by Thomas Green
I picked up the scan, showing her the picture of a broken ankle I took from another patient’s file. “His opponent is one of the weakest combatants, so if Ricardo doesn’t overstress the leg, he is likely to win.”
She stomped to me, peering at the image. Under an RTG scan, all ankles looked almost identical, especially to untrained eyes. And while Jasika has been my nurse for the past decades, she never had to interpret these images. “It still looks like it will shatter if he steps on it wrong,” she said.
“Which is what I told him.” I smiled. “But he desires the time in hobby rooms so much he’s apparently willing to shoulder the risks.”
“Men…” She sighed and turned, heading to the cabinet with medication. “So, do we give him morphine?”
“Yes.” My smile had never been this fake. I was not happy about lying to my wife. But I needed to see with my own eyes if freedom was truly out of reach.
Still, that did not make me proud.
Lucas 3
WHEN MY EXTRACTION CHAMBER’S DOOR OPENED, I couldn’t tell if it was reality or just another illusion. Two guards entered their faces covered with helmet visors. One ducked above me and started undoing my bindings.
Shame I had no strength to move. My limbs hung limp at my sides, more useless attachments than actual parts of me. My throat felt as if sand filled its tissue. My eyes stung, likely due to overexerted tear ducts. Dark haze clouded my vision and my ears rang.
One guard grabbed me by the shoulder, half-tore me from the connector and threw me on the ground. “Get up.”
I grunted with pain, recognizing Sora’s voice. He had moved up the prison hierarchy. Great. I tried to rise, but my muscles failed to obey, so I remained on the ground, face down.
Sora drew his baton and hit me across the back. Pain burst through me. “Try again.”
Whimpering with pain, I focused on another attempt.
“This is pointless,” the other guard, by the voice Apollo, whispered. “There’s no way he can get up.”
“I’m not carrying around this filth,” Sora snapped and struck me again.
“I’ll wait outside,” Apollo whispered and left the cell.
How helpful. Gathering all my strength, I got onto all fours, panting.
“Pathetic.” Sora stomped my back, forcing me back on the ground. “I should end your life.”
I tried to laugh, but only hoarse crackling left my throat. “Like that… would help.”
He kicked me in the ribs. “Try again.”
I did, shouting with pain.
“True, your death would solve nothing.” Sora kicked me again, harder. “So, I guess I’ll have to convince Hades to use the girl in the female ward who can wipe out memories. Making you a memory-less puppet sounds like a solution to me.”
I couldn’t return to Evelyn if I didn’t remember her. I reached for my aether. Collar or not, I couldn’t get up without a boost. To my surprise, I found something inside. Not much as the collar still blocked almost all of my aether reserve, but more than before. Extraction temporarily loosened the collar’s ability to restrict aether manipulation, hasn’t it?
With gritted teeth, I held onto the wall and hauled myself to my feet. My knees wobbled and Sora smacked my back with the baton. I fell, shouting with pain.
“Get up.”
The previous attempts returned life into my body, and my mind regained coordination only now. Holding myself on the wall, I rose.
“Move.” Sora kicked my back. I stumbled forward but remained upright. He pushed me ahead with the baton and I rejoined with Apollo in front of the cell. They led me through the maze of corridors until we reached a platform lift.
Months ago, I woke up on this lift, arriving at the prison. This time, I entered willingly while Sora and Apollo remained behind.
They stepped back, Sora pressed a button on the wall and the door between us closed. The lights on the ceiling high above in the vertical tunnel lit up and the platform started rising. When I approached the ceiling, the wings slid sideways, and the platform stopped at floor-level.
I glanced around the sports hall, uncharacteristically empty. The arena match had to be starting soon.
Wukong stood by the wall, mischief on his lips. “You look like you enjoyed the extraction.”
“Is Loki fighting Ricardo?”
He nodded and stepped toward me.
Excellent. This part of the plan worked and Amarendra thus became a potential ally, although perhaps coincidental or unwilling. “I can walk by myself.” I made a step forward, another one, and then my strength waned. My head spun, knees wobbled, and I would had crumbled to the ground if Wukong didn’t catch me.
