Page 34

THIRTEEN

THE FIGHTING CAGE

~JINX~

The fighting cage materializes before me like a nightmare made real—massive steel bars soaring fifteen feet high, forming a perfect circle illuminated by harsh spotlights that leave no corner in shadow.

The industrial flooring beneath my boots bears the unmistakable stains of battles long concluded, blood having seeped between metal grates despite institutional cleaning protocols.

I step fully into the arena, oddly calm despite the obvious trap I've walked into. This environment doesn't surprise me—it's precisely what institutional patterns suggested awaited beyond the heated corridor. What does surprise me is the audience.

Beyond the steel bars, Alpha figures pace and prowl with predatory intensity— not the controlled violence of institutional subjects, but something far more disturbing.

These Alphas have lost whatever humanity they once possessed, reduced to feral creatures that bear only passing resemblance to the men they might once have been.

"Holy shit," Maverick mutters through our connection, voice tight with uncharacteristic alarm. "Those aren't standard institutional subjects. They've completely devolved."

I crack my neck to release building tension, the satisfying pop offering momentary relief as I scan my surroundings more thoroughly.

The cage appears to have only one entrance—the doorway I've just passed through, which has already sealed behind me with pneumatic precision.

"I'm running simulations on potential exit strategies," Maverick continues, analytical mind processing escape scenarios even as I focus on more immediate threats.

"The structural integrity of the cage appears significantly enhanced from standard institutional designs.

Breaking through would require resources beyond current inventory. "

"Not my priority right now," I murmur, attention fixed on the creatures surrounding my prison.

The Alphas prowl with disturbing synchronicity, their movements carrying none of the tactical calculation or strategic assessment typically displayed by institutional subjects.

These men— if they can still be called that —operate on pure instinct, reduced to their most primal drives without the tempering influence of higher cognitive function.

Their eyes glow with unnatural brightness in the harsh lighting—pupils blown wide with whatever chemical cocktail Press has used to induce this feral state.

Muscles ripple beneath skin marked with institutional tattoos and what appear to be self-inflicted wounds, evidence of systematic breakdown occurring over extended periods rather than recent degradation.

I scan each face methodically, fighting against growing tightness in my chest as I search for familiar features among the uniformly savage expressions.

If Press has reduced Riot to this state— if the man who once touched my face with impossible gentleness now prowls among these feral creatures —the tactical parameters of my mission would require significant recalibration.

But as my gaze travels the full circumference of my circular prison, relief washes through me with unexpected intensity.

None of these creatures bears Riot's distinctive tattoos, none carries his specific scent signature beneath the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and institutional chemicals.

My Alpha isn't among them.

The realization brings a flicker of hope— a dangerous emotion in the current tactical situation, but impossible to suppress completely.

If he's not among these feral Alphas, he must be elsewhere in the level hierarchy, potentially still within retrieval parameters despite six years of institutional conditioning.

My momentary distraction nearly costs me everything.

Movement registers peripherally—something dropping from above with deadly precision.

I leap sideways on pure instinct, body responding before conscious thought can process the threat.

The figure crashes to the floor where I'd stood milliseconds earlier, impact vibrating through the metal grating with concerning force.

The creature rises slowly, movements bearing the unnatural fluidity of something not entirely human. Female in biological classification only, this thing bears little resemblance to the standard Omega designation or typical human presentation.

Half-naked, her bare breasts bear wounds that appear deliberately inflicted rather than accidental trauma.

Blood matts her long black hair, some fresh, some dried to rust-colored flakes that shower the floor with each jerking movement of her head. Her eyes hold no recognition, no personality, no evidence that anything resembling consciousness remains behind their feral gleaming.

"Jesus," Maverick whispers, horror evident even through electronic distortion. "What the hell did they do to her?"

The scent hits me then— Omega signature twisted and corrupted through chemical manipulation beyond standard institutional protocols. The corrupted pheromones carry notes that make my stomach turn, biological markers indicating systemic breakdown rather than simple modification.

