The light vanishes, dumping me in the middle of a spacious metal extension of a well lit locker room. A tidal wave a nausea hits me causing vomit to surge from my throat, but weakness prevents me from expelling all it from my mouth. Instead, I manage to turn my head sideways allowing feeble coughs to sputter puke onto the cold metal floor. Five men gather at the point where the metal floor is replaced with tile, all staring at me as I lay there naked covered in upchuck. Fuck, this is embarrassing.
“Fresh meat!” A short wiry man barks with a mouth full of filed yellow teeth. Every square inch of his deeply tanned skin is inked with macabre tattoos. His bald head is inked and mutilated into a frightfully realistic skull, pitted with savage eyes that gleam of madness.
“Try dead meat. That’s a civvy.” Comments a tall burly man with close cropped brown hair from behind the cigar he is chewing on. I can’t tell if his leathery face is smiling or scowling, but from his crossed arms and furrowed brows I decide he is scowling. I try to get up.
“Mmm, that’s a sweet ass.” A thick hairy man-mountain rumbles as he rises from the bench he was sitting on. The giant’s massive hands are the size of dinner plates, furrowed with deep scars and layered with long healed burns. I notice the look the titan’s eyes are giving me, and I don’t like it.
“Aww hell no! Siddown big-bear.” A black man of immense but uncomparable size yells, clapping the man-mountain on the shoulder. Fortunately, the man-mountain returns to his seat. Unfortunately, the look in his eyes doesn’t change. The black man gives me an uncomfortable smile that isn’t particularly reassuring, in fact it looks more like a grimace. At least he’s trying?
A short stocky man with a thick handlebar mustache and dark red hair waddles towards me. He is missing his left arm, in its place is a comically large mechanical claw. When he reaches me he roughly hoists me up to my feet with it. Ow.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You okay, bub?” He asks as he leads me to a row of lockers. I grunt. The seventh locker has some sort of large metal tag on it, but his claw tears it off and crumples it up before I can get a good look at it. He opens the locker and tosses me a dusty towel to wipe the vomit off my face. After I clean myself up and wrap the towel around my waist he hands me a set of oversized clothes of the same type worn by the others. In all my life I don’t think I’ve ever struggled so much to get on a pair of pants. Well, except for that one time.
"I’m MacCubbins, what’s your name rookie?” Says the man with the claw.
“Faust.” I reply.
“I’m Frobisher, whatcha do tiny?” The large black man interjects, neglecting the r in his name.
“What?” the hell is he on about?
“You seem to be a little confused here, so let me clear something up for you. Everyone is here for a reason, see, I’m ex-military. I shoot things. I’m good for it. What are you good for?”
“Well, I run fast-”
“Dead weight.” Spits the man with filed teeth.
“Hey, a glad’s a glad!” MacCubbins says tossing up his arms. I have no idea what he is talking about, but the others seem to give him mixed looks of ridicule.
“How fast can you run?” Inquires a tall, thin, but chiseled, man with deadly gravity. His fair complexion, bright blue eyes, wispy blonde hair and good looks betray the aura of darkness about him. I could see him as quite the lady killer, especially in the more literal sense. I don’t think I noticed him enter the locker room… and he definitely wasn’t here before.
"Yea, think you could outrun a cheetah?” The tall man with close cropped hair interjects, tossing around the cigar in his mouth.
“N-no, I can’t. What kind of question is that?” I stutter as I scratch the smooth skin on the back of my neck. What happened?
“A relevant one.” The blonde man folds his arms while replying. His eyes narrow as they focus on my lifted hand. “So how did you die?”
“A mountain lion…”
“Sheeeeeeeit...” Frobisher deflates.