Riot by Tillie Cole
“He doesn’t look at her,” I ordered in Russian. The blond blinked, then stepped closer.
“He does whatever the fuck he wants,” he answered back.
“She’s mine,” I shouted, and took the fucker to the ground. I struck and struck, any chance I got. He fought back. Rage took its hold when this male didn’t break under my fist.
He gave as good as he got, slamming his blows into my ribs and stomach, matching my every move. I panted as the Russian champion didn’t submit. He sweated when I didn’t give.
But my drive kept strong. When my eyes met his, I could see he was livid. I rolled him on his back and plowed my head against his, but as soon as our heads connected, he flipped me onto my back and smashed the back of my head into the ground.
Finally, a guard’s whistle blew and hands were tearing us apart. I tried to fight off whoever grabbed me, craving this fight, needing to show them she was mine, but the arms were too strong.
667 and 140 wrenched me back, caging my arms. When I looked to the two new champions, they were pulling their leader back. His brown eyes were locked on mine, and his face was filled with fury.
“Impressive,” Master’s voice called out from above, as he clapped slowly. My gaze shot to his. He was grinning in excitement as he watched us brawl. His eyes narrowed on mine. “901, it seems we may have found a fighter to rival you, after all.” He then looked to the new champions and added, “Or maybe all three could.” When he faced me again, he said, “You may be the champion here in the pit, but that may be a limited title.”
My eyes next found 152, who was watching me, tears filling her eyes. My stomach turned on seeing her look so upset. She appeared in distress. Her hand lifted toward her forehead, but she quickly dropped it back to her side. Her skin was still pale. She broke her gaze from mine and looked to the scarred male. She shook her head, then turned away.
Master picked up 152’s hand to link her arm back through his own. She went with him, and it took all I had not to run after her and ask her why she stared at the new male so much.
A guard appeared at my back and pushed me with the nose of his gun. I reached down and picked up my Kindjals. I headed for the tunnel, followed by 667 and 140. 140 pulled me around by my arm. “Don’t do anything to fuck up your chances in the pits. You make it to the final, you get to take those fuckers down.”
I wrenched my arm back, then pounded to my cell. I sat on my bed for hours, until the guards arrived to tell us we could watch the opening fights from the observation cage. I left my cell. 140 and 667 walked beside me. I entered the cell that gave us a clear view of the pit. As I looked to the stands, every seat was full and money was changing hands. My lips curled in disgust.
“Cocksuckers, every one of them,” 140 hissed from beside me, as the other fighters moved aside to let us to the front. 140 rested his hands on the bars, and we watched as Master moved to sit on his seat, guiding 152 to sit on the floor in front of him.
My pulse raced at how beautiful she looked. Her hair was up on her head, and long curled tendrils hung to the sides of her face. She was dressed in a shouldered white dress, and long earrings draped from her ears. I couldn’t move my eyes from her as she sat looking sad and uncomfortable at Master’s feet.
She shouldn’t be here.
This shouldn’t be her life.
Low mutters came from behind us. When I turned around, the three new champions were cutting through the weaker fighters. My back bristled when they came to stand beside us. 667 and 140 closed in on me. They didn’t need to. I had heard the scarred male just fine. He was right. I would destroy him in the pit.
I focused back on the arena in front of me. This was my domain. They would be the ones to fall.
Master stood to signal the guard for the match to begin. Two males ran out, their weapons held in front of them—a sword and a spear. It was a slow match, neither male gaining the upper hand. Eventually the male with the spear caught a perfect shot to the other’s heart. The mortally wounded male immediately fell to the sand.
I would have slaughtered both in seconds.
The remainder of the fights passed in a similar way. With every match, I was convinced that I would get to the final. As I glanced across to the three new males, I thought that most, if not all of them, would make it, too. A strange regretful feeling spread inside when I thought of the fact that 667 and 140 would not make it there.
