by Logan Jacobs
“If you didn’t need that arm, I’d break it,” Olivia said, but then winked at me.
“That’s okay, Opal, that’s why we have Astral Moonswan, personal healer, and part-time girlfriend,” I explained away. “To both Phoebe and myself that is.”
“Oh, naughty, I like it,” Aurora said.
“Great, now that we have everyone’s covers explained, again,” Thomas said impatiently. “Can we go now? Team Van Damage, god, I can’t believe I agreed to that, you follow behind us by twenty minutes. Let us get through security and to the right floor.”
“Roger that, Steve Segal,” I replied with a big smirk. “Head of Nora’s security and personal bodyguard.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, I can’t,” Thomas shook his head. “Come on Team Roussey, let’s go.”
“Good luck, guys,” I said seriously. I knew when to pull back my incessant need to make light of things, especially when nervous. “See you in there.”
Nova nodded at me and gave me a small smile.
My team and I watched as they took on their persona’s and walked up to the front of the one hundred and sixty stories tall building that looked like a glass finger pointing up through the brilliant blue sky toward the heavens.
I at first thought it was weird that we were walking to the hotel, that we should be taking limos or something, but Thomas had pointed out that it was a secret fight competition. According to the Skalle Furia that we had captured, all fighters and their crews were supposed to approach on foot.
I checked the time on my Rolex Submariner, just because we weren’t trying to draw attention to ourselves didn’t mean I couldn’t have nice things, and waited fifteen minutes.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said and began to walk toward the luxury hotel. As we walked I tried to imbue myself with a different attitude than Marc Havak, devil may care, roguishly handsome, champion for Earth and take on that of mean, rough and tumble fighter from the bad part of town. I either looked tough and intimidating or I had really bad gas from too much falafel. I figured either worked.
We made quick time to the front of the massive hotel. The glassed-in foyer sparkled in the mid-day sun and screamed opulence. Well-dressed bellhops and valets scurried about with the purpose of those who served ridiculously wealthy people on a daily basis.
Olivia, as my supposed manager, took point and walked up to the bellhop stand, as we had been instructed to do by the Skalle Furia prisoner in Area Fifty-One who was now very comfortably pushing up desert daisies.
“Hello, welcome to the world-famous Burj Al Khalifa hotel, how may I help you?” the bellhop said formally and with a big fake smile.
“Um, yeah, so I’ve got Bruce Van Damage, we’re here for a, um, competition?” Olivia asked with as much confidence as she could muster. Other than giving us a general rundown, oh, and setting us up with all our cover IDs, the Skalle Furia prisoner hadn’t really known that much about getting into the event. Other than we had to go talk to the bellhop.
“What? How dare you!” The bellhop yelled, suddenly indignant and furious. “I have no idea what you are talking about! Get out of here this instant! Whatever you do, don’t go to the service elevator at the back of the hotel in five minutes or I will beat you insolent dogs like… insolent dogs! Be gone!”
Olivia turned to the rest of us and shrugged. I shrugged back, and we took the not-so-subtle hint and headed around the back of the hotel.
“Wow, that was about as subtle as you are, Havak,” Olivia said as we ducked into the back alleyway.
“One, it’s Bruce, Mr. Van Damage if you're nasty,” I shot back. “And yeah, that guy needs some acting lessons for sure.”
“Oh, really?” Chaz said as he poofed right next to us. “I thought I was going to have to teleport us in there.”
“Chaz?” I asked, a little surprised. “What are you doing here? I thought you were holding things down at Area Fifty-One?”
“Yeah, I stumbled into a storeroom there,” Chaz admitted with a scared look on his face. “I don’t think your planet has a very nice history with aliens. So, I decided to find you guys.”
“Uh, yeah, Area Fifty-One,” I said, chagrinned. “Home of Alien Autopsy. Nice look by the way.”
“Why thank you,” Chaz said proudly. It had taken me a second but my normal blue buddy was now plainly caucasian. He wore a dark maroon velvet track-suit and had a cream covered Kangool hat on his normally bald head that I assumed was hiding his antennae. “I am Chaz Clodhopper, your personal assistant.”
