“Ladies and gentlemen, liquids and solids, bots and bags of flesh—WWWwwelcome to theeeeeee Thunderdoom!”
Bullet snarled, exposing his large rows of sharp teeth hiding in his pointed, angular snout. His skin bore a tough, scaly texture, dark and ridged, reflecting the neon lights of The Thunderdoom PleasureDome. Situated on planetoid Bianca-M. Hidden somewhere between human and Vaad space, Thunderdoom was a palace of Eden where anything goes for a price.
Bullet, the broad-shouldered Zillari, just so happened to run the place. This section of the Doom was a fight pit surrounded by rows of spectators composed of various beings: humans, Vaad, robots, and other Zillari. The fight pit was encased in a cage and adorned with glimmering neon lights and extravagant signage marked by wear, tear, and blood.
The audience buzzed with anticipation and excitement, generating a cacophony of cheers, roars, and conversations in various languages while jostling for the best view. The Doom offered many things, but the fight pit was its biggest attraction.
Operating outside the two species’ jurisdictions, entry into the Doom is invite only. Members are provided a single invite to give out as they wish every 9000 hours. One has to be discerning when giving out your invitation. If an invitee broke any rules, it would also get blamed on the inviter, which meant consequences. Being outside the law, said consequences often included fighting in the pit.
“Introducing first: another idiot who broke the rules!”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything!” A small, thin human man struggled in the arms of burly security personnel, trapping his arms behind his back. His sleek, fitted space suit, the fabric adorned with intricate lines and markings, gleamed under the neon lights. His voice, unfortunately, didn’t rise above the crowd’s fervor.
“No one cares,” one of the guards said. “Just your unlucky day!”
They shoved the human into the fight pit and slammed the gate behind him. His bubble helmet reflected the surroundings and concealed his face, making his expressions inscrutable. A yellow line streaked across his chest, pulsating like a heartbeat monitor.
“Annnnnnd his opponent: the undefeated, reigning, and defending champion of The Doom—G! G! oooOOOOrionnnnn!!!”
The spectators went mental at the sight. G.G. Orion towered over the slender human. A hulking mass of machinery interwoven with remnants of humanity and twice the size of the human, the cyborg’s metallic form glistened under the flashing lights, revealing a mix of exposed gears, pistons, and plates interlaced with what used to be human flesh.
“As always,” Bullet held out a three-fingered claw and waved it to quiet the crowd. “If Dummy survives 3 ticks, he gets to keep his membership!” The crowd booed this. “If, by Gresh’s Grace, dummy somehow wins? Well, how high is the jackpot these days?”
Bullet points at a panel hung at the top of the cage. The numbers flipped rapidly until it showed 100,000 Reds. Below that, a smaller set of numbers rotated, with each side representing one of the two fighters odds. They stopped at 9/1 for the man and 1/9 for the champion, making him the favorite.
Bullet snarled, “PLACE YOUR BETS!”
The spectators nearly trample one another to get their bets before the timer. The timer going off meant the fight would start. There’s a strange harmony in the chaos of the crowd, a shared enthusiasm for the impending battle. A scent is in the air: a blend of ozone, the aroma of street food, and a faint metallic tang.
A claxon sounded.
Orion hunched over and licked his chops while pacing. The human didn’t move.“Afraid to make the first move? Don’t blame you!” Orion shouted and cracked his mechanical piston-like knuckles. “Gonna have fun with you!”
Orion roared. Audio that sounded like it got mixed inside of a tin can and drowned in water. He took a step, and his movements stuttered. One limb detached, followed by the other and both arms until his entire body fell apart. Limbs clattered to the ground, and finally, his partially fleshy torso fell off the chassis and splattered on the floor like the rest. The torso tumbled forward until it stopped at the human’s feet, leaving Orions wide-eyed and panicked, staring at his opponent.
The human glanced at Bullet and the crowd, asking, “I win, right?”
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The formally raucous crowd fell dead silent, except for one Vaad jumping up and down in his seat excited because he was apparently the only one who placed a winning bet. Bullet, sensing he might have a small riot on his hands, spoke up:
“You gotta kill ’em!” The crowd came to life. The human looked down at the quivering mass of flesh and shrugged.
“Sorry,” he said and raised his wide boot before coming down in a stomp. Orion’s head exploded under the force, sending gore and viscera across the floor. Suddenly, the crowd didn’t care they were losers anymore. Bullet grinned, scaly lips stretched over black gums. He raised his hands again to quiet them, but they ignored him. Their bloodlust was nearly uncontrollable.
“What do we call you?” He shouted over the noise.
