The crowd roared.
Rino blinked the stars out of her eyes.
She was on her back in the dirt.
What had happened?
Foggy thoughts wafted through her head.
It took a moment for her quick healing to kick in.
True Patriot had cracked her upside the head with that damn stick while she had landed a crushing punch to the side of that blindfolded head.
She shook her head.
It was quiet.
Had the hearing been smacked out of her ears?
It felt like cotton had been stuffed into her ears.
She rose on shaky legs.
Her vision cleared.
True Patriot was a good distance away, also climbing to her feet.
The crowd suddenly roared.
Rino grimaced.
She clenched her fists.
The beast within wanted to come out all the way. Wanted to rip and tear.
True Patriot waved her stick around, miming throwing it for a game of fetch.
A growl escaped Rino’s throat.
The wry grin on the other woman’s face pissed her off.
Stupid wry grins!
She charged, snarling.
She came in low and hurled a cloud of dirt in True Patriot’s blindfold.
The glowing, white stick swept down through it with unerring accuracy.
Rino was quicker. She spun letting it slam into the ground with an earth-cracking thud. Getting behind, she kicked back planting her heel in the woman’s back.
A solid connection was always satisfying.
True Patriot tumbled across the ground like a boulder rolling downhill.
Rino leapt after her.
True Patriot came out of the roll with a superhuman display of agility catching Rino out.
The stick lashed.
No time to dodge!
Rino deflected with her arm.
The shock reverberated through her body.
That’s a crack, she thought grimly.
When hurt, attack!
An axiom she lived by.
She slashed at an armored thigh carving through to touch the flesh.
She slipped her head to the side, letting the stick whistle past her ear.
True Patriot was a lot stronger, but Rino was quicker.
She pulled True Patriot off-balance with a rough jerk on the woman’s arm. Got behind and grabbed the back straps of the combat harness.
She spun round and round building up momentum before letting go.
True Patriot’s curse was swallowed by the wind.
Rino chased after the spinning woman like a dog after a frisbee.
True Patriot hit the ground, rolling.
Rino was right behind.
Sharp nails flashed in the sunlight.
The crowd roared.
True Patriot caught one wrist in a crushing grip and blocked the other with her stick.
“You’re quick and strong. Would you be interested in a job?”
“Already have one,” Rino growled.
She tried to wrench her arm free but the grip was immovable.
“Trade,” she grabbed the stick.
True Patriot’s blindfold covered eyes flashed white.
“Not a fair trade,” she kicked Rino’s legs out from under her.
Rino fell right into a triangle choke.
True Patriot’s muscular legs felt like steel cables.
The squeeze was quick and powerful.
Rino’s vision flickered black.
A full transformation would give her much greater strength and ferocity.
No!
She resisted the incessant push in her mind.
Remember the real goal!
Besides, that form was meant for true battle. It was a killing machine. Not a sport fighter.
Instead, she got her feet under her, planted them into the dirt and surged up.
True Patriot was superstrong and she was a lot heavier than a woman her size looked, but she wasn’t too heavy for Rino.
She lifted True Patriot high in the air.
Her vision went black just after she slammed True Patriot into the dirt.
It cleared a split-second later with the slight bit of space the impact created.
The grip on her wrist slackened for an instant.
Enough for her to rip free.
She stumbled back trying to keep from going down that long, dark hallway.
The glowing stick tried to help her along.
Rino blinked.
She woke up near the arena wall.
Oh… right, I got cracked… again.
A dark shadow blotted out the sun.
She rolled forward.
True Patriot stomped a boot into the dirt.
Still groggy, Rino lowered her shoulder and crushed True Patriot into the wall.
The crowd rained cheers or curses, depending on the nature of their bets, down on the two women fighting for their entertainment.
An elbow hammered Rino’s backplate leaving a dent.
She shoved True Patriot into the wall cracking it.
She slashed wildly at the other woman’s extremities where the armor was lighter or non-existent, where fatal and disfiguring wounds were less likely.
Steel rings, canvas, cloth and blood flew.
“Vicious,” True Patriot grit her teeth as she drew her pistol and emptied it into Rino’s chest.
The steel plate wasn’t enchanted.
It did nothing.
Rino felt 17 stings of hot lead piercing her torso.
“You’ll heal from that?” True Patriot quirked her head to one side.
She staggered back and wiped the trickle of blood leaking from her mouth. “Bitch,” she spat. “I surrender,” she raised her hand.
“What?” True Patriot’s frowned. “Is that your your limit?”
“No, but I’m not willing to take this further.”
