“You’re awake,” Simon looked happily at him, “Just in time too, I think dinner is on the way.”

“Great,” Jonas felt his stomach growl, “I need some protein before tonight's workout.” and it wasn’t long before the doors to the slave room swung open and the guards came carrying trays of food.

“You're eating real good now, aren't you, Ariel,” said a miserable-looking low-level guard, “Try not to get fat, or we’ll be putting you in the stew next,” and he laughed as he slid a tray full of food through the small opening. Jonas didn’t argue, but he did inspect his newest portions.

Two very large bowls of rat stew that were warm, two loaves of bread that were much softer than the ones he usually got, and a large pitcher of warm Swamp Ale.

“Give me the two loaves of bread and you can keep the two bowls of soup,” said Simon, who already had his own much smaller bowl of rat stew. Jonas obliged, and he also poured a cup of beer for both of them.

“Cheers, brother,” said Jonas delightfully, and he and Simon stretched their arms through the iron bars and clinked their wooden cups the best they could.

“Cheers,” said Simon, and they both sipped the foggy beer. About twenty minutes later, all the food was absorbed into their bellies, and they sipped their alcoholic beverages over a conversation about what their next plan was.

“Well,” began Jonas, “Brow said that we still have to train with Ahmed every day, but instead of going right back to my cage, I’m allowed to go use the fighter’s gym to work out, sorry about that.”

“No worries,” said Simon, who hadn’t been permitted to use the gym after the sparring sessions, “I’m not much for working out anyways.”

“I guess I’ll train with you and Ahmed, work out, eat, and continue the process until Brow decides that I’m ready for the arena.”

“That’s about all you could hope for,” said Simon, “It’s not like many slaves in Hell get this kind of opportunity, it’s your good blessing that you have a lot of talent for both Sin and fighting.”

“That’s true,” said Jonas, “I think Drake would have already taken out the top-five fighters and made a name for himself in Little Wrath City.”

“You’re not your brother,” said Simon, “But I think that’s a good thing. You need to focus on your situation right now if you ever want to see him again, and I’m assuming that he’s doing the same.”

“Mhm,” Jonas mumbled through a sip of beer, he didn’t want to explain to Simon that he and his brother hadn’t left on good terms. Thinking about the fact his brother probably never wanted to see him again was enough to send his anxiety into overdrive, so he forced himself not to think that way, “I could go for a cigarette right about now, you think Brow could get me a pack?”

“Smoking is bad for you,” but Simon conceded, “Then again, everything in Hell is bad for you.”

“I only smoked a bit when I went to parties, or my anxiety got bad,” said Jonas, “I didn’t want to fuck up my lungs just in case…” but he trailed off with a slightly embarrassed expression.

“Go on,” Simon encouraged.

“In case I made the football team.”

“Nothing embarrassing about that,” said Simon, “I played on my high school team as well.”

“You did?” Jonas looked surprised, “What position?”

“Benchwarmer,” and beer shot out of Jonas’ nose as he laughed and choked at the same time.

“Not my fault I was five foot five and a hundred and ten pounds,” said a bemused Simon, “I got to go in for one play, though,” he added with some nostalgia in his eyes, “It was the end of the season and we hadn’t won a single game. We’re down forty-nine to zero, and the coach decided to pull the starting running back and let me have a go.”

“What happened?”

“I got strip-sacked and they ran the fumble in for a touchdown,” he added, “We lost the game fifty-six to zero.”

“Jesus,” said Jonas, “Did you at least have fun?”

“Not really,” said Simon, “I had two broken ribs,” and he changed the subject, “What position would you have played?”

“Wide receiver,” said Jonas, “I ran a four-two-nine in the forty-yard dash in gym class, plus I can jump pretty high, and I have great hands.”

“All the makings of a great receiver,” said Simon, “What stopped you from joining?”

“I died,” Jonas said quietly, a certain memory was brought back to him; one where he had sat in his brother’s Mustang and decided he would try out for the team. It felt like a thousand years had passed since then, “What a journey it’s been so far,” Jonas drained the last of the beer.

“Here, here. Now don’t forget, on top of extra breakfast tomorrow you also get a beer from Ahmed,” and this immediately picked up Jonas’ mood.

The next morning when the duo awoke, they were greeted by a very large breakfast shared between the two, and finally, they were let out of their cages where they were brought to the fighting room. Ahmed stood shirtless in the sandy pit and sitting on the cold stone floor near him was a very large mug that Jonas assumed to be his prize.

