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Chapter Eight

The city of New Westlands

The Ring

At Vic’s deca-match

V ic spit out blood, staring at it for a second when it pooled on the sand.

Her body’s alarms blared warnings she had to ignore—cracked or broken ribs and a gash in her shoulder plastering her red faux-leather vest to her skin.

A dull ache replaced the piercing agony, merging with the burn in her ribs.

Numbness spread outward, and she would soon lose the use of her arm.

Blowing escaped tendrils of her hair out of her face, she scanned the arena.

High metallic walls kept the fans from the gladiators standing in the center of a sand-filled floor.

Above the twelve rows were massive screens interspersed with banners flapping as if a breeze swept through.

Like a barrel vault, a transparent dome capped the arena.

Lighting and fireworks canons were mounted to the support beams with the expanse of space beyond.

The cacophonous roar of the crowds faded away as she slowed her breathing and listened to the steady thump of her heart.

This was her final match. Win this, and she earned her freedom.

It was Fiona’s last match too. Losing meant waiting another year for the next deathmatch.

Vic wasn’t prepared to give Carne Corp and the Ring another hour of her life, let alone a year.

Fiona, known to the world as Fortuna, waited, a confident grin splitting her cheeks while she incited the crowd, arms raised high.

Braided ebony hair swirled when she moved her head, in stark contrast to her green suit and dark skin.

As Vic staggered to her feet, she analyzed her opponent’s posture.

She slanted a little to the side, nursing her cybernetic right arm and a spark flickered, proving Vic had caused a malfunction when she’d stomped on it with her spiked boot.

She had to get that arm off her. If Fortuna activated it, mini heat-seeking missiles could be on Vic’s ass in an instant.

She was too exhausted to let that happen with her blood draining and her breathing restricted by her injuries.

Bolting forward, she zig-zagged to confuse Fortuna’s cybernetic eyes.

They were state-of-the-art but slow to focus on erratic movements.

Vic vaulted into the air, swooping in with a tight fist. Fortuna dodged to the side at the last moment, taking the brunt of Vic’s downward punch on the chin. It doubled her over, but Vic didn’t hesitate, swinging a backward hammer fist, catching Fortuna on a cheekbone, spinning her.

Fighting for air, Vic threw out a side kick, catching Fortuna on her sternum.

She flew backward, sprawling with a groan.

A cloud of dust rose around her. Mics in their outfits caught each breath, groan, cry, or spoken word.

It registered their heart rate and injuries, with a projected duration remaining of the match.

The crowds lived for this, and Vic hated them for it.

Not once did she look at them; no smile or encouragement, yet they adored her.

“Victorious,” they chanted when she strode toward Fortuna, who’d managed to push herself onto her elbows.

“Don’t bother bargaining, Fortuna. You know the stakes.

” Vic’s words shushed the crowds for a moment before they roared, the arena thundering with their combined cries and stamping.

She gripped the low collar of her shirt as if to adjust it, pushing her breasts up for added emphasis when, in fact, she covered the mic.

Catcalls and whistles from the crowd showed their appreciation for Vic’s minor display of her assets.

She ignored them. “I’m tired and done. Wait one more damn year, Fiona. ”

She shook her head.

Vic drew in a shallow breath, spun on her heels, and roundhouse-kicked her opponent in the face.

The force threw Fortuna to the side like a rag doll.

She caught herself on her palms, spitting blood and groaning.

Lights flickered on her right arm. She was powering it up.

Vic leaped across and grabbed the woman by the wrist. Wrenching a cybernetic limb off took skill, but Vic would try it anyway.

She might damage it enough to cost Fortuna the advantage.

Placing her boot on the shoulder, Vic pinned her to the ground, holding her arm up.

The crowd roared their bloodthirsty eagerness, having anticipated this.

Fiona balked, kicked, wriggled but to no avail.

“Sorry, Fortuna,” Vic said before twisting her body side-to-side and wrenching the limb off. It grated and screeched as metal disconnected, pseudo-skin tore, and neuro-wires pulled taut, then snapped.

