Hard Rock Stadium, Miami, Florida, New American Republic, December 14, 2036
Shrewed tuned out the rocking crowd.
They didn’t matter.
The only two people in the arena that mattered was him and the fat clown standing on his head over a hundred yards across the dirt field.
Objectively, his only mandate had been to not die or get horribly maimed.
Leadership didn’t care if he won or loss.
His main goal was to be and remain an asset to the overall Quest objectives.
Personally, he wanted to win as much as he could.
Competition brought him back to his youth. Of bare knuckle brawls in alleys or out of the way fields and barns for bragging rights and a few bucks.
Now, he was fighting for the biggest bragging rights in the land and more than a few Universal Points.
His first round win over that quick boxer had netted him 10K universal points, half from the spires and half from the slaver kingdom. Plus one free attribute point from the spires. Which he immediately added to his strength.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Today you have the privilege to witness, firsthand, an epic clash! the announcer’s voice boomed throughout the stadium as clear as a crystal lake. The King and the New American Republic proudly brings to you a second round match in the Gold Division one versus one tournament!
Shrewed focused on his opponent.
The fat clown had happy face paint on.
He had plugged his ears in the hopes that the infectious laughter the clown had hit the Furies with would at least be weakened.
The fat clown’s first round opponent was a mage-type that had used magic to deal with the laughter. Unfortunately for the young woman she hadn’t been able to figure out how to deal with the clown swallowing her spells with the stained sack at his belt and sending them right back at her.
Shrewed had left most of his weapons back at the hotel.
He had seen how the clowns were capable of snatching a weapon right out of a person’s hands on enough occasions to know that he had no counter.
So, he’d rely only on his plate and chain and his spiked gauntlets since the latter counted as armor and he hadn’t seen them steal armor right off the body.
As for the rest?
All he needed were his natural weapons. Skills and Skills.
He had been a street brawler long before the spires made him a street brawler.
Years of heavy mileage separated him from those days.
The age weighed on him.
Pushing 50, he was long past his prime even with his class turning back the clock in some ways.
Now, here he was a grizzled street brawler with years of hard living and tough scraps littering the winding road he had traveled.
One last hurrah.
One last chance to go out on top.
To become more than a has been, a never was.
He fought for a good cause.
Had been since the spires appeared.
The guilty voice inside whispered that this fight was all for him.
The countdown hit zero.
The siren blared.
The fat clown rolled head over heels toward him.
Shrewed ran forward to close the distance.
The rolling clown suddenly put on a burst of speed forcing him to dive to one side.
The fat bastard had some kind of rolling attack Skill.
Shrewed cursed.
He should’ve expected something stupid and dangerous from a high level clown.
Needing to dictate tempo, he charged like a bull.
Shoulder Tackle to cover the space quicker than normal.
He drove his armored shoulder into the clown’s back just as the clown straightened from the roll.
The clown tried to roll again as they hit the ground, but Shrewed secured a back mount and started to land spiked punches on the clown’s head.
The clown convulsed and Shrewed had a moment where he thought that he might’ve gone too far. Then he realized that the clown was wracked with laughter.
Ear plugs did their job.
He couldn’t hear anything.
A spiked gauntlet raised up for another blow… a stinging pain lanced through his side in the gap between his plate, through chain and tough, padded clothing.
A glint flashed in his vision.
He turned his head reflexively.
Sparks forced his eyes closed.
The clown bucked like a maddened horse and threw him off.
He rolled and surreptitiously grabbed a handful of dirt.
The clown stood in front of him, head quirked to the side with a quizzical look, as if to ask him, why aren’t you laughing?
The face paint had shifted to one of sadness, an exaggerated pout that fit the multi-colored tears better than the smiley face.
Shrewed eyed the knife dancing over the clown’s shoulder.
The clown snapped his fingers.
A knife appeared in each hand.
The dancing knife flew at Shrewed’s face.
He swiped it with his gauntlet.
The clown came in behind with surprising speed for his bulk. His belly jiggled visibly beneath his dirty, bloody patchwork costume.
Shrewed threw dirt in the clown’s face.
Dirty Fighting.
His body acted with the barest of conscious input.
An armored boot swept up into the clown’s most precious possessions.
The clown bent over with wide eyes and an open mouth.
An armored fist crunched a bulbous, red-painted nose.