This isn't just another test subject.

This is the result of experimentation gone catastrophically wrong—or perhaps achieving exactly the results Press intended, depending on the objective parameters.

Beyond the cage, the feral Alphas react to the corrupted Omega scent with renewed frenzy—throwing themselves against steel bars with disregard for personal injury, teeth snapping at air as if they might somehow reach us through solid barriers.

Their collective growls create a dissonant backdrop that vibrates through the entire structure, primal soundtrack to whatever deadly game Press has orchestrated.

The corrupted Omega tilts her head at an unnatural angle, assessing me with predatory focus that carries no higher reasoning. Her stance shifts with fluid menace, muscles coiling for attack beneath skin mottled with institutional track marks and self-inflicted wounds.

I shed my tactical shirt with swift efficiency, knowing the coming confrontation will require maximum mobility without fabric restriction. The backpack follows, tossed into a corner of the cage where it might survive whatever violence is about to unfold.

The corrupted Omega tracks my movements with unsettling focus, pupils constricting despite the harsh lighting as she drops to a predatory crouch.

"You don't want to do this," I tell her, knowing the warning will fall on deaf ears but making the attempt regardless. "I'm not very merciful, but I'll let you stay in that corner without harm if you don't force my hand."

Her response comes as a guttural screech that bears no resemblance to human vocalization— pure animalistic challenge that echoes off steel bars and concrete ceiling with piercing intensity.

She launches herself at me with explosive force, covering the distance between us in a single bound that defies standard human capability. Her nails—grown to claw-like extensions—slash toward my face with deadly intent, trajectory designed to blind rather than merely injure.

I pivot at the last possible moment, her momentum carrying her past as I drop into a defensive crouch. She recovers with unnatural speed, rebounding off the cage bars to come at me from a different angle without hesitation or reassessment.

This time I meet her charge directly—calculating that defensive positioning creates prolonged engagement where her feral intensity might overcome tactical advantage.

My fist connects with her solar plexus with precise force, air expelling from her lungs in a wheezing gasp as momentum abruptly reverses.

She staggers backward but recovers almost instantly—pain apparently registering as minimal input rather than a debilitating factor.

Her eyes narrow with what might be calculation if higher cognitive function remained, teeth bared in animalistic challenge.

"She's not responding to pain stimuli," Maverick observes urgently. "They've modified pain reception pathways beyond standard enhancement protocols."

"No shit," I mutter, circling cautiously as the corrupted Omega mirrors my movements with disturbing precision.

She feints left before attacking right— a tactic suggesting remnants of combat training beneath feral conditioning. I block her initial strike but miss the secondary attack, her nails raking across my shoulder with enough force to draw blood.

The pain registers as distant information rather than immediate concern, tactical assessment overriding physical discomfort with practiced efficiency.

My counterattack flows without conscious direction—elbow to throat followed by knee to abdomen, combination designed to create separation rather than permanent damage.

She absorbs the impacts without visible effect, pushing into my strikes rather than retreating from them. Her hand locks around my wrist with surprising strength, attempting to pull me into closer range where her teeth might find vulnerable flesh.

I roll with the momentum rather than fighting against it, using her own force to flip her over my hip with precise redirection. Her body hits the metal flooring with bone-jarring impact, the sound echoing through the cage with satisfying finality.

Any normal opponent would remain down after such a throw.

This creature merely rolls to her feet with fluid grace, neck cracking as she realigns vertebrae with disturbing casualness.

Beyond the cage, the feral Alphas work themselves into greater frenzy as the scent of my blood joins the corrupted Omega pheromones in the atmospheric cocktail.

Their howls create a primal chorus that vibrates through metal and bone with uncomfortable intensity, the collective bloodlust creating almost physical pressure against my skin.

The corrupted Omega circles me with renewed focus, her movements becoming increasingly erratic as whatever chemical cocktail driving her system reaches peak efficiency.