Vigdis stood in the dimly lit armory, the air thick with the scent of rust and oil. Her armor lay discarded in a corner, replaced by a simple tunic that clung to her muscular frame. The tunic, worn and threadbare, barely reached her thighs, leaving her powerful legs exposed. A belt cinched at her waist, the only nod to utility. Her bare arms, corded with muscle and lined with scars, glistened faintly in the flickering light of the torches mounted on the walls. Every line of her body spoke of strength, honed through years of survival in a world where only the strong endured.
The raiders who’d brought her here lingered near the entrance, their eyes darting between her and the assortment of weapons laid out on a battered wooden table. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and unease, as though they couldn’t decide whether to gawk at her or fear her.
She ignored them, her focus entirely on the weapons before her. Warren Ashlock’s voice echoed in her mind: “You get to choose your weapon. That’s the deal.”
Vigdis snorted softly. Some deal.
Her axe lay among the options, its familiar heft and polished edge calling to her. She stepped toward it, her fingers brushing the handle before pausing. Taking the axe would be the obvious choice—the easy choice. But it would also be seen as cheating. Warren didn’t strike her as a man who played fair, and he’d undoubtedly find some excuse to undermine her victory if the fight didn’t entertain him enough.
She glanced at a warstaff leaning against the table. It was long and solid, its wood worn smooth by years of use. A versatile weapon—less lethal, but capable of delivering a punishing fight. It appealed to her sense of control, the precision it offered. But Warren might see it as a coward’s choice, an attempt to avoid the bloodshed the crowd would demand.
Her gaze shifted to a short sword. It was makeshift, its blade uneven and crudely forged, likely hammered out from a piece of machinery—a fan blade, maybe, or the edge of an industrial saw. The weapon was rough but serviceable, its jagged edge glinting faintly in the torchlight. She reached for it, weighing it in her hand.
The balance wasn’t perfect, but it was manageable. She swung it a few times, testing the arc and feel of the blade. It had just enough weight to make a spectacle of the fight without sacrificing her control. Blood would flow—enough to satisfy Warren’s twisted sense of entertainment—and it would be messy enough to make her victory seem hard-won.
“This’ll do,” she murmured, turning the weapon over in her hand one last time.
The raiders exchanged glances, their smirks fading as they watched her. She was no longer just prey preparing for a fight; she was a predator choosing her weapon, calculating her next move with quiet confidence.
Vigdis adjusted the belt at her waist, securing the blade against her side for a moment. She looked at the discarded axe, then at the raiders watching her from the shadows. A faint grin tugged at the corner of her lips.
Let them think they’ve stripped me of my strength. They’ll see soon enough.
She turned toward the entrance, the short sword resting lightly in her grip. Her muscles coiled beneath the fabric of her tunic as she stepped forward, her expression calm but determined.
“Ready when you are,” she said, her voice low and steady. The raiders stepped aside without a word, their bravado faltering as she strode past.
The arena awaited.
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The cage loomed before Vigdis, a sprawling construct of rusted metal and crude craftsmanship. Torches lined the edges, their flickering light casting jagged shadows that danced across the packed dirt floor. Above and around, the raider crowd gathered in chaotic clusters. The spectators were a grotesque mix—some adorned in ragged leather armor, their faces painted with crude symbols of intimidation, while others lounged in tattered remnants of black suits and ties, their predatory gazes glittering with the kind of cruelty money once enabled.
Vigdis stepped into the light, her short sword resting lightly in her grip. She squared her shoulders, the simple tunic clinging to her muscular frame as she scanned the crowd. Above the din of raucous cheers and jeers, a single figure caught her attention.
Warren Ashlock, now dressed at least minimally decently, strolled toward his private lounge. The makeshift throne of scrap metal awaited him, its jagged edges oddly befitting his warped sense of grandeur. Trailing behind him, naked and on all fours, was yet another of his slaves—a woman with deadened eyes, led by a leash clasped in his hand. The sight of her, humiliated and broken, sent a cold fury coursing through Vigdis. She clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on the sword.
One day. I’m coming back for this place.
