The bandages were soaked and seeping with red. He gingerly pulled them off, first from his chin, then his jaw. The one on his chin was minor—a scrape. But his jaw had three gouges where knuckles had connected. Two of them weren’t terrible, but the third was deep. The shallower injuries appeared pinkish around the edges and had the yellowish fluid that came from covering a wound with a bandage, not allowing a scab to form. But the one deep knuckle mark was red and bleeding.
Crap. No way was this going to heal enough by Wednesday. Looking at his face now, he knew makeup wasn’t going to be an option. He’d have to come up with something else, but he had no idea what the hell that would be. It was late Monday night, so he only had a day and a half to figure it out. “Next time, don’t get hit so hard,” he said quietly to his reflection.
He used a small cloth to clean the leaking blood from the deep gash and applied more of the stinging antiseptic gel, hoping that would help. The others he left naked and open to the air so they would start to scab over. He was still bandaged up along both sides of his ribs, but he didn’t want to think about that mess.
He walked out of the bathroom and back into the living area, purposefully sliding sideways so he wouldn’t have to look at the fight looping on the computer screen. Upon sitting back in the chair, he used his periphery vision to scroll to where his numbers were. Over five hundred million.
He suddenly became very aware of his heartbeat. Over half of the world population. No Shadow Fray had gotten anywhere close to that number, not even Black Jim’s. In twenty-four hours. Damn.
He closed the browser and stood again. What the hell was he going to do? This was so beyond him. With views like this, everyone in Shadow Fray would start killing each other. Or maybe he’d be found out. And then what about Charlie and Gin? Shit.
Compartmentalize.
He took the panic and confusion and visualized putting it away in one of the little boxes he kept in the back of his mind. He took the smallest hope that this could be a big payday and brought it to the front.
He knew of one more thing to help clear his mind.
He snuck quietly into the master bedroom. He could hear Gin and Charlie breathing heavily. It was pitch-black, but he grew up in this unit and he knew every inch of the twelve hundred square feet. He took a few steps in the darkness before quietly pushing open the door to the walk-in closet. He got down on his knees and found the box in the corner hidden beneath his hanging clothes. Not really hidden, of course, because undoubtedly Gin and Charlie knew it was there. He reached in, felt the soft cloth on the top, and grabbed onto it. He rose and left the room silently, carefully closing the door.
He walked back to the glow of the computer and as he sat down, examined what he had in his hands. It was a white cloth, smeared and stained heavily by an oily black paint. It had a medicinal odor to it, as well as a musky scent within the soft cloth itself. This was his most prized souvenir.
He went into the computer files and scanned his saved list until he found BlkJmMcDonalds. He had watched this Fray well over a hundred times. It was one of his favorites. The Arena was a McDonald’s.
The video file started out as Black Jim’s matches always did. He would enter with his head slightly lowered, appearing almost reverent. He would go into position and raise his head and eyes slowly to the camera.
His eyes were vividly white amidst the black. Rather than masked, his face and hair were slicked with black grease paint.
Black Jim was the only one in Shadow Fray who didn’t wear a mask. He was the only one who didn’t have to.
The makeup covering his face and hair offered him enough of a disguise but little protection. The slick paint probably resulted in more glancing blows, but you couldn’t play this game without a mask unless you were as good as he was—not without being found out.
It wasn’t just about the disguise; too many injuries, too often, and they could easily be matched up with the video. Anonymity was a necessity but also part of the appeal. In a society where the watchers required watchers, to the point everyone was droned up and watching everyone else, anonymity was an alluring mystery. No matter what, once you were found out, your games were over. There were stories about losing a lot more than just your chance to play. People disappeared, permanently. No one had ever talked. No ex-Shadow Fray Brawler had ever come forward. Not one.
Black Jim’s pose went on for long minutes. He was the only Brawler who had extended segments of video before his Fray even began, because people wanted to see it. He’d stand still as stone, with his arms spread at his sides, like a black specter from a nightmare. The theatrics of it all….
