Crackle screams—curses his mother for allowing him to be conceived. She already risked the razor wire and won’t crawl back. Projectile weapon and blasters are forbidden in the arena—the only rule. She keeps mumbling something about why have no new weapons been bet upon.
Reynard slows his breath, not thrilled he’ll have to work through the wire.
A tile behind Crackle pops up. She scampers to it. Lavender Frisbees rest atop it. She scoops up the first one, flinging it at Reynard’s head. He prepares to duck.
Twangaaann!
A single razor line snaps. A dart shifts. He knows which one. Too bad it’s on the other side of the maze. Chunks of sliced Frisbee sprinkle onto the floor as the razor lines shred it. He spots the blades in the curricular device. She must have hit the line just so to slice through before the remaining line cut the weapon into useless wedges.
He smiles. A devilish thought races through his mind. “You’ll never reach me with those.”
Crackle scoops up another. Chunks of Frisbee smatter on the ground. No twang sound. She has to hit the line with the blades of the disk just right.
Reynard shifts his position across from the loose dart. He jumps back as more Frisbee pieces rain toward him. Only this time, a dart shifts after a twang resonates. The invisible field fills with a whipping clap before the reverberation of a broken piano wire. The severed line sliced though other lines as well. The release of pressure on the darts causes them to uproot enough to tell which ones are no longer attached.
The next Frisbee skips through. Reynard dives out of the way as two pieces bounce past him. He flips in midair and catches the final disk and twists around, sending the unbroken disk back to its sender.
She dives behind the raised tile unable to escape Reynard sinking his thumb into her clavicle. “Now that’s X-tream Frisbee, bitch,” Adrenaline surges through him. He applies six and three-quarter pounds of pressure onto Crackle’s clavicle.
She kicks at him. As her calf makes contact with his side he loops his free arm around it pinning her leg against him and slams her to the ground.
The praising cheers of the crowd return before screams of bloodlust overtake them.
“Do it quick, Osirian.”
Reynard keeps his eyes locked on hers. The rich greens and browns match his own: her running from the abusive home, the hiding from the abusive streets, accepting abuse in order to eat. It’s all there in those green flecks. The pain, the torment brought on by a lifetime of everyone using this girl as a toilet wipe. Now he must kill her—use her to entertain the masters of this depravity.
The Silver Dragon contains two nuclear-level thermite missiles: the translation is thermite. He should send this degeneracy to dust. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“There’s no honor code here, Osirian. Forcing me to yield won’t open the door.” She contorts her body rising toward him forcing him to exert more pressure on her shoulder until he snaps the bone. She collapses back. He releases his grip on her calf.
She kicks his face with her free leg. She’s trying to force him to break her bone in the hopes he would release her so she could use the advantage to escape.
White spots blotch his eyes as Reynard stumbles back three steps. For a moment there are two Crackles in his line of sight about to punch him. He has a millisecond to choose which fist to block. He coils into a kata to block the impact of a punch. He chooses the incorrect girl.
The pounding swift stings haven’t the strength behind it to bruise him. They are offsetting and since he still sees two Crackles he’s unable to effectively block all the cuffs keeping him dazed.
Most humanoids resembling Osirians have two major arterial veins in their neck that supply the brain with oxygen needed to function, with nothing but soft tissue around those important arterial walls where even the mildest pressure prevents flow. Reynard digs his thumb and forefinger into those two conduits. As the current of fresh oxygen ceases, Crackle’s curses garble into unintelligible gibberish before her entire body hangs limp in his vice grip.
Reynard maintains pressure until she faints. He keeps the pressure choking the life from her. Her hot breath stops and rapid chest rise of a panicked girl discontinues until Crackle has no life left in her.
The crowd hushes. Their bloodlust has been quenched until the next round of fresh combatants.
Reynard keeps his thumb deep into her neck. The calculating betting board declares him the victor and the exit door opens. He flings Crackle over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and jogs out.
He slides her onto a bench just outside the arena exit before slapping her face. “Wake up.” No chest rise. Reynard laces his fingers together driving his palm into her chest. He forces her heart to pump blood with each rapid compression. He skips the rescue breaths, not trusting that this thief wouldn’t bite his lip off when she wakes. He keeps the rhythmic push of blood through her body until she coughs. He rolls her onto her left side, backing out of her reach.
She gasps for air, confused by the man who snuffed her life.
Guards in the knightly armor surround the two escorting Reynard from the holding cell. Marched to a lift, he is paraded before the spectators so they know he’s victorious.
Given a choice Reynard wouldn’t be on this lift. He certainly doesn’t want his arm raised like the champion boxer at the
