by Matthew Samm
Her mind swam and the crowd became tinny as her dazzled brain tried to process the information. Deep down in her subconscious, she realized that the next suplex would end the fight. She’d have nothing left with which to fight back. Mad Jack would have literally smashed her to pieces in front of a jam-packed stadium and millions watching on video around the country.
Her mind did nothing, but her body knew what to do. She immediately began thrashing with her elbows and heels, trying to strike anything fleshy that wasn’t a part of her own body. Her knuckles rapped on his closed hands, trying to break a bone or two so he’d loosen his grip.
She didn’t wait around to see if she’d been successful, just followed each blow up with more blows. It was the advantage of being lean, small and light. Had Mad Jack attempted this, he’d be bent double, sucking air by now, but her frame gave her the longevity to keep fighting.
Finally, her lashing managed to gain a modicum of space between her back and his head. When that happened, one of her flailing elbows caught his nose, spreading it around his face.
In an instant, she felt his grip weaken and his resolve falter. She managed to turn herself, so she was facing the cell wall.
Beyond, she saw her father. His eyes were not creased with worry. He showed no emotion at all, just watched as the events transpired. If he was worried his daughter was losing and that he’d never get to see her again, he didn’t show it.
Indeed, if he was worried at all, it would be because he’d spent so long training her that his investment would be for nothing. She thought she spied a look of annoyance, suggesting he was wondering why he had agreed to let her be his Deathsman for this bout.
She forced herself to focus and heaved herself forward, feeling the blood and pressure pounding in her head. As she approached the cell wall, she leaned back, placing her own weight on his chest. Her legs walked up the cell wall, using the momentum to force herself out of his grip.
He could have stopped her, had he been fully focused. Even injured, he had the power and the strength to overwhelm her, but the blood gushing from his shattered nose diverted his attention long enough for her momentum to break his grip.
As planned, she rolled away from him, except it wasn’t to the side. She rolled backwards, over his shoulders, backflipping onto her feet behind him. Without thinking, her own onslaught began. Her fists flew, hammering into the side of his head, welting skin and cabbaging his ears.
As he tried to turn, she kicked the back of his knees, halving his height as he dropped to the ground. She pushed his head into the cell and dragged it along the cell wall. Victory was close. Her arms snaked around his throat and squeezed.
He tried to get back to his feet, desperately trying to twist away from the choke. Alix heard the Reaper’s voice in her head telling her that she must be the one to choke the life out of him. She would not let him escape. She leapt onto his back, wrapping her legs around him and pulling backwards.
He toppled back, landing slightly off centre. She was underneath him, but turned slightly, so the canvas bore the brunt of his mass. It was nearly over, she could tell.
It was then she looked past her father and onto the balcony separating the lower tier of seats to the upper tier of seats.
Dressed in fight gear, she saw Isaac, restrained with laser cuffs and safely behind bars. He was watching the sentence carried out. Unlike her father, his face was animated, both pained and relieved.
Suddenly, in the midst of battle, a thought crystallized. She hadn’t convinced her father to let him live. He was going to die anyway. It was simple for her, really. The Reaper. He was in the building. There was one bout to go.
It had to be him, and the Reaper only ever competes in execution bouts. It was her brother who was to be executed next. And her father wanted her to watch. The new-found hatred for him boiled over her at that moment and she risked a glance in his direction.
Her father continued to watch the bout, but his eyes met hers and must have sensed that something wasn’t right. He must have caught the glint in her eye that signaled understanding and realization. He knew that she knew. To make sure, he also looked backwards, checking to see where her gaze landed. He saw it landed on Isaac. He saw that she knew the plan.
He shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how best to mitigate the threat. He couldn’t stop the bout, but he could, once it was over, make alterations. Perhaps he’d have her escorted backstage and kept under arrest or locked in one of the rooms backstage while the sentence was carried out.
If he wanted to be truly reprehensible, he could lock her in and switch on the live feed from the bout. She’d be forced to watch or at the very least listen to Isaac’s death and his test would have been completed anyway. She’d have been through the pain necessary to succeed as the head of the Wardens.
She knew she only had one chance. She must attempt a rescue from inside the cell, while fighting for her life, under the eyes of her father, security and the eyes of the nation. In her reverie, she felt her grip slacken and Mad Jack came back to life, bucking wildly, using the final reserves of phenomenal power to try and escape her limpet-like grasp.
He almost escaped, but as he wriggled from her arms and attempted to get up, she readjusted herself and forced him back to the floor, rolling so that he was face down. Both of their faces were turned away from her father.
That’s when she began speaking to Mad Jack. “Do you want out of here, Jack?” she breathed in his ear, the crowd’s tumult fading out as she focused completely on getting her voice to be heard inside his combat attuned brain.
He didn’t reply, but she felt his chin twist ever so slightly, straining under the pressure of her forearm. Was he trying to reply?
She loosened her grip ever so slightly, allowing just enough room for air to escape and his voice to croak back to her. “You want me to give up to you? I’d rather die than lose to you!”