Followed by two fingers in the mouth.
Shrewed yanked hard on the inside of the clown’s cheek forcing the clown’s head to turn.
He flowed from one dirty attack to another.
An armored fist raked across a fat cheek tearing red tracks across white paint.
A hard knee between the legs.
An armored hand quickly cupped the side of his neck.
The clown’s knife sparked off the thick steel.
A steel-clad headbutt to the once broken, now twice broken nose.
Shrewed had to keep up the pressure.
Don’t give the clown’s quick healing ability to kick in.
Try to overwhelm it… if that was possible.
He grabbed a Thai clinch and dug a knee into the solar plexus.
The belly jiggled as the clown gasped and choked on his own blood.
He pulled down hard and planted a second knee into the clown’s face.
All traces of white and color were lost beneath the red.
Knives slashed and stabbed, but couldn’t get past Shrewed’s armor.
He gripped one side of the clown’s head while landing elbows repeatedly on the other.
He gouged at the eyes digging and ripping.
The clown tried to bite his armored hand.
He jabbed his fist into the clown’s throat.
Then, he picked the fat man up with a burst of aggression before slamming him head first into the dirt.
Normally, he would’ve worried about breaking a skull or a neck by spiking a man like that, but the clown healed fast.
The clown’s nose was already starting to straighten and those tears on his cheek were beginning to close.
Dirty Fighting ran out of time.
Yet, Shrewed still had plenty of juice. He had close to a year to prepare for this competition and he had made good use of his time. Cardio wasn’t going to let him down here.
“Face-breaker Punch!”
The impact echoed across the arena floor.
The crowed roared.
He knew that he had broken some orbital bones and cheek bones from the deformation in the clown’s face and from the way the red eye bulged out of the socket.
The clown laughed and laughed and laughed.
Shrewed raised his fist for another blow when strong arms grabbed him around the neck.
He threw himself back and landed on top of a jiggling belly.
Surprisingly strong arms tried to choke him.
He grabbed the arm around his neck and pulled, while pulling at the other arm behind his helmet.
Desperate Strength Surge.
He ripped free and rolled off just as he caught a large shadow eclipse the bright stadium lights.
Shrewed heard the knife sink into flesh.
He came up and saw that the fat clown had just stabbed a second clown.
Identical clowns?
Illusion with physical presence indistinguishable from the real thing?
He had felt the second clown.
Clown number 2 pulled the knife from his chest and flipped it to hand it to the original clown.
Shrewed was now faced with two clowns and seven knives.
When had the latter happened?
He tucked his chin and cupped his armored hands around his neck to present fewer vulnerabilities as the knives came in for a dance.
He kept eyes on the clowns as they erupted in belly-shaking laughter that he was deaf to.
On the plus side their wounds didn’t seem to be healing anymore.
“Charge.”
A simple Skill to get him into range quicker.
He timed the cut-off point just a few steps outside of what he judged to be the second clown’s reach.
Shuffling in, he slipped a knife thrust and ducked under a second slash.
The clown was a wild fighter relying on the quick healing ability. Taking damage to give damage.
Shrewed went under the clown’s arm landed a pair of digging hooks into the belly.
The clown doubled over.
He spun to the clown’s back, grabbed the neck and turned the big body to keep the original clown from stabbing him.
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He squeezed the neck tight ignoring the second clown’s desperate stabs and cuts against his armored hands and arms.
Since there were two clowns and the one in his grasp was obviously the product of a Skill. Then, he reasoned, that it wouldn’t break the no killing rule to break the clone’s neck.
The body disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Shrewed ducked slashing knives and took the fat clown back down to the ground.
The clown bucked and stabbed, but, like the dancing knives, couldn’t land anything substantial through heavy armor.
He punched the clown in the face. Slapped the knife out of the clown’s left hand.
He shifted his hips scrambling to get perpendicular to the clown. He kept his weight heavy on the clown’s chest and brought his outside leg up to trap the clown’s head behind his knee. While doing this he grabbed the clown’s left arm in a kimura. Twisting it toward the clown’s back.
Normally, in training he’d do it slowly to give the other person a chance to tap.
This wasn’t training, this was in front of 70 thousand screaming people, this was a crazy clown that had shown zero compunctions about maiming an opponent, like the clown had done to his first round opponent.