The crowd’s cheers turned to confusion, then anger at the abrupt ending.
They felt robbed.
The boos rained down on Rino.
She raised a two fingered-salute before heading back to her tunnel.
The slugs in her torso moved agonizingly slow as the healing pushed them back out.
A full transformation would’ve been her only way to keep the fight going.
It was academic at that point since she wouldn’t go that far.
“Hey! You made it to the Sweet Sixteen…” Jake gave her a hesitant smile.
“Bringing a gun to a fist fight is cheating,” Kare pouted.
“Are you injured bad?” Ginessa said.
“I did what I had to—” she blinked at the chime only she could hear, at the voice and text only for her. “Huh?”
“What is it? Did she use silver bullets!” Kare gasped.
“I thought that doesn’t work on you guys?” Ginessa perfect brow furrowed.
“Oh yeah. That’s right… phew,” Kare wiped her forehead.
“Spires message,” Jake nodded sagely.
“Losing still pays,” she shrugged.
“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” Kare ushered her down the tunnel with the nervous energy of a mother hen sheltering her chicks beneath her wing.
----------------------------------------
Christmas Eve.
The Freedom Championships matches and events ended in the early afternoon to give competitors and spectators time for parties and family gatherings.
One such party was taking place inside the New American Republic’s premier brothel, Creamland.
The converted mansion was an ode to debauchery.
It was filled with enslaved men, women and children of all types.
The owners had two rules.
Don’t leave marks that can’t be healed or fixed.
Don’t kill any of the essential workers.
Everything else was available for the right price.
After all, collared people didn’t count.
It was a law and everything.
There was even a section staffed solely by enslaved without collars for the truly sadistic that needed to see the fear and pain in their victims.
One such man, stumbled out of a room, leaving a crying girl covered in bite marks, bruises and cuts.
The man’s pants were left unbuttoned. His shirt was long forgotten.
Jeff, a sadistic warrior of lust, had spent over a week in Creamland taking out the frustrations of his loss to the werewolf, Gator, in the second round.
His team had joined him after they’re own losses.
Team Alpha Sigma had claimed a small wing paid for by their winnings.
“This is the last night,” Brett said.
Jeff grunted as he sat down and flagged a topless enslaved waitress for a cold beer. He slapped the giggling girl’s bare bottom as she went to another table.
“We’ve been warned about messing with the waitress,” Brett said.
“I know that,” Jeff snapped. “Ain’t fun when they’re wearing collars anyways. So, what’s this about?”
“This place is expensive and I kinda want our guys to spend their winnings on getting stronger instead of on pussy and ass,” Brett said.
“Fine… tell ‘em to get their last spurts out. Vacations over. We get back to gains starting tomorrow.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“So… do the guys care about that?”
“I think most of them still have family.”
“Day after tomorrow then.” Jeff took a long swig of beer, belched and cast his eyes at the cages on the raised stage for his next plaything.
“I’ve been asking around,” Brett said.
“C’mon, man!” Jeff whined. “You’re killing my buzz.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“I got the address of the hotel the Watch are staying at.”
“The what?”
“The team that beat us.”
“Kicked your asses, you mean,” Jeff chuckled.
“I’m going to keep eyes on them.”
“Hey, bro. I’d love to tear them up with you, but the king made it clear that we better keep our noses clean during the championships.”
“He didn’t say anything about after.”
Jeff nodded at that, clinking bottles with Brett.
He emptied it in one gulp and looked around for a waitress until something on the big screen over the bar across the room.
“When was that?” he pointed.
“Huh?”
“The feeder match on the TV.”
“That’s the Four… probably this morning.”
Jeff stared at the screen.
There, in the middle, fighting with other feeders was a one-eyed girl that looked familiar.
He rubbed the scars around his ruined right eye.
Brett regarded him before grinning. “No way! That’s the girl that gave you that!”
He grunted.
“She’s still alive… bro, we got robbed. Sold her for a feeder price, but we should’ve gotten the full gladiator price considering how good she’s doing. Motherfucker! I’ve seen their highlights before. Apparently, some anonymous noble sponsored this bunch of feeders. Got them training from some kind of expert and decent gear. They’ve been fighting and winning feeder matches for the whole month.”
“Do you remember who we sold her too?”
“It was a bulk sale. If she’s a feeder then the government paid and the feeders got sent to one of the arenas.”
“Find out,” Jeff hurled the empty beer bottle shattering it over the bartender’s head.
The enslaved young man simply smiled the uniform smile that was the default expression for all collared people.