“Nice,” I said and patted him on the shoulder. Chaz could be a little much at times, but he’d proven himself time and time again when shit hit the fan.
“Here we are, guys,” PoLarr said as we came around a large, particularly smelly dumpster, and saw a large, freight elevator just inside an open loading bay. “Mmm, boiling hot garbage smell. Lovely.”
“It helps us keep the riff-raff away, Ms. Barrett,” the Bellhop said from just inside the loading bay. His demeanor was very different than it had been just a few moments before. “Sorry for the ruse up there. Need to make sure we keep the Sultan’s little competition as secret as we can, no?”
“Oh, yeah, totally,” I agreed as if he had been Hoffman in Marathon Man.
“Thank you, Mr. Van Damage,” the Bellhop said reverently as he motioned for all of us to enter the elevator. “It is a great privilege to have a fighter such as yourself as a last-minute addition to this year's competition. As it is an honor to host your entourage of… shall we say… exquisite companions.”
“Thank you,” Chaz said excitedly.
“Um, ah, yes, you too, little funny man,” the Bellhop replied with a strange look on his face. “My name is Salah.”
“Shut your face, it is not,” PoLarr blurted out. I caught her eyes and shook my head slightly.
“Yes, Ms. Barrett, it is…” Salah continued.
“You may call me, Phobe, Salah,” PoLarr said with a big, sultry smile, as she gently touched his arm. “My excitement got the better of me. I had a lover long ago named Salah who was quite the man.”
“Ah-hem,” I cleared my throat.
“Of course, nothing compared to my new paramour, Mr. Van Damage here,” PoLarr recovered and rolled her eyes at me.
“Yes, yes,” Salah nodded vigorously. “Salah is a strong and powerful name. Come, come, I need to get you to the ring immediately. The first round of fights for the day have already started.”
We all moved into the large service elevator as Salah closed the huge doors manually. He then flicked open a small hatch near the control panel for the elevator and pressed his thumb onto a computer screen. Light played over his finger and turned green. The elevator began to go up, slowly at first and then faster and faster. I had no idea how far up we went, but we got there very quickly. So quickly that my ears actually popped. Soon the elevator came to a stop.
“How high up are we, Salah?” Olivia asked.
“Floor one hundred and fifty, Ms. Devine,” Salah replied as he lifted the doors of the freight elevator. “The Sultan of Savages has the top ten floors reserved all for his competition.”
We stepped out of the elevator into a scene right out of a Fast and Furious movie. The entire floor had been set up like some giant night club meets Madison Square Garden. We had come out near the top and rows of tables and booths cascaded down at least an entire floor to end in a glassed-in oval fighting ring. Above us, parts of the top floors had been cut away, so it was like a multi-level viewing/party area. All the exterior walls were clear glass that made it seem like we were floating fifteen hundred feet above the vast Saudi Arabian desert and the dark, navy blue water of the Persian Gulf that glinted like a million diamonds in the evening sunlight. The roof was even glassed-in, the sky a brilliant baby blue above us.
And if I had thought the view outside was spectacular, it didn’t hold a candle to the throngs of gorgeous women inside. Fifty or so ladies, who must have been hired by the Sultan, were painted silver and go
ld, wore nothing but the barest of string bikinis, and gyrated to the techno music that blasted from hidden speakers. The spectators, of which there had to be close to a thousand, were no slouches either. Women of every race, creed, color and even a few species, were dressed in the finest clothes money could buy. Some hung on the arms of well dressed, clearly incredibly wealthy men, while others congregated together.
“Wow,” Aurora said as she looked around.
“Yup,” Olivia echoed.
“Holy crap,” PoLarr whispered.
“Did we just die, and I went to heaven?” Chaz asked to no one in particular.
“The President was right, I guess everyone on Earth is a perfect ten now,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Come, we have your viewing box all set,” Salah said with a large smile. “The Sultan of Savages has spared no expense for the delight of contestants and spectators alike.”
Salah walked us around the large oval which had suite like boxes ringed around the edges. Each box had a fighter and their respective entourage inside. We passed one with Nova and the rest of our team. They pretended to ignore us as Nova shadowboxed in the center of the room. I managed to give her a wink as we passed. She winked back just before Salah stopped us at the box right next to theirs.