Fortuna cried out, her skin turning ashen. She scrambled back, tossing up dust with her scraping boots. “Farg, Vic, why’d you do that?”

“Concede, Fortuna.” Vic studied the cybernetic arm in her hand.

Numbness had spread to her bicep so she tossed the cybernetic limb to her other hand.

Despite the disconnection, Fortuna had armed the missiles.

Raising her gaze, Vic jerked back at finding Fortuna had crawled farther away than expected and was powering up her left arm.

Vic eyed the squares glowing through the pseudo-skin on the limb and sprinted toward Fortuna, holding the arm in front of her like a gun.

She pressed the buttons, firing the missiles without thought.

Fortuna screamed, throwing out holographic shields to disarm or detonate the missiles before they reached her.

One slipped through. Her holos shielded Vic from the blast. There where she had sprawled was a charred, limp Fortuna.

The crowd fell silent, their gazes pinned to the stats board flickering Fortuna’s life signs.

The green blip of her heartbeat slowed. The crowd waited.

All Vic cared about was that Fortuna lived, barely.

The arena trembled, straining to contain the stamping of a hundred-thousand feet.

Vic approached her and placed the limb on Fortuna’s chest. “You were a formidable opponent, Fiona,” she said, uncaring that the crowd eavesdropped. She’d never see the woman again, and the months of recuperation that lay ahead had Vic pitying her.

A blue holo sphere appeared on the sand.

Vic staggered onto it. A cylinder formed, cocooning her in bright light as it assessed the extent of her injuries and captured her for posterity.

They would market merchandise and avatars from her deathmatch.

Lifelike replicas of this moment would bring in a sizable profit.

It was one of the reasons Carne offered freedom to their veteran gladiators.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Carne Corp and the Ring are proud to announce Victorious as the arena champion. This was the deca-match that determined Victoria Harper’s freedom and end of service. We wish her well.”

Black ribbons shot into the arena, tossed by the crowds as tribute and in farewell.

Joy, relief, and fear of the unknown, of a life of her own, warred with her distrust of Carne.

They’d hounded her this last year to allow them to alter her, amp her muscles, strengthen her bones, purify her blood, and add ammunition implants.

She’d declined every offer, and according to International Arena law, they couldn’t force her.

One word from her, and they’d lose their license.

Ande bounced on the side, whooping and hollering, his bright smile shining through the chaos.

Beside him wearing a ferocious glower was Devlin.

His gaze wasn’t on Vic but on her best friend.

She stiffened, wishing she could capture the asshat’s expression.

A deep yearning twisted his lips. Ande refused to take Devlin as a real threat, dismissing the man as beneath his care.

Next to Ande’s great bulk, Devlin appeared smaller despite his broad shoulders and mop of tussled blond hair.

When a new unit of seven A.I.-sec-bots marched in on heavy feet, Vic expected the worst. Circling the arena floor, they leveled their glimmering black weapons on her.

Despite their threatening presence, she marveled at the sleek design, how they matched the bots’ metallic frames even as her heart rate spiked.

The bell rang, ending the match. The bots raised their weapons, firing above her.

A shower of red fireworks—to match her suit and hair—filled the dome, clouding the streaming ribbons.

Her shoulders slumped. It was over. Raising her good arm in the air to acknowledge her victory, she did something she never did. She grinned.

Two days later

The city of New Westlands

“M orning, sleepyhead.” Ande sat on the edge of Vic’s bed. “I’m off to Carne.”

“Hate that,” Vic mumbled and rolled over. She huffed her hair out of her face to focus on Ande.

As gorgeous as he was, they didn’t have that kind of a relationship. Best friends and house mates summed it up.

“Try not to get into any trouble,” he said, then chuckled when she glared at him.

He kissed her temple. She waved him off then listened to him heading out the door of the apartment they shared.

Still belonging to Carne, he had to attend training sessions and medical appointments.

She had nothing on her agenda. Despite all the time she’d had to think about her future, the possibilities had seemed surreal.

Now, she was free, and she had no idea what to do with her time.

Credits weren’t a problem, but learning a hobby or working at a menial job held no appeal.