll blow your head clean off; all at the press of a button."
"That's quite the setup; I assume Sangre is also responsible for all of the other electrical devices in this hotel." Shaad stroked his chin in thought as he watched a well-dressed man enter the ring to announce the next two fighters. He was pulled from his musings by Raine placing an arm around his shoulders.
"Those collars seem like a good way to keep someone under control. Maybe we should get one for you so you don't destroy my ship next time." Her tone suggested she was joking, but the comment nonetheless drew a considerable amount of ire from Shaad.
"You're not putting a collar around my neck; I'm not some dog," he declared, his voice gruff and serious.
Raine equipped one of her coy smiles and slyly concurred, "Of course not; you're a stallion."
Shaad ignored the obvious innuendo and questioned Raine, "When are the main fights supposed to take place?" The current matchup of a well built, stern faced fighter beating up on some sickly looking young man wasn't at all interesting as he watched from the corner of his eye.
"We're lucky; this club's main draw is actually fighting tonight. . . And, there should be two other good ones scheduled. Now, if only they all go as well as this one."
"That must mean you bet on the skinny kid," Shaad stated. He didn't even need to look her way to feel Raine's eyes on him, a quizzical expression on her face. "The kid's avoiding any real damage from those punches. A shame too; it would only take one good one to knock him straight out, but that military looking creep can't see that."
Raine didn't believe Shaad's assessment, but just a few seconds after those words left his mouth, the thin younger man twisted around a punch to the stomach and jabbed the larger man in the throat, caving his trachea and activating the bomb in his collar with a well-placed knife hand. Raine's objection was subsequently cut off by the sound of her pick to win having his head blown off, splattering blood and skull fragments onto the first few rows. The crowd roared their approval at the gore and were pumped for the next fight while Raine ripped apart her betting slip in disgust.
"C'mon. I know you can read fighters better than that," Shaad chastised his navigator.
"For your information, I can," she defended herself in obvious frustration. "But, they hadn't started fighting when I made the bet, and I didn't expect a risky tactic like that."
Raine watched the next few fights with renewed intensity, hooping and hollering loudly, as she hoped to recoup her losses and make a significant profit while Shaad spent more time lazily taking in the audience instead of the actual competitors, noting how casual they all looked as grown men were killed and beat near death for their entertainment. Old gangsters and new blood alike took in the show, though each with their own nefarious reasons as business was conducted in private and illegal substances transferred between people like normal concessions. Many of the men kept a few scarcely dressed women on each arm, and the few powerful women carved out their own space, commanding the scene with impressive auras.
"Hey sexy, I see yer enjoying the fights. Why don't ya come watch 'em with a real man?" A stocky man, well past his prime, approached Raine, alcohol wafting off his breath in thick waves as he puffed on a cigar as well. He wore an expensive fur coat and numerous gaudy rings and necklaces to show off his wealth and spoke with the paid for confidence of someone used to getting whatever he wanted. Raine looked to him with disgust, turned off by his fat face and stank breath as well as the crass way in which he approached her.
At the same time, Shaad stood up. The stranger thought the swordsman wanted a fight and snapped two chubby fingers to call over his bodyguards, but Shaad merely brushed him aside and walked up the stairs. "I'm going for a walk," he said brusquely, annoyed by the ignorant shot caller.
This action irritated the overweight former soldier, leading him to order two of his men to take care of Shaad even as he slid into the seat next to Raine with a broad smile. After taking another swig of the bottle in his hand, he leaned in closer to Raine, taking in her scent and bringing up a hand to brush aside a few strands of her flowing pink hair. "Now dat da punk's taken care of, how 'bout you and me -"
"Freeze!"
"I'd appreciate you not point that at me." Shaad had allowed the two goons to follow him out of sight before easily dispatching the pair. He then made his way to the fighters' holding corridor where, only a few steps in, he felt the familiar feeling of a pistol muzzle pressed into the back of his head.
[Flashback]
"You fail," a well-dressed older gentleman spoke sternly to a preteen Shaad while holding a gun to the young boy's skull.
"But, Dad, you didn't tell me -"
"I told you to get in and out without being caught," Shaad's father abruptly cut off his whining.
"There's no way I can avoid all three sisters much less you, Dad." The young boy pleaded, his cries falling on deaf ears.
"Not my problem," his father stressed, the statement punctuated by the distinct click of the revolver's hammer being pulled back. "You know the rules; get caught, catch a bullet."
The younger Shaad tried to drop his weight and spin around with a sweep kick, rising punch combo to avoid the bullet as he heard it leaving the chamber. But, "Bang; you're dead," his father calmly stated as he fired a second gun right in front of Shaad. The bullet whizzed right in front of his nose, and, had he been any faster, would've gone through his skull. Shaad kneeled their panting in relief. It wasn't the first time his father played with his life on a thread, but it never got any less nerve-wracking. His eyes drifted up from the hole left in the ground by the bullet and locked with his father's unapologetic stare, which relayed no emotion only cold calculations, as a few final words of wisdom were imparted before beginning the test again. "Don't worry about the gun; the person will kill you."
[Present Time]
Those words resonated with Shaad as he found himself facing the familiar conundrum, though, in his mind at least, this was far less dangerous. "I'll only say this once more; drop the guns," Shaad commanded, though the authority in his voice was belied by his arms raised non-threateningly in surrender. While the man directly behind him chuckled in amusement, Shaad heard two other sets of footsteps move out to flank him in the wide hallway, but noticed they didn't spread out to where he could see any of them.