The crowd erupted into cheers as the first challenger entered the arena—a hulking brute of a man, his body covered in crude tattoos and scars. He wielded a massive club, its head studded with jagged scrap metal. He grinned as he approached, flexing his muscles for the crowd and growling like a beast.
Vigdis didn’t flinch. She raised her sword, her eyes narrowing as she studied his movements. When he charged, she sidestepped his wild swing with a dancer’s grace, slashing at his side in a swift, fluid motion. The crowd roared as blood splattered the ground, but the brute barely stumbled, his rage blinding him to the pain. He swung again, slower this time, and Vigdis ducked low, her blade finding the back of his knee. He collapsed with a howl, and a sharp thrust to his chest ended the fight.
She straightened, wiping the blade on her tunic as the crowd cheered. One down.
The gate opened again, and this time two figures emerged. The women were tall and lean, their ebony skin marked with intricate tribal scars. They carried matching spears made from sharpened rebar, their movements swift and coordinated as they circled her.
Vigdis kept her stance low, her sword at the ready. She stepped back, her eyes darting between them as they moved in unison. One lunged, her spear thrusting toward Vigdis’s side. Vigdis deflected the blow with her sword, twisting her body to avoid the second woman’s strike. She kicked out, her boot connecting with one attacker’s stomach, sending her sprawling.
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The second woman pressed forward, her spear darting in a series of rapid jabs. Vigdis blocked each one, her muscles coiling as she waited for an opening. When it came, she struck—her sword slicing cleanly through the shaft of the spear. She followed with a hard elbow to the woman’s face, sending her to the ground.
The first attacker had recovered, and Vigdis spun to meet her charge. She sidestepped the thrust of the spear, slamming the hilt of her sword into the woman’s temple. She crumpled to the dirt, unconscious.
The crowd erupted in mixed shouts—cheers of approval and groans of disappointment. Vigdis looked up to see Warren lounging in his seat, his expression a mixture of boredom and irritation. He gestured sharply to one of his underlings, who scrambled to a lever near the cage.
A series of clanging sounds echoed through the arena as random weapons were dropped from above—clubs, knives, and chains clattering onto the dirt. Vigdis rolled her shoulders, her expression unreadable. She’d expected something like this.
She ignored the scattered weapons, keeping her grip on her short sword as the next gate opened. Three opponents emerged this time, each more dangerous than the last.
The first was a man from the black-tie crowd, his polished demeanor betrayed by the savage gleam in his eyes. He grabbed a torn biker chain from the ground, swinging it experimentally as he advanced. The second, a wiry figure, picked up a makeshift spear—an oar with a sharpened tip. He twirled it with surprising skill, his movements quick and fluid. The third was a towering woman, almost as large as Vigdis herself. She carried a one-handed sword, her cautious movements betraying a warrior’s discipline.
The trio fanned out, their strategy clear. Vigdis tightened her grip on her sword, her muscles taut as she prepared for the assault. The man with the chain struck first, the heavy links whistling through the air. Vigdis dodged the first swing, stepping into his reach and slicing across his chest. He staggered back, clutching the wound as the wiry man lunged with his spear.
Vigdis deflected the thrust, her blade ringing against the makeshift weapon. She spun, her tunic catching the light as she slashed at his leg, forcing him to retreat. The towering woman advanced then, her sword swinging in a calculated arc. Vigdis blocked the blow, their blades locking as their strength met in a brief, intense clash.
The crowd roared, the chaos fueling the spectacle. Vigdis gritted her teeth, her mind racing as she fought to stay ahead of her opponents. This was far from over, but she was ready for whatever came next.
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The arena was alive with energy, the roaring crowd a chaotic mix of bloodlust and drunken revelry. Vigdis squared her stance, her chest rising and falling as she steadied her breathing. The three opponents before her weren’t like the others. These weren’t just raiders with brute strength or uncoordinated fury. They moved with purpose, with skill honed through countless battles.
The man with the chain was the first to strike again, the heavy links slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. Vigdis ducked, the chain missing her head by inches as it slammed into the dirt, sending dust flying. She countered with a swift slash of her sword, forcing him to retreat.