“Visibly.” He supported me from beneath my shoulder and led me to a water fountain. I accepted the liquid, drinking until my stomach felt sick. Afterward, Wukong half-dragged me toward the arena.
The arena hall differed from the sports halls. Most of the place was covered by a coliseum-like arena made of steel. The ceiling was fifty feet tall and featured a circular hole in the middle. Above the hole, the members of the Upper Prison sat on their tribunes, watching.
A sea of orange jumpsuits covered the lower tribunes that surrounded the sand-filled arena. Imprisonment offered few other distractions than the arena league. We didn’t head toward the tribunes though, walking to the preparation area of the eastern corner. Inside a small room with nothing but a toilet and a chair sat Loki.
Light sweat covered his thin body and his skin was a shade paler than usual. He wore fingerless gloves commonly used for mixed martial arts and blue trunks. He met us with a troubled smile.
“Why so nervous?” Wukong asked.
“You know…” Loki scratched the top of his head. “I might have Loki’s divine soul now, but I was a carpenter before that happened. I got sent here a month afterward and it’s not like Loki was much of a warrior to begin with.”
I glanced at Wukong. “Haven’t you trained him?”
“That wasn’t nearly enough,” Loki said before Wukong could reply.
I sighed. “Your opponent has a crushed ankle. All you need is to hit him once.”
“I saw him stretching earlier and he seemed fine,” Loki protested.
Wukong frowned. “They must have pumped him full of painkillers. Though their effect should fade quickly.”
“Quickly had better be before the match starts.” Loki’s speech increased in pace and breath became shallow. “Because he’s going to punch my head off in the first three seconds.”
I rubbed my eyes. Yeah, Loki’s fight record was zero wins, zero draws, and twenty-three losses. He may have gained a divine soul by eating a soul crystal, but that didn’t make him a fighter. On top of that, the illusions he could conjure with the collar needed preparation time and were space-anchored, so they were borderline useless in combat. I stepped to him, peering down at the sweating man. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, he raised his eyes.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t rocket science. You go in there and dance around him by his left side, so he has to pivot on the wounded leg. The painkillers will run out, he will fall screaming, and you go beat him down. Understand?”
Loki gulped and then slowly nodded.
“Good luck.” I let go of him and turned to the exit.
Wukong followed me. When we left the room, he whispered, “He will lose.”
“Find something to throw. Mid-match, I’ll create a distraction and you will hit Ricardo’s ankle.”
He grinned. “For a moment, I believed we would fight fairly.”
“Perhaps in our next lives.” I turned toward the tribunes and looked around.
The announcer shouted out Loki’s name as he entered the arena. The sand-covered circle appeared unnatural among the steel tribunes, like a specter of another world. Booing sounded through the air and the announcer called for quiet. Above, the members of the Upper Prison sat on their marble tribunes, ready to be entertained.
 
; I searched the Lower Prison’s tribunes. The crowd sat orderly. Causing trouble in here earned more severe punishments than on other occasions. After a few seconds, I saw my target.
Ares sat among seven other inmates. Rumor had it he once lived in the Upper Prison, but then had an affair with Aphrodite, Hephaestus’s wife, and got subsequently banished into the Lower Prison. Much like the other prisoners, Ares was in top shape, muscles bulging under his jumpsuit. Dark eyes sat between his messy hair and rugged beard.
Loki and Ricardo stood in the arena, glaring at each other. Ricardo looked pumped and Loki appeared as though he would faint at any second. Awesome.
I pushed through the crowd, heading toward Ares’s group. This was going to hurt.
The bell rang and the combatants in the arena took their stances. They both used the classical kickboxing stance with arms raised in front of them. Except Loki had the arms too high and too far from his torso, creating holes in the posture. With careful steps, Ricardo advanced, testing Loki with jabs.