The human paused, then replied, “Um, how about The Running Man?” Without delay, Bullet declared:
“AND THE NEW CHAMPION, THE RUNNING MAN!”
A roar traveled the length of the crowd and had the ground shaking. The human—The Running Man—turned in place to take it all in. Meekly, he waved. Bullet raised his claw again to quiet the masses down, and surprisingly, they listened. The entire arena fell under a hushed din.
“Now it’s up to you, champ, keep fighting or cash out?” Around the human, befuddled workers do their best to gather Orion’s parts and brush them off the stage while others get down to intense scrubbing, wrist-deep in gore. The Running Man watched this with his hands on his hips, seemingly amused.
“I’m cashing out,” he said finally to a chorus of boos. He turned his back on them and exited the cage before things escalated. Hangers-on around the cage mean-mugged him as he walked by, but his opaque helmet shielded any response. The staging area was crowded with upset patrons; their anger mixed with stale sweat and tensions simmered, but he navigated through with minimal fuss.
The Running Man navigated to the pay window, a non-descript counter manned by just one employee. She was human, had soft and curly red hair, and was helping the one Vaad who won the wager. He waited patiently a few steps behind. When finished, the Vaad turned and, having realized who he was, tried to hug human but fell on his face. Startled, the Vadd looked back and saw The Running Man with the clerk.
“Hi there,” she grinned ear to ear. Her cheeks were stained with freckles and blush.
“I’ll take my Reds now,” said The Running Man.
The redhead puffed her cheeks and blew air out. “Yeah, about that—Bullet has sign-off transactions like that.” Neither the opaque helmet nor his body language betrayed The Running Man’s reaction to this news.
“Ha, funny.”
“He’s waiting for you in his office, just up there,” the clerk pointed out a set of stairs just over his shoulder.
“You’re serious?” He said after a further second of silence.
“He’s waiting for you,” she grinned again.
His body sagged slightly, but The Running Man turned and made his way to the stairs. A guard was posted at the first landing; they exchanged nods as he turned toward the next flight. At the top, a short hallway ending at a door. Another guard posted nods him inside.
A neon blue ambiance greeted The Running Man. Red draperies lined the walls, embroidered with an alien language he didn’t recognize. Bullet stood behind a glass table, palms down on the surface. Empty glass jugs littered the top, along with other trash and a sizeable mound of brown powder. Bullet had just finished burying his snout in it. His head came up, and his mouth and nostrils were caked in the substance. He was tall enough to nearly touch the ceiling with his head.
“Wan’ some?” He snorted.
“That’s Zillari Jank; it’d blow my head open.”
“Heh. Suit yourself,” and Bullet took another dive to Powder Town. The Running Man watched this display, a lazy hand on his hip. Bullet came up, snorting heavily, and stared at the ceiling momentarily.
“Listen, I just want my Reds.”
“Yes, you’re the big winner!” Bullet bared his teeth and sat down. He reached below him pulled out a data slate about an inch wide as it was long. He stopped short of handing it over before tapping it lightly against his temple.
“Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”
“I’m good,” and The Running Man held out his gloved hand. “Need the money.”
“For what?”
“That any of your business?”
Bullet laughed heartily, again baring his rows and rows of sharp teeth. He stood suddenly, his quickness deceiving for one so big. The Running Man moved, time slowed to a stop, and a purple haze filled the air. After images followed him, traveling from where he had been like a fanned-out deck of playing cards.
They snapped back into his body, and time resumed; he dangled in the air, his throat caught in Bullet’s vice-like grip.
“Us Zillari, we perceive people like you,” he was grinning, snarling; The Running Man couldn’t tell the difference. “I saw what you did. I was impressed.” Bullet released him and turned back to his seat. The Running Man crashed to the floor then propped himself against the wall.
“What do you want?” He asked. He was breathing heavily.
“The question was,” Bullet sneered. “What do you want? Why do you need the money?”
The Running Man sat silently; Bullet’s sneering face reflected inside the helmet. The silence continued for seconds longer until, finally:
“I need to see The Galaxy Brain.”
“Ho-Ho, I see! ‘Fraid you’ll need a lot more Reds than 100k, champ!”
“I know that!” The Running Man stood defiantly and held out his hand. “Just give them!”
Bullet obliged, slightly bowing his head. The Running Man snatched the slate and squeezed it in his hand tightly. His body language betrayed him. He was unsteady on his feet, embarrassed.
“Work for me,” Bullet said. “Killer like you, I could find a lot of use for. Killer like you…could make a whole lot of Reds.”
The Running Man stopped. He stared at the data slate, silently weighing it in his hands. He glanced over his shoulder and asked:
“How many Reds?”