Match 10
#500 Curtis Waller
vs
#40 Nimia “The White Tiger” Altamirano
Roads crossed through all parts of life. Old roads, long roads, lone roads; roads that existed where nations once stood and endured long after they were dead and buried, smothered beneath the ashes they rose from.
It made sense, in a way. Nations were complex; roads were simple. People needed roads to travel, so even if a nation died, there was still an incentive to keep the roads maintained.
Countries had risen purely out of a need to keep such utilities in working order. The States, the new ones, had such humble beginnings to thank for their status.
But none of that mattered to the man driving down one such stately road. It was an old one, an Old World highway, one that survived disasters both natural and man-made. Perhaps some would appreciate the history.
He didn’t.
He had far different things on his mind as he leaned back on his chopper, his gloved hands gripped tight to the handles. Things involving the large, curved, cleaver-like sword he had strapped to one half of his bike, and the sawn-off shotgun holstered on the other side.
The man was tall, about six foot standing, and his muscular chest was bare under the bright, mid-noon sunlight, sweat glistening down his solid pecs and chiseled abs. Oh, and said chest was absolutely covered in blood red numbers. High numbers, from 1,000 on his neck, to the massive 500 taking up most of his upper back; numbers wound down his muscles like written lines, crossing vertically and horizontally in every space they could find, though they seemed to stop at his waistline.
Though that might be because he was actually wearing pants. Red leather pants, but pants nonetheless, which matched his gloves and the balaclava covering every part of his head; aside from his eyes, which were concealed behind a pair of yellow goggles.
Perhaps he thought he looked cool. Perhaps he didn’t. That was what he wore, and that was what he was wearing when he arrived at a small-time diner in a small-time town. Freedom Star was its name–the town, not the restaurant–and such a name could only truly belong to a safe little place nestled so deep in civilized territory that it could afford to have no walls surrounding it at all.
Meanwhile, The Cocoa Junction–the restaurant, not the town–was a cute little place that had a surprising amount of motorcycles parked outside it. It boasted a “50’s” style without any indication to which “50’s” it meant, but it apparently consisted of some booths spread out around the diner and a long service counter taking up most of the room, with a number of stools set in front of it, occupied by various diner goers, chatting and enjoying their meals.
And that was all abruptly cut off by a booted foot kicking in and utterly shattering the glass door.
Curtis Waller strode in with all the confidence of a man who knew, without the slightest hint of doubt, that he could take on anyone in that building and win, easily. Including the cowardly bitch he was here to kill.
And wouldn’t you know, she was right across from him, still eating a burger as though a man toting a sawn-off shotgun and a cleaver-sword was an average, day to day problem. “You the Fortieth, bitch?”
“Mm? Yh, ‘ne sec.” She held up a finger, asking him to wait as she continued to chew.
Curtis felt his eye twitch as he scowled at her flippancy, before his eyes roamed over the other diner patrons, each staring at him far more warily. Large guys, about his size or slightly shorter, wearing biker leathers. Maybe her gang? It wouldn’t be the first time he ran into some bitch shacking up with a dozen extras looking to ride their coattails. They died just as easy, and these pissants would too.
“Mm...damn, these are good…never tried a real beef burger before...” The bitch swallowed, then glanced at him from over her shoulder. “So, what do you want, number man?”
“To kill you, you pansy-ass bitch!” he snarled back, focusing right back on the cunt stealing his spotlight. She just raised an eyebrow and he seethed.
Everything about her was fucking pissing him off, but the casual way she was staring him down really fucking rankled! The short-haired bitch wasn’t even armored or even had a fucking style, she was just lazing in a blue t-shirt and jean shorts! “Why the fuck are you wearing boots when you have fucking robot legs!?”
She blinked, then glanced down at her white and black cybernetics. “...Because walking around barefoot would be weird? No shoes, no service. Speaking of, wear a shirt, dude.”
His eye twitched again. “How the fuck did a cheating cunt like you make it to fucking fortieth?”
That damned eyebrow raised again. “Cheating?”
Curtis jabbed a thumb at his chest. “You see this?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“...Your left tit?”
“MY FUCKING NUMBERS! The numbers I EARNED! Earned by starting at the very fucking TOP! I started at one thousand! I worked my way to five hundred! I’ve killed five hundred motherfuckers all across this shitball of a planet on the way here! SO WHY THE FUCK IS A BITCH LIKE YOU GETTING THIS MUCH ATTENTION?!”
“...Attention.”
“YES! WHY ARE YOU GETTING COVERAGE?! THE FUCKING COMMENTARY SHOWS UP FOR YOU, BUT NOT ME!? I WORKED MY FUCKING ASS OFF KILLING THESE STUPID FUCKS, AND THEN SOME CUNT COMES IN AND STEALS THE FUCKING SPOTLIGHT!? YOU DIDN’T EVEN START AT THE TOP! YOU SHOWED UP OUT OF NOWHERE TO STEAL FIFTY, AND IF YOU THINK I’LL LET YOU TAKE FIRST BEFORE ME, YOU’VE GOT ANOTHER FUCKING THING COMING FOR YOU!”
“...Let? I think you’ll...let me?”
Curtis missed her tone, but the bikers nearest flinched, suddenly feeling very wary of their new pal they’d been chatting with. And one of them–white guy, dark beard, sun glasses, red bandana, black boots, and a leather vest to go with a white shirt and blue jeans–actually stood, nervous. “A-Ah, uh, Nim, uh...think we should go? If this is goin’ where I think it’s goin’.”