“Morning, Ahmed,” said Jonas as he stripped half his clothing off and prepared to spar.

“Good morning,” he said dryly, “You can drink your beer after sparring is over,” and he added, “From now on, you’ll be my workout partner in the gym as well,” the gym wasn’t that much to get excited about, but it was a change of pace to be able to go somewhere other than his cage, or the sandy fight pits.

After a very brutal hour of sparring with Ahmed whom Jonas thought was putting just a little too much effort in, he said goodbye to Simon and followed his new workout partner down the opposite hall and into a square room with multiple hallways, “The left hallway leads to the fighter’s quarters, the right leads to the gang members quarters,” Ahmed explained.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“How about that path,” Jonas pointed to the hallway just ahead of them.

“Private rooms, main foyer, auditorium, and the entrance to the main lobby that connects to the Little Wrath City Arena.”

“We’re connected to the arena?” Jonas was surprised, “Are all gangs connected to it?”

“Pretty much,” Ahmed led them down the left hallway, “Every gang headquarters connects to the main lobby, and that lobby has multiple doors in and out of the arena. It’s highly monitored and filled with guards, not the best place to screw around.”

“Thanks for explaining,” Jonas said as he followed Ahmed into a very large room that was full of old bench presses, cracked mirrors, molded yoga pads, and some very rusty-looking machinery that Jonas assumed had to do with working out but he couldn’t name them as he hadn’t ever been inside a gym.

There were about twenty fighters who were working out, some in pairs, but most of them paid no attention to Jonas who quietly followed behind Ahmed. The two of them laid claim to a bench press, and Ahmed made Jonas put weight onto it. It was a bit strange to get used to, but Ahmed helped him learn the proper technique and grip, and by his third set he was doing near-perfect bench presses.

“Good work,” said Ahmed, “We’ll do chest, biceps, triceps, and shoulders today.”

“Ahmed, why the fuck is there a slave in here?” someone asked with a deep husky voice, Jonas instinctively thought it was Garth who had come to cause trouble, but when he turned his head to see who had spoken he just saw a twenty-something black guy wearing an eye patch and baggy prison scrubs.

“This is my dummy slave, Jonas,” said Ahmed smoothly, apparently he knew who the man was. Jonas could tell from his voice and body language that he had ill intentions.

“I don’t give a fuck about Cracker-Jack’s name,” said the fighter, “Why the fuck is a dummy slave in our gym?”

“Brow gave me permission,” said Jonas, “I’m training to be his new fighter,” but he wished he hadn’t because that black pirate had burst into laughter and began chiding him, “How far Brow has fucking fallen. You know, he had once worked his way to the top ranks here in the Hurts gang, too bad Keal got caught with his dick in a honey trap, bye-bye private room,” and he shook his head disapprovingly.

“Dude,” said Jonas, “Fuck off,” and although he might have been wanting to keep his head down, Jonas wasn’t going to back down from some dickhead that not even Ahmed put in his eyes. The man didn’t scream or get mad, he just smiled.

“Since you live in a cage, you probably don’t know who I am.”

“I do know you,” said Jonas matter-of-factly, “You’re the asshole who’s annoying the shit out of me.”

“Okay, Backstreet Boy, let’s do this shit, cause I know some dummy slave isn’t in my gym disrespecting me like that, stand up, bitch,” and he pulled off his prison shirt, revealing a muscular body with a large black panther tattoo across his chest.

“Fuck it,” Jonas took his shirt off too, his heart began to beat rather quickly, but he knew he had to fight, there wasn’t a choice. Other fighters stopped working out and began pointing the spectacle out, they focused their bloodthirsty eyes on Jonas. They loved watching dummy slaves bleed.

“Pete, I said he was with me,” Ahmed gave him a threatening expression, and there was some trepidation when Pete looked at the old desert warrior, but Jonas spoke up first.

“Ahmed, let me do this,” and the two met eyes and nodded their heads. Although they weren’t best friends, there was a mutual understanding between them. Sometimes, men just had to handle their business, and they couldn’t rely on others. If Jonas didn’t stand up for himself, anyone would think it was a free game to pick on him.

Jonas and Pete squared off, fists up, ready to rumble. He attacked first and was extremely quick and Jonas was a bit surprised to see that his assailant threw his attacks with decent skill. However, maybe it was because he had been training with Ahmed for over a week, but Jonas felt like Pete’s hits were a bit too slow, and he managed to weave underneath one and throw a punch himself.