Shrewed put his full strength into twisting the arm back.
He felt several pops and a bone or two break.
“Give up, bro. You ain’t healing anymore. It’s over,” Shrewed said.
The clown laughed with madness in his eyes.
“Fuck this!” he snapped.
Shrewed spun around to grab a kimura on the other arm.
Did the same to it.
Stood up.
Kicked the clown in the ribs a few times.
Stomped the face.
Through it all the clown brayed with maddened laughter that he was glad he couldn’t hear.
A kick between the legs before grabbing an ankle lock to break the right ankle.
Followed by the left.
He stood and looked up.
Finally, the unseen referee called the match.
Shrewed advanced to the next round.
He spat before walking back to his tunnel.
A younger him would’ve reveled in the superiority he had just displayed.
The younger him had dreams just like this.
Standing in triumph over a defeated opponent while thousands of screaming fans heaped cheers down on him in the cage.
Now, he was just tired and disgusted at the bloodthirstiness around him.
----------------------------------------
Up in the most luxurious of the luxury boxes a phone rang.
“What?” the Slaver King said.
The voice on the other end sounded rushed and worried.
“What do you mean… an ambush? Hold on. My mandate for this phone call is for you to give me your report with the goal that I won’t have any questions when I hang up.”
Eric strained his ears in an attempt to listen in on the king’s conversation.
Naturally, he failed.
However, the pensive look on King’s face gave him a good enough hint that something had gone bad.
With a sigh, he chewed the grape the scantily clad slave girl on his lap fed him before pushing her off. He signaled the rest of the hanger-ons and slaves to leave the luxury box immediately.
He gave the slave girl one last grope before putting on his serious face.
King’s conversation lasted several minutes during which Eric poured himself another glass of champagne while silently cursing having gotten rid of the slaves too quickly.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had poured his own glass and the idea that he had broken that streak irked him.
His eyes strayed down to the arena floor where that ranger from California had just brutalized the fat clown.
Another source of frustration for the balding, middle-aged man.
He had bet on the clown.
“Fuck!” King spiked the phone on the floor scattering it into pieces.
Eric shrugged.
“We’ve lost a shipment.”
Eric wracked his brain.
There was only one sort of shipment that they’d care about. He tried to remember the schedule. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to start drinking so much so soon.
“Essential workers?” he said.
“Everything we’ve collected over the past week,” King nodded.
“Um… how?”
That didn’t seem possible.
Supply shipment convoys traveled with strong protection.
Multiple slavemasters, at least one over Level 30.
500 slave soldiers.
50 regular soldiers and fighters of at least Level 20.
Sure, they’d suffered losses and damage from monsters and raiding types over the years, but never a total loss.
“My people are still investigating.”
“Why? Shouldn’t there be evidence already? Bodies? Survivors?”
“Nothing, nothing and nothing,” King waved a lazy hand. “No bodies, no survivors, not even damaged vehicles. The only hint that the convoy was attacked comes from significant environmental damage.”
“What does that mean?”
“The highway was broken in places. Scorch marks. Evidence of fires along the embankments. That sort of thing. They were hit a few miles after they crossed the old border.”
“Atlanta?”
“They’ve never struck out too far from their home territory.”
“Some kind of powerful rogue wandering monster?”
“Use your head, Eric. There’d be blood and guts all over the place. Smashed trucks. Shell casings all over. Probably piles of monster shit!” King snapped.
Eric winced.
“I know you’re a little buzzed, but your thoughts, Eric?” King regarded him with a flat stare.
He looked away and focused on the empty arena floor and the packed stadium.
“Lack of evidence tells me that we’re either dealing with people or a monster that devours everything in its path, like a giant version of those slimes in the sewers. Obviously, the former is more likely. And the only reason to hit a supply convoy is to deprive us of what rightfully belongs to us,” Eric said. “Maybe we were wrong about Rayna’s Rangers.”
“That was thought number one in my head,” King smiled. “Good job. They could be more capable of projecting their forces than we had initially assumed.”
“They could also be working with Atlanta,” Eric ventured.
“I’m going to want to tap into our spy network. We can get confirmation if our property turns up in Atlanta,” King said.
They both stared down at the pieces of King’s phone.