He didn’t understand. This wasn’t a play to embarrass him. She wasn’t trying to bring him lower. She tried again. “My father should be where you are now. He deserves to die just as much as you do.”
His struggling stopped abruptly, and Alix felt a jolt of panic, unsure whether she’d actually done the deed, or if the crowd would notice something amiss and he wasn’t fighting anymore.
“Keep fighting, Jack,” she whispered, feeling relieved as his struggles began again. “Help me take out my father.”
After a moment’s pause, he breathed a simple “how?”
Alix told him the plan; formulated in seconds while being mentally fatigued from combat and emotionally exhausted.
Her father really had taught her well.
22
Mad Jack was back on his feet. The round was nearly done. Unlike most sentences, execution bouts continued until one person stopped breathing. Every five minutes, there was a one-minute break for them to catch their breath and reconsider tactics. It was theatre as well and the crowd demanded a good show.
Alix couldn’t be sure he’d accept her plan. He’d agreed when on the ground, but what choice did he have. It may have been nothing but a ploy to get back to his feet and recommence their war on the feet. He had the advantage there. One punch found its mark and he’d end her. His power was simply too great.
Then again, perhaps he’d realized what a man her father was as well and he’d want to be out from his shadow, free from his leash. Either way, their future would be decided in a minute or two.
They continued to circle; Mad Jack appeared to be conserving his energy. He didn’t attack as much or as recklessly. He didn’t lunge at her. If there could be nothing else said about the battle, she had won his respect. He knew how close he’d come to the end. Alix knew it too and her fight nerves ended when she understood.
Her only fear now was that she’d gifted him a way back and it could yet cost her everything. She moved closer to him, darting in and testing to see if he would attempt a strike. He didn’t. She feigned again, this time actually letting loose a
jab that caught him on the chin. His head wobbled back but then straightened again. He didn’t attack back.
Alix became bolder, still unsure as to whether he was toying with her, or whether he’d agreed to her plan. Next time, she dashed forward and tried a combination, landing two on his jaw and following up with a roundhouse to the liver.
Mad Jack’s hands went to his chin automatically and left the liver gaping. He tried to cover it up but couldn’t hide the grimace of pain he felt as the instep buried itself deep inside his midriff.
The crowd balled at the strike. They knew how devastating liver kicks could be. Regardless of how big you were, a well-aimed strike to the liver could put you down.
Alix mustn’t have caught him flush. The pain was evident, but he remained on his feet, his torso leaning slightly to the wounded side, compensating for the agony he felt.
Still, he didn’t fight back.
The crowd roared some more, and Alix sensed the kill. Even if he wasn’t going along with her plan, his weakness suggested she had another chance to beat him.
Mad Jack circled away from her, ending up with his back towards the locked cell door. He backed up and Alix thought he might be trying to reach the door in a vain attempt to escape in panic or desperation. He didn’t. He took a step forward, but he was still compensating for the liver kick and his jaw was wide open.
She slipped the punch and landed her own on his jaw. She saw his head snap around, his body turning with it so that he faced the cell door. She didn’t think she hit him that cleanly, but it had happened that way before. When a strike landed perfectly, you never really felt it. Everything lines up and all the energy transfers seamlessly.
As Mad Jack collapsed to the ground, she figured this must have been what happened. She must have timed the blow perfectly and hit the sweet spot where the senses separate from consciousness.
The crowd quietened. They sensed it too. Mad Jack was beaten. The bogey man. The man they’d feared for so long. The unbeatable destroyer of Wardens had been bested by a young Warden in a special execution bout. There was only one thing left in their minds. She had to finish him.
Mad Jack didn’t move. He faced the canvas, a smear of blood visible where his skin touched the floor.
Alix was in no rush. It could have been a colossal mistake, but she didn’t care. There were no signs of fight left in the hulking mass lying before her. She straddled his back and snaked her arms around his neck.
Feebly, his hands drew up to hers and he tapped softly. Their hands and face were hidden by Alix’s hair as she leant over his form. No one saw him tap.
Was he surrendering? Alix again couldn’t be sure. She leaned in close, moving her arms into the optimal position to choke the breath out of him forever. As she began to squeeze, she heard him whisper.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
It was vague and she still couldn’t be sure. Was it a final act of defiance, instructing her to end his life? Or was he talking about the plan to unseat her father?
In the heat of battle, she made the choice. “Lie still,” she said to him. Theatrically, she arched her back as if pulling hard on his windpipe.
He made the motions of struggling, pulling at her arms. He was so immensely powerful, even defeated and winded that it wasn’t clear whether he was putting on a show or actually attempting to unclasp her forearm from his neck.
Finally, his struggling stopped, and he went limp. As per the custom, she remained in the same position for a full five minutes, as the crowd became silent, worshipping the moment as they did for the Reaper so many times before.
After time was up, Alix stood, and the crowd erupted in applause. She saluted them, playing the role of victorious gladiator before striding over to face her father in the victim’s block. She was required to deliver her eulogy.