“...Nah, you can stay, Frankie. I think me and Mister Five Hundred need to take a walk.”
And Curtis’s shotgun was immediately pointed straight at her face, cocked and ready. “Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me where to fucking go!? You think I can’t kill you here and now you fucking cunt?!”
“Five Hundred.” Her eyes were cold. Not an ice blue, but the deep green of a dark ocean. “You want a fight, I’ll give you one. Just head on out. I’ll be following you. Just not here.” Her lips twitched, naturally going to a grin. “The milkshakes are too good, and I really don’t wanna ruin anyone’s day. Hell, if you want, why not sit and talk? I can get you one, pay for a meal? Make it something nice.”
He let her talk. And then he turned the shotgun on that pansy bitch that interrupted–
There was a sharp crunch, and Curtis couldn’t look, because Nimia Altamirano was standing up, and her hand–the left one, non-robotic–had crushed the barrel of his shotgun into a chunk of metal, but his eyes were on hers because she was looming over him. Three inches taller, but the difference was very noticeable to everyone looking. “Turn around, and walk out. If you want a fight, I’ll give you one, but if–”
He dropped the gun and swung his sword–
One hand–the left one–was on his neck, squeezing hard enough to put spots in his vision, and the other–robotic–had caught his sword between her fingers and thumb, the blade not hitting her palm. “Third chance, asshole. You’re lucky I’m nice. And I’ll pay for the damages, sorry about this.”
She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke–
In a crash of glass, Curtis rolled out on the pavement, up to his feet, shards sticking into his bare chest as he clutched at his neck, coughing and trying to catch his breath. Then his sword landed with a clatter in front of him.
“You wanted a fight.” Through still spotty vision, he looked up, and she was standing over him, the sun behind her back, casting her in shadow. So why could he see her eyes? “Get up.”
Curtis stumbled to his feet, fully, his sword clutched in his hands, as he snarled and charged, swinging–and a fist caught him straight in the stomach, driving all the air out of his lungs–an elbow smashed his head down into a rising knee and his head snapped back as he collapsed on the ground hard, his back smashing to the burning pavement.
“Get up.”
Coughing, he scrambled up to his feet, trying to breathe–he yanked his mask up over his mouth and took in deep breaths, thankful for the oxygen and hating the bitch more than anything else he’d ever known.
She stared evenly back, settled in a stance, her fists up.
Spit flew as he screamed in rage, rushing with a fury that burned across his whole body and it didn’t stop her fist from smashing up into his jaw and then one to his cheek and one to his temple, jaw, cheek, nose, chin, mouth, cheek hard enough to make him spit blood, back the other way, over and over and over and over until two hands clenched together slammed down hard enough to smash him back into the pavement.
His head bounced, flinging shards of goggle lens out, and he heard her step back through the ringing in his ears.
It took far too long for everything to stop spinning and buzzing, and then he heard her.
“Third life. Get up.”
He tried. His hands pushed up under him and he tried but his knees gave out and his feet wouldn’t find purchase. He just barely managed to roll over, glass and pavement shredding his back. The sunlight was too damn bright with his goggles broken.
“Come on, double-o. You came to me. Oughta mean you were ready for this, yeah?”
He grit his teeth, blood leaking down his mouth at the bitch’s taunting. “F-F-Fuckin’, l-l-lucky shot-”
The hammer of a gun pulled back with a far too audible sound, light glinting off the gold. “Nah. This is an easy shot. Not a lucky one. Question is, should I take it?”
“G-Ghh...y-y-you d-don’t have the balls-”
“I have a cunt, dumbass, and I guarantee it works better than your limp shit. Also, here’s a tip, junior. When someone has you at gunpoint, you give them a reason to let you go. You don’t say ‘you won’t do it’, because then this happens.”
He flinched at the gunshot, his eyes closing involuntarily as gravel kicked up inches from his head. But not in his head. “...f-f-FUCKIN’ KNEW IT YOU CHEATIN’ PUSSY! YOU AIN’T SHIT, AND WHEN I GET UP, I’M GONNA–”
The second shot went straight through his forehead as Nimia sighed, genuinely annoyed. “I really didn’t want to kill anyone today...welp, time to drown my sorrows in more milkshakes.” She turned, dismissing her Cleon without a second thought as she muttered to herself. “Seriously, how the fuck does this place get them so good…”
And that was that. No big fanfare, no sudden rise from the dead. Just the bloody corpse of a man given a number of chances that he didn’t take.
Maybe there was a tragedy in that; a life cut short, not even halfway to realizing its potential. Or maybe it was earned, by simply being too stubborn and arrogant to follow the path he already chose. A man working from 1,000 to 500 should have been impressive.
He wasn’t.
But maybe the next one would be.
Across and above the Earth, around five hundred people in the settled parts of the system suddenly felt a sharp burn. They weren’t random people, certainly; each one had to meet a proper criteria to be considered, with the first major rule being that they had to be committing a premeditated murder at that exact moment.
And as they felt that burn, five hundred individuals heard a voice and saw a man, on their phones, on nearby screens, in their eyes and ears.
“Well hey there,” he purred, ivory teeth glowing against a pitch-black grin, “Welcome to the Ranks.”