Elsewhere, outside the city a much higher caliber of people quietly celebrated Christmas Eve.
Rayna’s Rangers played cards, drank water, juice or soda, one didn’t get drunk in an active combat zone when they could be attacked by monsters or slavers at anytime.
They played cards, traded bragging exploits and talked about the loved ones they had left back in California.
For the vast majority of the rangers under Captain Butcher’s command this was the farthest and longest amount of time they had been gone from home.
Even the undead war was only a few hours drive down the freeway. It was even quicker on wyvern or drake-back. Hell, if they had been lucky enough to hitch a ride with Rayna or Cal, then it was a handful of minutes or less.
The rangers took the night to lighten their burdens and relax just a bit.
For even hardened fighters got homesick.
Except for those on sentry duty.
They couldn’t relax.
Ambrose fingered his left ear… half a left ear with a sigh.
“Stop doing that,” Spicy whispered.
“I had two ears, now I have one and a half,” he sighed.
“And you’ve been moaning about it for almost two weeks. They can probably fix it when we get back home.”
Ambrose stared out from their camouflaged tree platform into the dark woods.
Night vision taken from a woodland critter made things almost as clear as day thanks to the clear skies and full moon.
Silence reined for a time.
“I think it makes you look dangerous,” Spicy said.
“Does it?” Ambrose perked up.
Back in the city the other portion of the Rayna’s Rangers gathered in their motel.
They had torn larger holes in the walls so that they could better enjoy their Christmas Eve party.
“Alright, you assholes!” Sgt. Mouthy barked. “Get the dice. Squads are gonna do rollys to pick out the designated drunks. You all know the rules. Highest two wins. They’re the lucky ones that can get shit-faced. Lowest two, sucks to be you. You poor fucks are strictly non-alcholic
“I picked up some non-alcholic beer too,” Timber said.
“Why would you do something stupid like that?” Wichita said.
Timber shrugged. “Thought it’d be nice for the guys on guard duty so they wouldn’t feel left out.”
“You’re all heart, you big lunkhead,” Sgt. Mouthy said. “Everyone that rolls in the middle, you’re on a one drink an hour maximum! Let me repeat that for you hard of hearing types. Maximum! The opposite of minimum! Sgt. Aims will be watching, so don’t test him.”
Aims pointed two fingers to his eyes then swept it across the nearly 50 rangers.
“Can he do that?” Tuxedo Cake whispered.
“Yeah, he can,” Prim nodded.
She had seen Sgt. Aims take out a flock of 53 undead swallows with his old revolvers back at that old mission.
He had called out the number before and they had counted after.
Exact.
The squads split apart to get the rolling done.
“Sergeants are exempt!” Sgt. Dastardly called out.
Dice clacked against plastic tables.
“No! Shit! Fuck! Shit!” Neckbeard tossed his tricorne in disgust.
“Why you wearing that coat inside, Neckbeard?” Lasik adjusted his thick glasses.
“No reason to take it off now that I’m on guard duty,” Neckbeard said.
“Here you go, Beard,” Babyapple handed his tricorne back, “you’ll need your full kit… though, I wouldn’t sweat it too much. I’ve got wards all over this place and out to the parking lot. We’ll have plenty of warning and enough defensive shielding to get ready.”
Molds held up her tablet. “Drones and surveillance up and down the streets. Eyes and ears on all the soldiers surrounding us,” the chubby-cheeked, frazzled hair-having ranger said.
“What are they doing right now?” Sgt. Hardhat said.
“Enslaved are doing what they always do, watching our building, so creepy,” Molds shuddered. “Slavemasters aren’t paying attention. Most of them appear to have brought in,” her face twisted, “entertainment.”
“Give me that. I’ll take over for you,” Sgt. Hardhat sighed.
“Thanks, Sarge,” Molds said.
“You’re 18, but you’re too young to be seeing that sort of thing… hell, I’m too young to be seeing that sort of thing,” Sgt. Hardhat said.
“Heavy is the mantle of responsibility,” Sgt. Dastardly toasted nobody with her half-finished beer.
Cheers and cries of anguish mingled with that of mild disappointment as the rollys finished.
Greygrass strummed a tune on her banjo.
Rangers winced.
A quirk of the young woman’s Skill versus her lack of skill when it came to playing the instrument. She was great when using the former and not so good when solely relying on the latter.
“Use your Skills!” Sgt. Mouthy snapped.
“Aye, Aye, Sarge,” Greygrass threw a lazy salute before resuming her strumming.
“Much better,” Sgt. Mouthy nodded.