Jonas’ knuckles dug harshly into the ribs of his opponent who gasped in pain. In retaliation, he began swinging much more violently due to his inner rage, while his flame-like Sin Scar began to glow.

“Pete, enough!” exclaimed a booming voice, and as soon as it sounded, that black pirate named Pete froze on the spot, and no matter how angry he was, he didn’t dare continue attacking. His one good eye continued glaring at Jonas and his expression was murderous.

“Sorry, Wolf,” said Pete and he nodded his head towards a person who had been watching the short-lived fight from his bench press on the other side of the room. Jonas got a glimpse at another top-five fighter and he was quite impressed because Wolf truly had a unique aura about him.

Wolf was a very manly-man that Jonas could imagine reeked of whiskey, cigars, and testosterone. His name suited him well, for he had short gray hair, a fuzzy gray beard, and dangerous-looking eyes that were narrowed like a wolf’s.

He was wearing a white tank top that was stretched to its limits, and Jonas could see as he stood up from the bench, that he was at the pinnacle of physicality, and his body resembled one of those Greek statues, albeit slightly worn and aged.

“Ahmed, how are ya’ now?” he asked politely as he walked over. He was wearing black combat boots, but his steps were so quiet it was like he had practiced walking on ice.

“I’m alright, Wolf, and yourself?”

“Just peachy,” he said, “Sorry about my fighter here causing problems for your slave,” His voice was gruff, but Jonas could unmistakably tell from his accent that Wolf was Canadian.

“No matter,” said Ahmed curtly, “If you don’t mind,” and his intent was clear, he wanted Wolf to back the fuck off.

“Oh that’s not a problem,” said Wolf but he didn’t move at all. In fact, he, and his cronies looked more like a pack of wolves that had gathered around their prey, slowly getting closer. One of them, in particular, stood out among the rest as he had to be at least seven feet tall and he gave Jonas the creeps, “But I am curious, friend. Why is a slave in our gym?”

“Brow,” began Jonas but Wolf cut him off.

“I wasn’t talking to you, pup,” and the menacing, alpha-like glare that he sent towards Jonas caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. Jonas might have said that Wolf looked tough before, but he knew then that he was one crazy-ass Canuck.

“Are we going to have a problem, Wolf?” Ahmed didn’t shy away, he was holding his ground and his eyes stared violently at his fellow. Jonas had been so intimidated by Wolf that he had forgotten he stood next to a man who wasn’t measurably weaker.

“Problem?” asked Wolf as if he was generally curious.

“I know why the slave is in here, Wolf,” Pete’s expression was extremely amused as he said, “Remember yesterday when I told you that a dummy slave had thrown Ahmed across the room like a ragdoll? Remember?” and Jonas couldn’t help but notice Ahmed’s eyebrows twitch in fury as his cheeks tinged red due to all the chuckles.

“Eh, I think I remember you mentioning something of the like,” said Wolf, “I didn’t believe you though, it’s hard to imagine the number four fighter being tossed around by a slave,” and Jonas was finding it comical how Wolf could insult a person in such a polite tone.

“No,” said Pete, “This is the one who did it, I promise you. Because of that little incident, Brow thinks Clay Aiken over here is his golden ticket back to the good life,” and the wolfpack snickered.

“Brow must be desperate then, poor guy,” said Wolf, “If little Keal hadn’t fallen for Yuki, he might still be around, and Brow wouldn’t have to rely on the little pup here to work his way back up.”

“I just can’t believe the great desert warrior Ahmed, the man who slew a thousand crusaders, would get thrown around by Wonder Bread, I mean Wonder Boy, over here,” Pete only had one eye but that didn’t stop it from stretching wide in delight.

Jonas wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be offended by the nicknames as he found them comical. He also wasn’t sure if Ahmed really had killed a thousand crusaders, but he did know that the old warrior looked like a vein was going to burst in his forehead, and his Sin Scars were flashing a brilliant scarlet glow.

“Don’t be so harsh with your words, Pete,” said Wolf, “Ahmed is a very respectable opponent, and we’ve faced each other a couple of times now without a real winner,” but something in his tone of voice told Jonas that he didn’t think much of his rival even though they were near equals.

“You call it harsh, but I’m not the one who lost to a slave, am I?” Pete said, “I’d probably just go hang myself if I lost to this pussy.”

“You should probably get your noose ready,” Jonas glared at Pete while wearing a dark smirk.