Sometimes, Justin would dream about Black Jim standing like that at the foot of his bed while he slept. He’d seen posters and printouts of this stance of Black Jim’s. Nothing in their home had changed much since Mom died, or he might like one himself. He was a fanboy without the poster.
He didn’t fast-forward the video. You would think Black Jim was in a trance or some type of meditation, but his face looked nothing like calm. In his too-white eyes, he had the look of a man familiar with violence. He had the look of a man who knew he was going to win, like once you walked into that room, you were screwed, because he already saw in his head every move you could possibly make.
You walked into that room, and you were his plaything.
This was what Justin brought to the front of his mind, to help him block out all the other noise of the last twenty-four hours. He had studied this man. Idolized him. He both feared and dreamed of fighting him. Justin wasn’t excited for much, but this—
What would it be like to walk into an Arena and suddenly see this man staring him down? He rehearsed it mentally so when it did happen, he wouldn’t crumble. He’d be able to look back into those eyes without fear.
He visualized walking in. He didn’t look at an opponent directly during pat-down. He’d analyze the physical space of the Arena and indirectly study the other Brawler’s body for advantages and threats. That would allow him to then raise his eyes and stare right back at the man with his full attention. Black Jim’s eyes were actually blue. Justin had spent hours magnifying the video to find his true eye color so he would know Black Jim was just another man, a man who could be beaten. He wasn’t some white-eyed black demon.
Black Jim always looked and dressed the same. His face was, of course, black. The paint disguised the true color of his hair, which was not quite shoulder-length. It looked like it might curl slightly when it wasn’t slicked back. The paler skin of his arms and hands was overlaid with dark hair. He looked rugged, so he was likely one of those guys who had a permanent five-o’clock shadow.
He wore a sleeveless black shirt, one that clung tightly to him and moved with him. His arms could be carved from marble. He appeared to be all muscle and 0 percent body fat. His veins stood out along his arms and on his hands, but he wasn’t huge. He didn’t look like a bouncer like so many other Brawlers did. He looked like an athlete.
This was why Justin swam in the lake from June through October. No one swam in Lake Michigan. People were afraid of chemicals and said the whole water supply had been poisoned along with the ground years and years ago, either in an effort to combat the flu, or from the floods and industrialization, or some kind of terrorism. People said that’s why there weren’t so many girls born anymore. Everyone boiled and filtered their water, as if that would help. The truth was, it was no one thing that did the world in—it was all the little things people kept ignoring, a confluence of events people should have seen coming.
At the very least, the water wasn’t any more dangerous than the ground. Don’t live there, and you’d be okay. Plus the Great Lakes were supposedly one of the freshest sources of water remaining—but he had still been scared to swim. Facing the fear had been as valuable to him as the exercise. Now he knew how far he had to quietly breaststroke out, keeping his head down, until he couldn’t be visible from shore in the darkness. Only then would he swim. The whole process wo
uld take at least two hours, and swimming through the currents and large waves could be dangerous, especially at night. But that was what gave him an edge. Gave him breath control. Kept his whole body fit, like Black Jim’s. Or at least as close to it as he could get on a budget.
He even saw fish sometimes, and if fish could live in the lake, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt him much.
Justin watched as the visitor walked on-screen, a Brawler named Lynx. The man was African-American, very large with leonine features. Standing across from Black Jim, though, he certainly looked more like prey than predator.
The one good thing this guy did was charge out of the gate. Black Jim usually had an opening advantage, knew the visitor would likely be a little shocked to see him, a little slow. Justin gave this guy credit for taking action and not hesitating, but he didn’t have a backup plan. Black Jim wasn’t surprised by the move even though it didn’t often happen. He took advantage of the charging stance of Lynx and planted a jump kick into his face.