After a few light punches hit Loki in the face, the Nordic demigod stepped back and started circling to Ricardo’s left, forcing him to pivot on the broken ankle. Ricardo must have been given so much morphine his brain didn’t notice the pain. Though a single hit on the ankle would be enough to reignite his pain recognition.
But to do that, Loki would have to do more than run away.
‘A penalty point for Loki for lack of aggression,’ the announcer shouted into the microphone and the crowd cheered a little.
I snorted. As if this would go to a decision. The arena matches were fought for three, five-minute rounds, but few matches reached the second round. I had to hurry.
The crowd started booing and I reached Ares’s group.
Loki took a big punch on the nose. He fell on his back. Not bothering to follow through, Ricardo raised his arms, signaling victory. Fighting on the ground was allowed, but Ricardo was smart enough not to try that with a broken ankle. The announcer started counting. ’10, 9, 8…’
Well, fuck. I stopped, glaring at Loki. He better get up. Across the arena, Wukong stood in position, hiding high on the tribune, invisible to the members of the upper floor.
‘6, 5, 4…’
Come on, Loki. I didn’t spend two weeks in extraction only so the escape plan would fail at this step.
‘3, 2…’
Loki leapt to his feet, not even wobbling.
I took a sharp breath. Did he fake the knockdown to mess with me and Wukong?
Whatever. Ricardo lowered his hands to defend himself and stalked toward Loki.
My turn. I approached Ares’s group. One prisoner, half a head taller than me, stood up to stop me. “What do you want?”
“I talked with your wife,” I shouted at Ares. He turned slightly, glaring at me. “Wait, sorry, forgot Aphrodite still hasn’t divorced Hephaestus.”
The prisoner stopping me pressed with his arms to push me off.
I shifted my weight, slid to the side, and continued, “She complained her throat was sore from all the dicks she sucked.”
Ares bolted to his feet. His friends grabbed him by the jumpsuit. They weren’t strong enough. He dragged them behind himself and punched me, hitting the chin.
Stars danced before my eyes. My legs gave out and I collapsed on the ground. The crowd roared a cheer, and everyone looked at us. Ares fumed, pushing ahead with five men trying to hold him down.
I kicked the ground, trying to get away. Not fast enough.
Ricardo’s painful wail pierced the air.
That snapped Ares back into control and he turned toward the arena.
Ricardo lay on the ground, holding his ankle. Loki stood ten feet away, arms spread in a victorious pose, blood leaking from his broken nose.
Ares peered down at me. “Next time, I’ll kill you.” He turned and headed back to his seat.
Okay, I survived. I may have been in no condition to fight, but if Ares followed through, he would forfeit his match and get sent to extraction. Yes, he should have been punished even for this, but I doubted Hades would bother.
Ares may have been out of Overseer’s favor, but he was still a Greek pantheon’s member.
The announcer wasn’t counting, so he ruled this as a slip. Loki kept posing while Ricardo stopped holding his leg.
Would the idiot stop gloating and finish the fight? I wanted to shout at Loki but lacked the strength. Hell, I didn’t have the energy to get up, so I lay on the stairs between tribunes, trying to muster the power to get up.
When Loki turned his back to Ricardo, too busy enjoying himself, Ricardo leapt at him from the healthy leg. He caught Loki by the waist and dragged him to the ground.
Being the barely trained amateur, Loki flailed and kicked around. By instinct, Ricardo used his wounded leg to push himself up Loki’s back. Ricardo’s scream cleaved the air as his ankle split apart, revealing the bone.
The crowd cheered and Loki flipped, ending on top of Ricardo. Normally, this would be the end. Loki started punching down at Ricardo. Few strikes hit the head. Ricardo swung from the bottom with a wide hook. He clipped Loki’s chin.
Loki wobbled, falling on top of the Aztec demigod. Pinned beneath Loki, Ricardo kept punching him in the side.
A mixture of laughter and booing echoed from the crowd. Yeah, this was so sloppy it hurt to watch.
