"Let's get you to safety, Mr. Secretary," John nudged Balkan by his arm.

"Wait." Balkan jerked his elbow back, mesmerized by what he was seeing through the two-way mirror. "I saw their training once but this -- this is for real, between two augments. And we got ringside. I'm not going anywhere."

"And if she wins?"

"You can secure the room from here," Balkan said. "Can't you?"

John searched for the emergency lock-down switch and found not only the locking mechanism but a gas release trigger under a plastic safety cover used to incapacitate out of control inmates.

"I got it," John said as he flipped on emergency lockdown mode. A buzzing sounded followed by a motorized whirring -- then a muted metallic clang. The tiled room was secured, its door penetrated by steel rods coming from all sides.

John returned next to his master to watch.

"I've waited to see this," Balkan spoke excitedly, as the combatants in the other room squared off.

"This is risky . . . if she wins --"

"Then make sure she doesn't," Balkan said. "Carnivora comes first -- I need Lockheart alive to make a deal. No way around it. You make sure Lockheart lives."

"Gladly." John the Inquisitor glanced over at the knock-out gas button within his arm's reach. "I can do it now, no need to wait."

"Would you interrupt two gladiators in the Colosseum? No, let them fight."

* * *

Porsche, sitting in the cramped space above the closet, had no view into the wet room. Yet her ears picked up all she needed to know, the screams and shouts of the prison guards, the gag reflex of the warden as he came barging in the control room, and the steady icy tone of the official she suspected were Victor Balkan. Worse, she'd painted herself into a corner, trapped sitting on pipes as a spectator. Though they hadn't discovered her presence, the window to get Marlboro or to question Lockheart had closed with the arrival of Balkan and his entourage. By now, guards in other parts of Oz was looking for nurse Dominguez.

She heard the warden stutter like a fool, "Vitals, didn't you see their necks? She cut them in half -- as if they were standing still."

"Calm yourself," Balkan scolded him. "Go see the doctor. We have things in hand."

She heard the door hissed shut. With the prison official gone, she could discern three men in the room. There was Balkan, of course, and the interrogator from the waterboarding.

Yet there was a third at a distance.

Something had happened.

From the back of the room, the mystery man shouted, "You didn't drain her reservoir. I told you to do that first thing, shit for brains!"

He knew about the liquid weapon implant.

A pregnant pause.

"That's not going to do shit," continued the voice. "Stay here, protect Balkan."

"Where you going?" the inquisitor said.

"To do your job. Someone has to."

She could hear someone leaving the control room to face the berserker next door. Someone equally formidable; someone Marlboro knew; someone the amazon despised, judging from her dripping tone. It could only be another Cerberus, Porsche concluded. She'd met Marlboro, Rotter, and Papa, but there was a fourth, one she hadn't -- a man they called Warchild. And a traitor working for Balkan.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The ensuing conversation beyond the glass confirmed her suspicion, amplified through speakers.

Porsche could do nothing but sit back and listen to the fight unfolding next door.

* * *

The first lunge made by Warchild was a test and it went wide. Alex clashed his claws with hers. She twisted right, smashing her left elbow to the back of his head.

He recovered and grinned. This was foreplay getting underway, watched by an audience.

"You know you can't win," Warchild said. "Even if you did, you'll never leave this room alive."

"Leaving here was never in the cards. Don't matter."

"Put down your arms and I'll make it quick. Or they'll take their time with you."

"Is that your line when you snookered Lisa? Where is she, by the way, pile-driven by some other dude?"

Warchild's grin broke. She'd found one weak point. She'd need every advantage to beat him. When they tangled before, she got lucky with a blow to his groin. He won't fall for that again.

Warchild took two steps forward, claws pointed toward her.

Though the type of blades Cerberus used may be different from the traditional combat dagger, the principles of knife-fighting remained unchanged.

Real combat wasn't graceful, nor was it like fencing with ample room to lunge and retreat. A combat stance was flat-footed with legs apart, knees bent slightly, torso crouched. A free arm was a shield, not for balance, bent at the elbow, held across the chest and turned inward to protect its major arteries. Slashing was for show. Stabbing was for dough, and usually up on an angle. Lastly, the choices of targets never changed. An opponent's stomach and chest were secondary targets and should be avoided -- a belly wound took time to bleed out; ribs, and of late, internal bio-armor protected the major organs. The best targets were the exposed primaries -- eyes and throats.

Alex poised herself in this position. Warchild copied her. There wasn't a trick she could use that he didn't know. Cerberus had trained together to use the liquid claws.

Going low was suicidal. He was stronger than she was. But she had speed.

She leaped high and came down with her left hand and right knee. Warchild met her in midair, blocked the lunge with his arm, sustaining a deep gash while he thrust his right at her and connected. Alex winced, taking the wound on her leg. The sharp blades stung, blood spurting from both fighters. No one was leaving here with a couple of scratches. There would be severe damage. But a mangled limb meant nothing compared to flat-lining.

He lunged, trying to take her to the ground where he could finish her off.

Again, she jumped, this time not as high due to her wounded thigh. Warchild blocked the blow but took another deep cut. His arm was crimson, superficial flexor muscles sliced into fillets. His left arm was now useless, tendons severed. Likewise, Alex's arm was shredded from another vicious slash. She could feel her fingers stiffening, closing shut. Something vital in her arm had been sliced.

Neither fighter was able to reach the primary targets of the other, their reflexes, skills, and damages equaled.

Flat-footed, crouched, cautious, Warchild circled her, searching for an opening. Alex pivoted to face him. Their orbits widened, turning in a clockwise figure-eight over a slippery tiled floor slick with blood: theirs and that of those she had dispatched.

Blood loss began to cloud her vision.

Concentrate. No pain. Find the hole. Slash, block, circle. Once more. Alex's arm and leg throbbed, she limped and dragged a few feet at a time.

But Alex became aware of something else happening as if a flu-like dullness had lifted, her mind more alive now than during the past few days. This was fighters' euphoria, runners' high. She was renewed, the hemo-nanites on overdrive.

Jab. Block. And circle. She was exhausted, reaching her limit. He's stronger but you're quicker. Use your speed, she repeated.

Then it hit her -- give him something. She backed herself into the corner, the worst mistake one could make. He would follow to finish me.

She feigned to succumb, dragging her leg and arm toward the back wall while fighting for breath. As she expected, Warchild, sensing victory, pressed forward, closing for the kill.

Alex wedged herself in the corner. And waited, offering her body to his claws.

Warchild lunged and hit home. She groaned, paying dearly for the bargain. His good arm was suddenly stuck, the talons buried deep in her arm; she held tight, clutching them against her bosom. They were face to face, embraced in a death dance.

He pushed. The claws ripped into her chest. She gasped, feeling her sternum crack, tasting a gobble of regurgitated blood. She had sacrificed her arm and chest.

Now it was her turn.

She upper-cut with her free hand. Her fingers lodged into his throat.

Warchild gagged. His larynx collapsed. Thyroid artery severed. He gurgled on his own blood and fell to his knees, eye sockets dripped red. Alex removed his hand from her soaked chest and let him keel over.

One down. One to go.

She dragged her body toward Lockheart, still tied to the overturned chair on his side. She stood over him, her face and body soaked crimson.

"Is it my turn?" Lockheart managed.

Alex straddled over his waist. She raised her hand over his face, all fingers grouped like a knife, each extended blade like the serpent's tongue of a carving fork. Lockheart closed his eyes, ready for a long peaceful sleep.

She released a long-held howl of vengeance . . . Gas popped from the ceiling and hissed. Almost at once, she went rigid and fell on top of Lockheart.