The man was pretty much done after that. His nose was broken and bleeding freely, and he looked stunned. The fight lasted for a long time, though. One of the reasons Black Jim was so popular was because he was quite the showman. Had there been a literal spotlight in that McDonald’s, Black Jim would have completely absorbed it.
In this one he looked to be having particular fun. He slammed the guy’s face into one of the old registers on the counter, knocking it to the floor. It was the only register on the counter, and Justin firmly believed Black Jim had planned this move and had removed the other registers in the Arena prior to the cameras going up. Showing up first was one of the advantages of being the home team, and as the top Brawler in Shadow Fray, he was always the home team, until someone took him down.
Then he did Justin’s favorite move, grabbing the guy and standing him up to punch him backward onto the counter. Like the boss he was, Black Jim gripped the guy’s neck and slid him along the countertop. It was a scene right out of an old Western. This was showmanship.
As the man fell to the floor at the end of the counter, he did something out of desperation. He grabbed for Black Jim but only managed to get the bottom of his shirt. As he fell, he didn’t let go, and Black Jim was forced to bend over partially, the man pulling his shirt before hitting the ground hard and releasing it. With his shirt bunched up on his chest, Black Jim stood up smiling, as if he knew he was giving people a real show. It was one of the only times you got to see the magnificence of his upper body.
Justin paused it and replayed the move, watching it again and again, for two reasons.
First, it showed a potential weakness. If Justin ever fought Black Jim, he could use that shirt. Clothing was fair game. He could get it up, maybe entangle him somehow. While watching, he thought of the different moves he could use to accomplish this, planning scenarios to give him an advantage.
The second reason he watched this portion repeatedly was because, as an admirer of Black Jim’s fitness, this allowed a rare glimpse at parts of his body that were otherwise covered. Justin loved the trimness of the man—everything was corded and tight. He had narrow hips and a V-line, with stomach muscles that popped. He had to be flexing for the camera as he lowered his shirt. Justin replayed it again, this time focusing on the flash of pec he could see, circular and very well defined. Both nipples were visible, taut and tight on his hard body. His chest was covered in dark hair, prevalent but not overly long—not something a Brawler could grab and hold on to for any kind of advantage. The hair on his chest narrowed and trailed down between his flexing abs and over his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his black pants.
Justin marveled at that body. For the physique, of course. Purely professional.
Sitting back in his chair, he lowered his hand to where he was tenting in his sleep pants. Through the material, he fingered the head of his cock lightly, circling it. He could feel a small bead of moisture soaking through the pants. Gin was right—this was a good pain reliever and a good way to forget. He dipped his hand beneath his waistband and grabbed on to his stiff cock. His eyes zeroed in on the screen, the heat he felt looking at Black Jim practically burning the image onto his corneas. He played with himself a bit, several long, very enjoyable strokes before stopping to squeeze himself—hard. He should stop this. He paused the video.
Black Jim froze on the screen, a statue of perfection. Apparently most men felt this attraction for other men at some point, but it wasn’t a natural urge—just like the shrinking birthrate wasn’t natural. The infertility wasn’t natural. The ever-lower percentage of girls being born wasn’t natural. Something had happened, something that changed the natural order of things, and these urges for other men were part of it. They had to be.
Justin didn’t judge men who did this. There weren’t enough women to go around. Most men used Unis, and Unis were technically part male. Many Unis chose to have an operation to become one gender, usually female, but as far as he knew, he’d never been with one. He didn’t even completely understand how it worked. Unis were the product of fertility treatments designed to produce females, but unlike more sophisticated interventions, the fertility treatments that produced Unis were free—corporate sponsored and constantly evolving. To date none had created a viable fertile female. Most treatments didn’t even result in pregnancy, so if you were successful in becoming a parent, in creating a new life, it could hardly be called a failure. On the contrary, Unis were a miracle. But a man having sex with another man? That was considered the opposite of a miracle. An antibreeder.