Eric pulled his out. “I’ll get that started. We should also scout the surrounding area where the ambush happened maybe we can get lucky and find whoever did this. I’ll order our forces in Jacksonville to get scouts on the ground, drones in the air and the scrying.”
“Good. This sucks, bro,” King said. “And after a fucking banger of a match,” he sighed.
Eric tapped away on his phone. “That Shrewed guy is a ranger, maybe we should ask him some hard questions?”
“Ha! You’re just salty you bet on the clown! Nah, I’m not going to undermine the integrity of the championships only two weeks in,” King shook his head. “Plenty of time for that later. Let’s leave Shrewed alone. I like his style. A real fighter. Knows how to fight in the cage and on the streets. I want to see how he handles fighters that aren’t crazy enough to get in a phone booth dog fight.”
“Alright, texts sent away. General Mark is on it,” Eric put his phone away and sank back into the comfortable lounge chair. He took a big gulp of his champagne. “I still say it can’t hurt to ask a few question under truth spell or Skill.”
“Nah, I don’t want to rattle him. He needs to be focused to be at his best and I want everyone competing to be at their best.”
“As long as the ones I bet on win,” Eric snorted.
“Who do you have?”
“For today’s slate? I’ve got Rou to win within 5 minutes. That guy that shoots glowing balls to win straight up. And that assassin that I can’t tell if he’s a dude or a chick to win within 10.”
“And you bet on the fat clown? All the higher seeds,” King shook his head.
“Listen! That fat fuck shouldn’t have fucked around. He should’ve gone with that clone Skill right away. And maybe not eat a hundred punches to the face. Or maybe wear some motherfucking armor! Fat ass cost me big!” Eric drained the rest of his champagne.
“This is why I don’t bet,” King chided. “You need to just appreciate the display of blood and guts from both fighters.”
“You’ve always been the fight-crazy guy. Fuck, I remember those fights you organized in our frat,” Eric shook his head.
“I remember you punking out after one slap fest with that fat-ass, what was his name?”
“Donald, I think or Daniel, much of my time in college is lost in a haze of cold booze, hot joints and even hotter pussy,” Eric said.
“The look on your face when he sat on it,” King chuckled.
“I forgot that… thanks,” Eric rolled his eyes. “I’m going to call our entertainment candy back… is that cool?”
“Yeah,” King waved dismissively.
The introductions for the next match were about to begin and he fixed his attention back to the arena floor.
----------------------------------------
Miami, Florida, New American Republic, December 15, 2036
The sun hid behind thick clouds.
It looked and smelled like rain was going to put a slight damper on the day’s full slate of Freedom Championship events, at least the ones open to the elements.
The park was fairly empty.
On normal days it would’ve been filled with young lovers having picnics, families doing the same, flying kites, tossing balls, kicking balls, doing things with all different kinds of balls. Probably, also throwing them to dogs.
The smell of grilled meats would’ve filled the air.
The sounds of people enjoying the elements without the fear of a random monster showing up to eat them.
That was the kind of safety that they owed to the king and his fighters.
Those with collars and those without.
It was, perhaps, easy to overlook certain truths when you didn’t have to fear something you couldn’t see coming until it was too late.
After all, didn’t you deserve to have a return to a normal life?
Yeah, Kim thought, we deserve the best lives.
She liked to take a brisk walk through the park during her morning break from her busy duties as the chief executive officer of the New American Republic.
All the better that it was empty now that people were busy watching the events in-person or in their homes.
She walked the winding concrete path thinking about what she needed to accomplish when she went back to her office when she heard cheering.
Rounding the bend, she came across a couple seated on a bench watching what sounded like a Freedom Championship event on a large tablet.
Her lips twisted into a sneer.
Why come to the park when you’re just going to bury your faces into a screen?
She realized that the two didn’t look like they belonged here.
“Appraise,” she whispered.
The lack of information she received surprised her.
Her brows narrowed and her lips pursed.
No names.
Merely a range of ages.
The man was from 50 to 80 year’s old. While the woman was from 48 to 81 year’s old.
This is ridiculous! she thought. How can it be only a range? And why is it so spread out?
No classes were displayed either.
She couldn’t accept that they were unclassed.
Everyone knew how rare that was.
She regarded the people with a critical eye. If her Skill failed than years of experience judging others would have to do.
She studied the man first.