Loki slid down Ricardo’s body. Ricardo sprung up his midsection to throw Loki off. That succeeded, but Loki grabbed Ricardo’s wounded leg. Finally. Loki started twisting the wounded ankle.
Ricardo wailed in pain and started furiously tapping on the ground.
“The match is over!” the announcer thundered, and Loki let go of the leg, collapsing onto his back. “The winner is Loki.”
Lucas 4
THE CROWD BOOED. I exhaled with relief.
From behind, Wukong grabbed me under the shoulders and lifted me up. “Admit it, Lucas, you’ve got a fetish for getting hurt.”
“Not really.”
He chuckled. “Then why do all your plans revolve around it?” He didn’t wait for my answer and dragged me up the stairs to put me on a seat in a back row. My legs still didn’t quite listen, but that mattered little now.
Loki stood with arms spread in the ring, gloating. Blood flooded out of his broken nose, drenching his jumpsuit.
The crowd started booing and the announcer spoke. “Loki, what reward do you desire for your… victory?”
Loki scratched the back of his neck. “Err… time in the woodcarving hobby room?”
Couldn’t he say that straight? I rolled my eyes.
“Good, now leave the stage,” the announcer replied.
Loki looked like he didn’t want to, but a group of prisoners helping with the event’s organization entered the ring. A pair grabbed Loki by the shoulders and led him out while another three picked up Ricardo to take him to the medical room.
“Wake me up for the main event,” I said and closed my eyes.
Sleep didn’t come. And not because of the announcer, the cheering crowd or due to the eyes peering at me from the Upper Prison. The images of dying Evelyn wouldn’t leave my mind.
Illusion or not, I hated myself for every time the visions forced me to kill her. When I closed my eyes, I could see little else.
The next four matches passed as I searched for a moment of respite. The crowd’s cheering intensified, and the announcer thundered, “And now, it’s time for the main event of the evening!”
I opened my eyes, glancing at Wukong. He slept sprawled over his seat, head bent backward, snoring. I poked his ribs with my elbow.
Wukong jumped in his skin, eyes darting around.
“Thanks for waking me up.”
He grinned. “Fate always ensures I am awake when needed.”
The announcer continued. “Fighting, out of the blue corner, is the undefeated challenger, boasting the score of twenty-four wins, zero draws and zero losses, the Savage, Rhonrohak!”
The people
I worked with. “Got any idea who that is?”
Wukong shrugged. “Some werewolf.”
How helpful. I eyed the gigantic man. Bearded, bald, and easily eight feet tall, he must have weighed at least three hundred pounds, all concentrated in his muscles.
Ares, despite being six feet five, appeared tiny in comparison.
“Fighting, out of the red corner, holding the record of one thirty-two wins, zero draws and zero losses, is the undisputed champion of Tul Sar Naar, the God of War, Ares!”
Thirty-two wins… Ares must have gotten bagged straight after he gained the divine soul. He probably murdered someone to get the soul crystal and got arrested the next day.
“Round one, fight!” the announcer shouted and both Ares and the werewolf raised their arms into combat stances.
“Want to make a bet?” Wukong asked.
“No.”
“You’re no fun.”
Yeah, I wasn’t. After a few customary jabs, Rhonrohak charged, trying to take Ares down. In a blur, the God of War dodged, clipping the werewolf with a hook.
I tensed, watching more intently. Within the next thirty seconds, the scene repeated multiple times. Rhonrohak got into a good position, attacked, but Ares slipped away in a move too fast to be natural.
“He’s using strengthening,” I whispered.
Wukong nodded. “But with how the collars are, he shouldn’t be able to use it more than one or two times.”
Three options popped into my mind. One, Ares could process aether so proficiently he could give himself the speed boost even through the limitation; two, he found how to loosen the collar’s ability to restrict aether usage; and three his collar was loosened by Hades on purpose.
He could have had this adjustment for a long time, but perhaps only now he faced an opponent who forced him to use this ability repeatedly. Interesting.
I rose, said, “Come. I’ll go make an announcement,” and stepped down the stairs.
Wukong swiftly arrived at my side. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”