“Here we are,” Salah said as he opened the door and showed us inside. It was like a luxury suite at a fancy stadium, or at least I thought it was, I’d never been in one. But I had seen them on TV. Large, flat-screen TVs lined one wall and showed the floor of the oval ring from just about every angle. Delicious smelling food was laid out in a small buffet, and a bartender stood behind a small bar set up in the corner of the room. A heavy bag, speed bag, and a few ergonomic workout machines were near the back of the room. “Everything you could possibly need for your comfort has been provided by the Sultan. Mr. Van Damage, I believe your match is up soon. You may change into your fight gear and warm-up. Another of the Sultan’s staff will come to retrieve you when it is time. Good luck.”
With that, Salah turned and left the room.
“This is something else,” PoLarr whistled as she looked around the room.
“I could get used to this, sugar,” Aurora drawled as she sat down on a large, plush sofa set up in front of the window that had a clear unobstructed view of the fighting oval.
“Hey, Hav… Um, Bruce, you should come check out your fight gear,” Olivia said as she held up a pair of tiny, spandex looking shorts.
“Wait, what?” I asked as I walked over to her. I took the tiny, bright red shorts from her and held them up in front of me. “Oh, man.”
“Can’t wait to see you in those, sugar,” Aurora said seductively.
“Ditto, that,” PoLarr remarked.
“Gotta say,” Olivia said with a wink. “I agree with them.”
“Fine,” I huffed and headed into the training room. It took me roughly ten seconds to take my street clothes off and pull the shorts on. I was pretty sure I looked freaking ridiculous but when I actually opened my eyes to take a gander in the mirror, I was somewhat pleasantly surprised. Yes, they were stupid tight, and stupid short, but I actually looked pretty badass. They were very similar to the type of trunks worn by Ultimate Fighters or pro wrestlers. The months of training and fighting for my life had done wonders for my physique. I wasn’t quite full-on Hugh Jackman Wolverine ripped, but I certainly resembled Ryan Reynolds more than Seth Rogan. All in all, not too bad. With a shrug, I walked back out into the room.
At first, I thought the silence was a bad thing and was about to get all kinds of embarrassed but then I realized that the ladies in the room were looking at me the way I normally looked at them which meant they were having all kinds of dirty thoughts running through their heads.
“Wow, you are incredibly well endow--” Chaz started to say.
“Thanks, buddy!” I yelled to cut him off. “I feel very naked in these.”
“Isn’t it liberating, sugar,” Aurora said and winked at me. “Honestly, I don’t know how you fight in so many clothes all the time.”
“You heard the man,” Olivia said. “Your fight is almost up. You should probably start warming up.”
“Ugh, fine, okay,” I agreed reluctantly as I walked over to the little workout area. I picked up a jump rope and started to skip slowly. I found warming up to be incredibly boring. We never got to warm up before being thrown into a life or death match in the Crucible. Although after about thirty seconds with the rope my heart rate was up, and I could feel the tingle of my various combat mods at the base of my skull. I finished out two full minutes with the rope with some double-unders and then moved to the heavy bag.
I didn’t see any gloves provided with the shorts so I assumed we were going bare knuckle and bare feet. This Sultan of Savages, whoever the hell he was, must have had a thing for Seventies kung-fu movies and the Jean-Claude Van Dame classic, Bloodsport. Thankfully, my knuckles had accumulated a decent amount of scar tissue over the last few months in the Crucible of Carnage. That, plus my regen mod, kept my hands as hard and deadly as any Shao Lin Monk's.
Soon I lost myself in the rhythm of the heavy bag. I started lightly with jabs and crosses but then found myself throwing Krav Maga elbow strikes and knees with almost full force.
“Mr. Van Damage?” A voice said from the entrance to our box that pulled me out of my fight with the heavy bag. “It is time.”
I hadn’t realized I’d worked up a sheen of sweat and felt the blood pump through all of my muscles. I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my body as I grabbed a quick drink of water. When I turned back, I saw my teammates staring at me.