Brown skin, short gray hair and a moustache. His hair was cut short and neat. Same with the facial hair.
She’d put him at around 50, just on the gray hair and the wrinkles on his face.
Although, his body threw her off.
The man was absolutely the picture of physical perfection. He had broad shoulders and a strong chest that pulled his polo shirt tight. Arms rippled with muscles as he held the tablet up. Shorts road up to reveal the impressive musculature of his thighs. She could see his calves from the front.
His face and hair told her 50, but the rest of him was on par with the most statuesque gladiators.
She shifted her attention to the woman in similar attire. Polo-style shirt and shorts.
The woman also had brown skin.
Her hair was long and straight, tied up in a pony tail.
Black as midnight.
Probably dyed, she thought.
Laugh lines around the woman’s mouth and a few wrinkles around the eyes put her in that 50 year old range.
Though, just like that man, it was a great 50 going by the shape of her body.
Kim suddenly felt terribly self-conscious by comparison.
She worked out diligently, but she wasn’t even close to the woman despite being much, much younger… probably.
A thought hit her and she straightened triumphantly.
Brown.
That was a rare sight in this part of the city where the king held his business and the large opulent homes of the nobles circled.
This part of the city was for the better sorts of people.
Honestly, she wasn’t racist or anything. It was just that you didn’t see brown people often and it was only natural to question their presence, especially if you didn’t recognize these two.
She didn’t have a problem with the minorities.
In fact there were people like this couple in other parts of the city and the other, smaller cities, towns and settlements in the New American Republic.
She welcomed their presence… just as long as they understood the proper order of things.
With the strength of certainty in her heart she straightened her back and held her head high as she marched toward the couple on the bench.
“Excuse me,” she smiled.
“Hello?” the man said with a deep voice.
“Hi! You’re not from around here,” she maintained the smile, “I don’t recognize you. Do you live in a… different part of the city? Where?”
“Oh, we’re not from here,” the man said.
She waited for him to elaborate.
“Hmm… see, that’s strange to me, because we don’t really get tourists,” she said after an awkward silence.
“We’re not tourists.”
“But—” her brow furrowed. “You’re competitors? Or with one of the merc groups?” she said a silent curse. It would’ve been an impossible task to learn what every outsider looked like by herself. That was what her staff was for. Could she force these two to wait for her to summon a squad of guardians?
“Honey,” the raven-haired woman patted her husbands muscular arm, “I think we might be tourists.”
“Really?” the man frowned.
“Yes, explain yourselves,” Kim felt the heat rising to her face.
The smile was long gone replaced by a scowl.
The man gave her a wry smile. “I guess so,” he shrugged.
“We’re from California,” the woman said. “We’ve, sort of, been helpful presences during the rebuilding process post-spires. So, when the invitation from your, um, republic,” the woman raised a brow.
Kim’s hackles rose.
The woman was mocking her.
“— arrived, we were asked if we wanted to come along and see what things were like on the east coast. We’ve never actually been this far before.”
“You know how it is,” the man smiled, “I never thought there was anything worth seeing.”
“Who are you with?”
“We didn’t say,” the man replied.
All of Kim’s Skills couldn’t get anything out of the couple.
They weren’t lying outright, but she knew they were hiding things.
“Tell me.”
“Hmm… this is getting combative and I don’t have to tell you anything,” the man stood.
Kim backed up.
The man loomed without effort.
“We’re going to head back to our hotel,” the woman rose with a smile.
“Do you know who I am?” Kim frowned.
The couple exchanged a bemused look.
“I’m the CEO of the New American Republic! Second only to the king!” Kim’s voice rose an octave.
“Oh, good for you,” the woman smiled as though a small child had just told her that he was a dinosaur now.
Hand in hand the couple walked away from her as she could only managed to sputter half-uttered threats.
Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone to dial the nearest guardian substation.
She tried to keep the image of the two people in her thoughts, but for some reason failed.
“I don’t know what they looked like!” she snapped at the exasperated guardian officer trying to take her statement. “The guy was 50 to 80 and really muscular. I had to look up to look in his eyes, so probably your height. The woman was old and wrinkly. She had a bad dye job. They were brown.”
“Hispanic, Latin, Black?” the guardian said.
“I don’t know! They all look the same!” she huffed. “Not Black…” she said after a moment.