“Who want’s my dice?” Prim raised it high. “I don’t drink.”
“I believe the word is die,” Bluesilk nodded sagely.
“Yes, Bluesilk,” Chandra eyes lit up, “that is the right word… for you…”
“Shit, relax,” he chuckled nervously, “I don’t even really care that you all can’t use the right words. It’s always who this, who that when it should be whom, but you don’t see me complaining.”
“You’re literally complaining right now. You always complain. That’s why you have a few levels in grammarian… useless,” Vicks muttered.
Bluesilk considered correcting Vicks, but decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Swan Princess!”
“Me!”
“What do you want for it?”
“We’re on the same team!”
Rangers rushed Prim.
Sgt Mouthy cleared her throat. “You pathetic taints know how to settle this,” she grunted.
“Sudden death rollys!” Sgt. Dastardly raised two beer bottles to the ceiling.
Prim found a spot from where she could cover the windows and door with her spells. She dragged a chair over and sat down. She trusted Babyapple’s and Molds’ security measures, but that didn’t mean she could abdicate her responsibilities.
“Hey! Listen up!” Sgt. Dastardly had climbed onto the table. “First thing, big ups to our team for continuing to kick ass and take names! Neckbeard, Chandra, Tuxedo, Wichita and Swan Princess… hey? Where are you? SwannyP, where’d you go?”
Prim raised her hand with a sigh.
“Get over here! Take your accolades!”
“Leave her be, Dastardly, she’s on guard duty,” Sgt. Mouthy said.
“Fine, fine, we love the work you’ve been doing Swanny! Never doubted you for a second,” Sgt. Dastardly raised her beer bottles. “To our team! For showing these slavers real fighters! Kick their asses tomorrow!”
The rangers cheered.
“To Shrewed!” Sgt. Mouthy said. “Who gave it his all, but just ran into a bullshit, leech-dicked vampire! He isn’t here with us, but he’ll be fine recovering with the boss.”
“Safest place in the city,” Wichita said. “Boss won’t let anything happen to him.”
The rangers cheered.
Sgt. Dastardly narrowed her eyes. “Hey, Neckbeard…”
The man hastily chugged his bottle.
“Stop him! He’s got a match tomorrow!”
Neckbeard slumped in defeat… belching his hastily downed beer.
“Who came in second to him?” Sgt. Dastardly said.
“Me, Sarge,” a long-haired ranger with a bad attempt at a beard waved his hand.
“Neckbeard, give your rollys to Bootleg Jesus,” she ordered.
Outside on the southern boundary of the city where the landscape turned into mangroves, waterways and the swamps of the Everglades a man woke to a new reality, his old reality.
He remembered who he was.
He had never forgotten.
Bryce Clark. Level 30 Fighter. Plus a few levels in inconsequential things he picked up before he learned that was a mistake. Husband. Father.
He remembered his wife, Sammy and her inviting smile whenever she was about to kick his ass in sparring.
His daughter, Sally and her sun-kissed hair flying free as she leapt up into his arms for one of her patented baby bear hugs.
He had never forgotten them.
He just hadn’t… cared.
Not when the collar had been around his neck.
Now, he was free.
Armed with the shield and spear that they had given him as one of their slave soldiers.
That class had vanished along with the shackles.
He stood in the harsh glare of spotlights high up on the walls along with a dozen other men and women that looked as horrified and confused as he felt.
A short, squat man atop the wall brought a megaphone up to his mouth. “Don’t get any ideas. We didn’t let you keep the armor for a reason. If you even think about trying anything you’ll be filled with so much lead you’ll be unrecognizable lumps of meat.”
Bryce eyed the machine guns pointed at him.
He remembered it all.
It wasn’t that he had forgotten how a huge band of raiders attacked and overpowered his community. How he was beaten and thrown into a cage. How he hadn’t seen what had happened to his wife and daughter.
Where they dead?
He hoped so.
He had seen what the slavers did to pretty women and girls.
He remembered it all.
He just hadn’t cared.
It was the collar and the slaver’s Skills or magic or both.
It made him happy to be of service. To be enslaved.
His hand tightened around his spear.
Throw it.
Kill the slavemaster as one last act of rebellion.
To show them that they hadn’t beaten him.
“… run away, fight, hide, I don’t care. Just try to make it last. We’re wasting enough of you as it is,” the slavemaster said.
“We need to work together,” an angry-faced woman said.