With only a basic idea of where each person was, Shaad stretched out his arm and spun around the first man, pushing that one forward and immediately bringing both arms down, drawing and swinging both swords up with lightning speed. Before the other two could pull the triggers of their pistols, Shaad's blades had sliced the metal in half, just missing their fingers, before bringing both swords back and driving them into the guard at his six. In one more fluid motion, Shaad slashed out and hit the remaining two with a swift cross cut that slit both their throats, sending blood spraying from the vital arteries as their bodies fell lifelessly to the ground. Turning around, Shaad returned the swords to their sheath and snapped the leather bands back in place to secure them before resuming his trek deeper into the hauntingly dark corridor.
After a short walk and cutting through a locked metal door, Shaad came across a long line of cells, each holding three or four strong, able bodied men in chains with the distinct collar around their neck. Using the candlelight available, he scanned over the occupants' various injuries, making snap judgments about each of their levels of strength until he stopped just short of a cell - separated from the rest by the length of a single cell - with a lone occupant inside.
Ignoring the mysterious circumstances surrounding that isolated individual for the time being, Shaad turned to an older gentleman with a scraggly beard and rags for clothes that looked like he'd been there for quite a while based on his age and scarring ranging from years ago to fairly recent. "Hey, old timer, where are all the female fighters?"
"Who's asking?" the old man responded in a sour tone devoid of any friendly nature, his gruff disposition showed how the years of near slavery had worn on him.
"An interested party," Shaad answered curtly. "So, now that I've answered your question, how 'bout you answer mine?"
"I can make it worth your wild," Shaad added after a short pause. "Freedom," he clarified upon looking at the man's disbelieving expression.
A few of the newer prisoners started to speak up at that word, but they were instantly silenced when the old man spoke again. "I'm not fool enough to think there's any way out of here. . . but, I'll answer your questions. This circuit don't carry women; they usually treated far worse than any man, and the Head won't put up wit it."
"Oh, and who's the Head?"
"Sangre, Raptor Sangre; no one crosses him."
"Hmph, good to know," Shaad mumbled, dipping his head in thanks. "I certainly don't plan on crossin' him."
Shaad then took the handful of steps to the isolated cage, pulling a torch from the wall for better visibility as he looked over the young man probably only a couple of years older than himself. "And, who might you be? . . What makes you so special that you got the luxury suite all to yourself? . . Come on. I know you ain't dead; I can hear your heartbeat." Shaad questioned the individual, but got nothing in response, no sign of recognition whatsoever.
"It's futile. He won't speak; he can't speak," the old man from before called over.
Shaad perked up in response to the statement and looked in the veteran's direction. "Can't or won't," he asked incredulously.
"I 'sume can't. He had boiling acid poured down his throat shortly after he first came here for some nasty words 'gainst the Head," the old man answered flatly. "Ain't spoke sense."
"Wow. It's amazing he survived that," Shaad muttered, sparing a glance to the individual in question."
"It took months for him recover completely, but was fightin' within one. Head tied his life to the men who did it. He croaked, they go too."
Shaad lightly chuckled to himself, but noticed the strange looks it got him. Answering the faces, he explained, "You clearly don't like me, but you keep talking to me. You either keeping me here or you just ain't talked at length to anyone in quite a while. I figure it ain't the former (you don't seem to like your captors enough to help 'em) so it's just interesting. Anyway, how 'bout you tell me the kid's story, what you know at least."
"From what I gathered from those unlucky nuff to come shortly after him, the kid was a thief round here, a damn good one at that. But the orphan brat made a move gainst the Company; he stole a shitload of cash and almost got away with it," the old man spoke with the hints of a wry smile forming on his lips. "When Company men finally caught him a few weeks later, he was not only lucky nuff to keep his hands, but the Head took a shine to him for his skill. He was thrown into the Pits and was 'parently scrappy nuff to survive."
"When he came to the Arena, he was wild, a brash and arrogant youth, but that never lasts. The Arena got two rules: for fighters, no conflict outside the cage, and for handlers, no unauthorized violence against the fighters. But, the kid operate on different standards. In his first few months here, he killed no less than seven handlers, but by then, he'd already established himself as the top fighter in the Company's stable (and their biggest draw). So, since they can't kill him, handlers are given leeway in punishing him so long as they don't cause undue visible damage to the product."
With all the new information, Shaad turned back to the Arena's champion, looking over him with a fine tooth comb like a piece of meat, well, as much as he could anyway given the circumstances. Once he was satisfied he focused again on the old man, a lingering confusion creeping in. "But, kid ain't got no scars. Hell, he's unblemished."
"Behind the mask," the old man directed. "They cut up his face like a scratching board and got to putting a mask over it. But, he ain't stop till they screwed his entire face, then seared that custom made mask directly onto the flesh. Damn thing was specially made and nigh unbreakable, but if anything ever happened to it. . . Who knows? Kid might die. Either way, getting in the ring with 'im is little more than a death sentence. Killing is optional in dat ring, but kid there kills every opponent without prejudice."
"Thanks, old timer." Shaad took in each word carefully, and pondered the facts and assertions for a moment before looking the champ in the eyes, almost glowing in intense focus from behind that mask. He then let a mischievous smirk grace his features as he bargained, "I like you. Say one word, and I'll cut these bars and those chains right now. How 'bout it?"