Page 82 of Fractured Future

“Your boss invited me here,” I point out.

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me.”

With a low curse, he wrenches open the rusted steel door. The sound of music grows even louder, accompanied by enthusiastic shouts and cheers. It’s a familiar symphony.

“What is this place?”

“Nowhere special.” He flicks his wrist dismissively. “But it’s ours for the night.”

Casting the thug a wary glance, I step inside the warehouse. It’s dimly lit inside, the din intensifying when he slams the door shut behind us to block out the remaining daylight.

We’re in some kind of backroom staff area. Not exactly what I was expecting. From the Post-it note laden bulletin boards to overflowing paper baskets and the lifeless coffee machine, it’s an ordinary space.

“Not exactly a typical criminal haunt.”

“You talk too much, woman.”

“So I hear.” I look around in a circle. “Have you got a name?”

“Spyder.”

A snort rips free. “I’m sorry, do you think this is a TV show or something?”

“Keep your opinions to yourself around here.” He glares ominously. “You’ll get stabbed for less.”

Grumbling under his breath about what a bad idea this is, Spyder leads me deeper into the unit. It’s chilly, despite the summer warmth outside, with frigid shadows enveloping the space.

The farther we wind through metal shelving stacked with unlabelled boxes, the louder the shouts grow. After delving deep into the warehouse, a break in the labyrinth finally arrives.

Flickering lights and grunge music overwhelm my senses all at once. Surrounded by packed boxes and shelves, a large space has been cleared in the centre.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter in shock.

“You should be used to this kinda thing.”

Similar to the Mexican fight clubs I’ve become familiar with, the set-up is rudimentary but functional. Bloodstained concrete. A circle of onlookers. Two smoking thugs overseeing the fight taking place.

There are no barriers. Not a single wall nor rope to hold back the grappling pair in the centre. A full-on dogfight is taking place, spurring on the cries of all who watch their battle.

“She’s savage,” Spyder observes from beside me. “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

Blinking hard, it takes a moment to realise I’m staring at familiar blue hair. It’s cut short and dyed the colour of a midnight sky, showing off ears laden with rows of multicoloured piercings.

“Yield!” Raye screams like a banshee.

“Piss off!”

The younger guy she’s attempting to strangle from behind spits the insult back at her. They’re well suited, both gangly and muscled, seemingly unafraid of close-contact confrontation.

“Come on, Lee,” she cackles. “You can’t beat me.”

Despite his packed abdominals, visible without a shirt on, Lee seems to know he’s screwed. The poor bastard is thrashing and flailing, trying to wrestle his way out of the headlock.

Every time he attempts to pull Raye off balance, she tightens her grip around his neck. For a relatively thin woman, she’s unbelievably strong. I can’t help but feel impressed.

“I’m bored now.” Raye pretends to yawn.

“Fuuuuuck!” he screeches.