“What?” I asked innocently as I tossed the towel into a laundry hamper and finished off the small bottle of water I’d grabbed.
“That was hot,” Olivia said, and then clapped a hand over her mouth as if she’d spoken without realizing it.
“Ha, thanks,” I replied and gave her my best cocky grin.
“Go kick some ass, sugar,” Aurora said as she kissed me on the cheek.
“Yeah, go treat him like you are all out of bubble gum,” PoLarr said with a smirk and kissed my other cheek.
“Will do,” I said to my sexy teammate, and then followed the well-dressed servant out of the room.
“Follow me, sir,” the servant said and led me to a stairway that led down to one end of the oval ring. As I arrived at the entrance to the oval, several medics carried a bloody and slumped figure out by the arms. Inside the ring, other white-clad personnel mopped blood from the off white floor. Others sprayed window cleaner on the glass walls and wiped the blood from them as well.
A sharply dressed middle-aged dark-skinned man with a tightly manicured goatee stood in the center of the ring with a microphone in his hand.
“What a fight that was, ladies and gentlemen,” the man said with a slight Middle Eastern accent. A very large, very blonde, monster of a man stood by the other side of the ring and held up his bloody knuckled hands in victory. The crowd gave him a cheer before he walked out. “Drago of Russia is the winner by knock out. Up next we have our next to last preliminary fight. Bruce Van Damage of the U.S. versus Li Jun-fan of Hong Kong, China!”
The door of the oval opened, and the servant who had led me to the ring ushered me to go inside. With a shrug, I walked into the ring.
The lights were incredibly bright, and I could hear the murmur of the crowd all around us. It reminded me a bit of the fight I’d had months ago in an underground, literally, it was in a sewer, boxing match for the heads of Valiance City’s criminal bosses, the Council of Nine No Ones. Only this one was about a hundred times bigger.
I walked out toward the center of the ring where the announcer was. My counterpart, a medium-sized Asian fellow in similar shorts to mine, only blue, walked up as well. He was about three inches shorter than I was, but his body seemed to be made up of coiled steel springs ready to pounce. His jet black hair hung across his forehead lazily, and his dark brown eyes seemed calm and somewhat
content.
“Gentlemen,” the announcer said to both of us, and the crowd at the same time. “The rules of the match are simple. Fight until one of you can fight no more. You may tap out as well at any time. May the best fighter win.”
“Hello, I am Li,” Li said to me in a quiet, unassuming voice. “I look forward to our contest.”
“Um, yeah, uh, me too?” I said back to Li. “I’m Bruce, I--”
“Fight!” The announcer yelled suddenly as he lifted out of the ring on a harness that I hadn’t noticed.
I didn’t get to finish my sentence because Li launched into action without hesitation or warning. Had my reflexes not been honed for the last few months I would have been knocked the hell out in the first two seconds of the match. Li’s hands were a blur as he threw a series of tight, kung-fu style hammer fist punches at my face. I barely got my arms up in time to block them as I skipped back as fast as my feet would carry me.
Li didn’t let up with his attack, which was relentless. He seemed to move as light as a feather in the wind but his blows struck with devastating force. Part of my brain registered that he used some kind of Jeet Kun-do mixed with Shaolin fighting style but the rest of my brain was too busy trying not to get my fucking ass kicked to give it much more thought. Every time I wanted to counter I had to block instead, and he still managed to land a few punches as he continued to back me up until I felt myself slam up against the glass of the ring.
Sweat stung my eyes and, despite my regen mod, I felt my arms begin to weaken from the constant blocking of his arms, shins, and feet. My ribs ached as I sucked in ragged lungfuls of air. That’s when I misjudged a jab and as I ducked it, felt a sudden uppercut connect with the muscles of my stomach. My legs buckled, and I fell to one knee in front of Li.
In the back of my head, I heard the crowd roar as I assumed Li wound up for a finishing move. Part of me wanted to just let him.
I was fucking tired. I’d been going non-stop for the last several days with little to no sleep or even any downtime and I was goddamn exhausted. Maybe it was time for others to have to step up and get some shit done. A nap would do me good.