“That won’t matter,” a big, burly man sneered. “We all know what those freaks can do. I know you all remember, cause I do. Shit, I was at an actual hunt before. Dumb morons tried to do just what you said. They formed a little spear wall. That monster just tore through them. Spears barely got through his fur. It was like armor. So, I suggest we all split up and maybe some of us will make it.”
“Where would we go?” the woman said. “It’s the fucking Everglades. The only directions we can go all lead to the ocean.”
“I’d rather die clean than messy,” a thin young man said. “I die a free man! You hear me!” he hurled his spear at the slavemaster.
It clanged off the shield of a slave soldier that suddenly appeared.
“You die a free man,” the slavemaster sneered, “but you don’t die easy.”
“Great job, moron,” the big man said.
A wolf’s howl pierced the clear dark night.
It was deep.
From a massive set of lungs.
Bryce couldn’t help but glance up at the full moon.
His skin tingled.
The fear of the hunted.
He had felt it plenty of times.
He knew what was coming.
Level 30 wasn’t enough.
12 people at that level wasn’t enough.
The others edged toward the darkness of the Everglades.
They all knew that a few miles along the border was continuously cleared of monsters and dangerous animals to create a buffer zone. He had been part of one such sweep himself.
“Wait! Let’s work together. Maybe we can lure him into an ambush, set a trap,” he said.
A second howl, not as deep, but just as spine-chilling.
Then a third.
“Fuck me, all of them,” the big man paled.
“We can still—” Bryce began.
The big man lashed out with his axe.
“Block!”
Bryce took it on his shield.
He stabbed his spear into the man’s unarmored thigh.
The big man roared in pain. “Motherfucker!”
“That’s on you,” he replied.
“He tried to hurt you to give the swamp wolves something to keep them busy for a bit,” the thin young man said. “The old bear safety tactic. I don’t have to outrun the bear, I just have to outrun you… you know?”
Bryce nodded.
“Scatter!” someone shouted.
“Wait, goddamnit!” the angry-faced woman spat.
Only the four of them remained.
They eyed each other and nodded.
“I don’t have a weapon,” the thin young man said.
Bryce clubbed the big man on the head with the butt of his spear and kicked the axe over to the young man.
“Let’s go… try to find a thick tangle of mangroves. Get them stuck in, so we can stick them. It’s our best chance,” the woman said.
Bryce nodded.
He prayed.
Soon.
Soon he’d be with his wife and daughter again.
Wait for me Sammy, wait for me Sally.
This Christmas Eve, while a city celebrated, blood ran in the Everglades.
A swift figure bounded across the city’s rooftops, searching for the scent of freshly spilled blood. Her elder had mandated it and so she obeyed.
Annoying, but also fun.
Hunting was one of her life’s true pleasures.
This was even better because it felt more real than their normal, controlled hunts.
That was more like a game or sport than the true struggle of predator and prey, of life and death.
Doubly better that what she hunted was another hunter.
A hint of that tantalizing scent in the air piqued her interest.
Sweet and tangy failed to describe the blood when she drank deep.
Blurring, she leapt toward it with leather jacket flapping in the wind.
Another night hunter slipped out of shadow hidden in an alley.
Bennett was mindful of Cal’s warning to keep his distance from the slasher. The girl, Holly.
Not that his old friend was afraid for his safety, but rather for the murderer’s.
Which, was odd to say the least.
He supposed she was necessary for Cal’s full plan, whatever that may be.
Bennett didn’t question. He was content to do his part. He trusted that Cal was doing his best to free the enslaved people while limiting the threat to the various agents scattered through the city helping him.
Bennett had spent the last week spying on a list of targets Cal had given him.
What he had observed left him no illusions on how his detailed information was going to be used.
After all, why employ a slasher if not to slash her way through even worse people.
He thought of Flo.
A girl made into a monster by her class long ago.
He understood a bit of why Cal had Holly around.
Even if he didn’t think you could redeem such a person.
Howling wolves in the distance.
Bennett shrank back deeper into the ally instinctively.
Predators recognized predators.
He recognized dangerous ones.
The matches were informative.
Blood scented on the wind.
He focused.
A large amount had been shed far to the south.
He recalled Cal’s briefing with disgust.
The slaver king fed people to the werewolves.
Yet, another crime against humanity to punish.
His thoughts turned apprehensive when they remembered another briefing.
He wanted to make contact out of curiosity, but that would jeopardize the mission, so he would do as Cal had asked and simply stay hidden and observe.
He slipped back into the shadows and resumed his journey toward the mansion where one Lady Velvet, Lord de la Sangre and Lady Rebel.
They were the first people like him.
And, like him, they were threats.