Justin’s hand hovered over the keyboard. At one point, back in the Old World, it hadn’t mattered. Men could be with other men if that’s what they wanted, and no one cared. Some still lived that way, though not openly and never safely. Not in a rise where a building association could cast a single man out on the street based on what kind of porn was in his Internet history cache—let alone what some conniving resident using their personal drone spied you doing with your “roommate.” Money might be tight, but there was always someone under you with just enough to move up a floor and steal your unit right out from under you.
A stupid prejudice led to so much paranoia, but he supposed for most men, to give in to these baser urges was like giving up the fight—the fight against the world, the way it was today, and the fight to continue on the planet by having a family. It was fear, plain and simple.
Justin refused to live in fear. He already had a family. And he would always continue to fight. His fight was just a bit different than most.
After tapping the screen to get rid of the visual, he leaned back and closed his eyes. If he wasn’t looking at anything, then he wasn’t giving up the fight, right? He’d just keep his eyes closed and enjoy the feelings he could give himself.
He fingered the cloth by the computer, the cloth he had searched thirteen different McDonald’s to find.
He had so many fantasies of Black Jim. Which one would it be tonight? No matter how it started, Justin was always drawn to the counter in the video, but there were a hundred different ways to get there.
First he and Black Jim would fight close, grappling on the floor, trading submission holds as they struggled for dominance. Justin imagined being pinned to the floor facedown, Black Jim’s arm around his throat so he could barely breathe. He’d revel in the man’s tight grip, feeling surrounded and controlled. He’d give in to the feeling briefly, even enjoy it.
Unexpectedly he’d find a way to turn the tables. He’d lift his ass up, pushing back into Black Jim, and the man would become distracted. Loosen his hold. Push back. Justin would hear him groan in his ear with pleasure and permission.
Swiftly taking advantage, Justin would turn and flip the man over. Now they would be face-to-face, Justin looking into those blue eyes, the man looking back at him. An unmasked passion would burn between them, unmistakable. The fight disappearing to the background, Justin would begin to move his hips. He would feel the hardness of Black Jim’s cock through
the material, a hardness that matched the marble-like perfection of his body. Black Jim would welcome the feel of Justin’s erection, asking for it in his gaze. Those blue eyes would tell Justin to keep going. To take him.
The emotions that had been building in Justin for years, the impossible yearning, would finally have release.
With surprising speed, Justin would pick Black Jim up off the floor and shove him back into the counter. Justin would continue rutting against him, listening to him groan. Justin’s gaze would move from the man’s blue eyes down to his lips. He’d feel Black Jim’s hand stroke his bulging cock through the material.
“That’s right, stroke it,” Justin would tell him, and the man would be eager for more. Hungry for it.
Black Jim would notice Justin studying his lips and take it for an invitation. He’d lean forward, wanting the kiss. But no, Justin wouldn’t kiss those lips.
He’d punch his face, knocking him back onto the counter. Stunned and surprised by Justin’s power, Black Jim would lie helplessly as Justin jumped on top of him. Body to body, he would grab Black Jim’s hair in his fists, using it to hold his head down. After that he would bury his face in Black Jim’s neck, inhaling deeply. Would the man smell the same as the cloth souvenir, of oil and musk? Justin’s breaths quickened.
Black Jim would reach down again, freeing their cocks between them, holding them together as though they were joined there.
Justin’s cock flexed in his hand, the pressure building, the hardness straining in his grip.
Black Jim would have the firm grip of a fighter. Justin would increase the pace, his hips arching, grinding, pushing into Black Jim’s hands. Black Jim would shout, unable to hold back the tide of absolute lust. In firm control, Justin would bring him to release. He would feel Black Jim coming between them, the hot jets of semen a testament to Justin’s dominance and prowess. Justin would look back into those blue eyes, now full of submission and satiation, Jim’s hand working Justin’s cock with the wet semen slicking him, making his thrusts slide faster and faster….
Shadow Fray Page 5