“People of New Manchester. Father. I thank you for allowing me the honor of being your Deathsman for the evening.”
Two arena workers opened the cell gate and entered the cell. They were meant to be invisible and the crowd barely noticed their movements, so enraptured were they with Alix’s eulogy.
“This man,” she continued “defied the Wardens and mocked us all in life.”
The two arena workers grabbed a hold of Mad Jack’s feet and swiveled him around so that they pointed towards the open cell door.
“He lived with impunity on Strangeways for years, safe from justice.” Her eyes turned pointedly to her father and she began speaking just to him. “I understand you feel the Wardens failed all of you when Mad Jack went to Strangeways. He should have died in here long ago.”
The workers began dragging him through the cell door, attempting to maneuver him to the top of the three steps where he could be dumped onto a stretcher and carried down the aisle into the back. Normally, the stretcher would enter the cell and do the whole journey, but Mad Jack was so massive, he required an extra-large stretcher that wouldn’t fit through the door.
Alix continued to address the crowd, but her eyes still bore into her father. “It is unthinkable that Mad Jack has been alive for so long, laughing at all of us. He is dead now, but not completely. His story is not complete. Someone else must face the same justice he has…”
Her father’s eyes blazed with anger, spewing hatred across the space between them. She was depriving him of the narrative. She was taking control of the setting away. He rose from his seat and appeared to be ready to rush the cell and intervene.
She sensed he might do this. He’d probably embrace her, writing a story of pride for the people of New Manchester.
As he stood, his eyes broke from hers and he appeared to turn and face her brother still in his fight gear and laser cuffed. Her father motioned with a quick chop across the neck, the universal sign of ‘kill it’.
It was now or never. Alix had to get out the truth while she had the microphone. She had to tell the world what her father was. She started to speak into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mad Jack is not your only enemy. Your real ene…”
It died. The mic died and her voice disappeared. Her father had been motioning to the control box, ordering them to kill her microphone. He’d guessed what she planned to do.
He exited the victim’s box, pulling at his blazer, smoothing the lines as he began walking towards the cell door, heading to greet his victorious daughter. He beamed for the cameras as he ascended the three steps to the cell level.
As he approached, the workers struggled to remove Mad Jack in time. They’d barely got him down the steps to the stretcher when her father started climbing the cell stairs.
That was when chaos erupted.
It started with Mad Jack planting the sole of his foot into the solar plexus of the first arena worker, sending him soaring through the air and landing with a heavy thud, his head cracking back with the impact and clattering off the concrete floor.
In less than a second, Mad Jack was off his back. The second worker had been fiddling with a body bag, attempting to place so they could roll Mad Jack’s body inside with the minimum of extra hassle.
Mad Jack stood in front of him and as the worker rose in shock, Mad Jack unleashed one devastating blow, focusing all of his anger and frustration in defeat. It was the strike he’d wanted to land on Alix, yet never got the chance.
The worker never saw it coming and was unconscious before he hit the ground. He needed serious medical attention.
Guards sprang into action, beginning to charge down the walkway from the backstage doors.
Similarly, Lucien Venner saw what was happening and began to flee the opposite way. He was not fast enough. Mad Jack raced after him and enveloped his body before he got more than five paces.
The guards continued to rush towards them and in response, Mad Jack whipped her father around to face them, twisting his neck into an unnatural position. It looked like one quick pull would snap Lucien’s spine. Mad Jack looked like he was about to do it.
Alix, with plenty of energy left in
the tank, kicked up the cell wall, vaulting the topping of razor wire and landing, after a front flip, on the ledge circling cell level. She clapped Mad Jack on the shoulder from behind, swiveling round to his front and shaking her head violently. “Don’t do it, Jack! We need him!”
Jack’s face was a mess; a bloodied pulp of battered flesh. One eye was swelling, his nose continued gushing blood and there was a thick red welt around his neck, courtesy of her forearms. She saw, for the first time what she’d actually done to him and she felt nauseous.
She’d beaten people before, but this was the first time she’d hated the person she’d beaten. This is the first time she’d seen what she was capable of.
Before he had the chance to respond, she flung herself towards the guards, shouting “Stop! Don’t come any closer! He’ll kill him!”
The guards ceased their run and drew their batons, the electrical tips pulsing with energy. One jab with that would course thousands of volts through the victim rendering them completely immobile and incapable of resisting.
Mad Jack twisted her father’s neck an inch more just to emphasize the point and Lucien’s face contorted in pain.
The crowd could have read the situation a number of ways. They might have seen Alix as doing everything she could to protect her father, but this was shattered when she asked for Isaac to be released.
The crowd knew what he’d supposedly done. The crowd knew he’d supposedly done some awful things during his captivity on the island. They loved the dedication of the Wardens; to punish someone so close to them with the ultimate sentence, even though it would be painful to do so.
When Alix ordered them to release him, the illusion vanished. They knew she was in this with Mad Jack. “You!” she bellowed pointing at the guards flanking her brother’s cage. “Release him! Bring him down here!”