The wiry man with the makeshift spear darted in next, jabbing with calculated precision. Vigdis spun, her blade deflecting his thrusts, but her foot caught on a divot in the uneven ground. She stumbled, just enough for the chain-wielding man to take advantage. The links lashed across her back with a sickening crack, the impact driving her to one knee.
A cheer erupted from the crowd.
Vigdis gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright as the chain came at her again. This time, she caught it on the edge of her blade, twisting sharply to yank it from his grip. The man staggered, but the spear-wielder was already upon her, his weapon slicing a shallow cut across her tunic. The fabric split, exposing her breasts to the roaring audience.
She ignored the jeers and catcalls, her focus unbroken. Her boot shot out, catching the spear-wielder in the knee with a brutal kick. He crumpled with a scream, his weapon clattering to the ground. She finished him with a swift thrust to the chest.
Before she could recover, the towering woman was on her. Vigdis felt powerful arms wrap around her torso, pinning her sword arm against her side. She struggled, the larger woman’s grip like iron as she lifted Vigdis off her feet. The crowd howled with anticipation.
Vigdis growled, her free hand gripping the woman’s arm as she drove her knee backward into her opponent’s stomach. Once, twice, three times. The grip loosened, and Vigdis dropped to the ground. She spun, slamming her elbow into the woman’s face before kicking her away.
The chain-wielding man had recovered, rushing at her with a snarl. Vigdis turned just in time, her blade slicing upward in a clean arc. The chain fell from his grasp as he staggered, blood pouring from the deep gash across his chest. He collapsed in a heap.
Vigdis turned back to the towering woman, who stood ready, her one-handed sword raised. Their eyes met, a flicker of respect passing between them before the fight resumed. The woman swung, her blade carving through the air in a wide arc. Vigdis dodged, the edge grazing her arm as she retaliated with a flurry of strikes. The larger woman parried, their blades ringing with each clash.
With a final, powerful swing, Vigdis knocked the sword from the woman’s hand. Her opponent stumbled, falling to one knee. Vigdis raised her blade, the crowd screaming for blood. But she hesitated.
With a frustrated growl, she slammed the hilt of her sword into the woman’s temple, knocking her unconscious. The arena fell silent for a moment, then erupted into thunderous applause.
Vigdis stood in the center of the carnage, her chest heaving. Blood trickled from cuts on her arms and legs, her torn tunic barely clinging to her battered body. She raised the short sword high, her muscles trembling from the effort.
Her gaze locked on Warren, her expression a mixture of defiance and exhaustion. Is that enough for you, you bastard? her eyes seemed to say.
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Warren met her gaze from his throne, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He gestured for her to be brought below, where her gear awaited. Vigdis allowed herself to be led away, her shoulders tense despite the weight of the victory.
As she approached her armor and axe, Warren sauntered into the space, his eyes glittering with amusement. His gaze flicked briefly to her torn tunic, lingering on the exposed skin before meeting her eyes again. The look sent a fresh wave of disgust through her, but she kept her expression neutral.
“Well, well,” Warren drawled, clapping slowly. “That was quite the show. I’ll admit, you’ve got me reconsidering a few things.”
Vigdis crossed her arms, her lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “Reconsidering whether to keep your word, I’m guessing.”
His grin widened. “You’re sharp. I like that. But let’s be honest—you’d be an asset here. Strong, capable... entertaining.” His eyes flicked down again, and Vigdis’s fingers twitched toward her axe.
She kept her voice calm, though every muscle in her body screamed for violence. “I’m not interested in your version of hospitality.”
Warren chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Pity. You’d fit right in.”
Vigdis stepped forward, towering over him despite her exhaustion. “I won. Let me go, or I’ll start my plan to tear this place down a little earlier than expected.”
For a moment, Warren said nothing, his expression calculating. Then he laughed, stepping back with a theatrical bow. “Fair enough, muscle queen. You’ve earned your passage.” He gestured toward the exit, though his eyes lingered on her exposed skin one last time. “But don’t be a stranger. Something tells me we’ll see each other again.”
Vigdis watched him leave, her grip tightening on her axe. You have no idea, you sick bastard. Once Bunker 4 was dealt with, she’d be back to finish what she’d started.
She strapped her armor back on, the weight of it grounding her as she prepared to leave the den of vultures behind. For now.