Talking to them over the past several weeks had not been bad. In fact, I found myself liking talking to the warriors. They understood this life. They understood what 152 meant to me.
With that thought, my attention drifted to where she sat. She wasn’t watching the match. Her eyes were downcast, her thoughts elsewhere. I frowned, seeing the confused expression on her face. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. I wanted to press my lips to hers and make her smile.
152 suddenly flinched. I immediately knew why, when Master pressed his hand to the back of her neck. He wore a severe look on his face as another fight passed without much excitement. He was hurting her. He was pissed that his fighters were not making their kills exciting.
152 was bearing the brunt of his anger.
A low curse came from my side. When I looked across the caged cell, the scarred Russian was watching Master holding 152 with obvious fury in his eyes. Unable to stand here and watch it, stand next to this ugly fucker gawking at my female, I turned and headed back to my cell.
When I arrived, I sat on my bed and waited. I waited and waited for 152 to come to me. But as the night dragged on, and the guards didn’t arrive, I frowned. Footsteps sounded from outside, and I stood waiting for her to enter. But she didn’t. Master stood in the hallway.
Alone.
“Champions,” he called. We all walked to our cell doors. I saw 667 and 140 glaring. He met each of our eyes and said, “Tomorrow you will face fighters that are no match to you. But as my champions, I expect you to give my crowd what they want.”
“Where’s my mona?” 667 asked.
Master looked to his face. “She won’t be joining you tonight.” He next looked to me, and I noted the victory in his expression. “None of them will.”
Disappointment ripped through me, but I didn’t let it show.
667’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened on the bars. “Perform well tomorrow and you will be rewarded her in return,” Master said. He left our quarters and I moved back to my bed. I slumped down on the mattress, forcing myself to get some sleep. But all I could think of was 152. Of her metal bracelet that would inject her with drugs. Drugs that would make her need my release when I wasn’t there to ease her pain.
My eyes snapped open and I made myself stay still. The anger was thick and hot as I thought of that prick taking her in his bed. Thought of her cries as he was brutal and raw. Possession burned bright in my mind. No matter how much I tried to sleep, very little came.
But the embers of anger remained.
They intensified and increased until they were all I was. I welcomed tomorrow’s fight. A fight I would drag out as long as I could. Because the reward would be worth it. Just to have 152 in my bed once more.
Even if it meant forfeiting my free will.
Even if it meant giving Master everything I had left.
* * *
“They’re good,” 667 said as the scarred male walked away from the pit into the tunnel. We had been watching the long-haired Georgian and the scarred Russian. Both had slain their opponents within seconds of entering the ring. The Georgian had pierced his opponent in the eyes with his sais. The scarred Russian had sliced his picana through the skull of his. Neither had even broken a sweat.
A guard arrived and pointed at 667. 667 took his weapons in hand and turned to go and wait in the tunnel. The tournament fights were a quick turnaround. No sooner had one match ended than another had begun. I had watched last night and the matches so far today. The crowd loved it. Was bloodthirsty. But Master had sat stoically throughout. 152 remained at his feet, rarely l
I could tell Master wanted more from the fights. His teeth had been grinding together as the Georgian and the Russian easily defeated their opponents. Master wanted the theater. In his pit, it wasn’t the death that he treasured; it was the fight to live.
The crowd roared as a male jogged out into the pit. He had a closely shaved head and pale skin. His number read 289. He was big and carried a hammer as a weapon, but from the minute the blond Russian champion, 818, ran out into the pit, you could see who was about to come out of this alive. The blond’s knuckle-dusters were ready in his hands.
He jogged forward, increasing his speed as he approached. The large male swung his hammer. But with perfect accuracy, the blond laid three punches on his opponent. 818 ran past him, leaving his opponent in shock but still on his feet. The male glanced down. I followed his gaze. The blond Russian stood still, not even looking back. Suddenly, his opponent dropped to his knees. I saw that he had two blade punctures in his stomach and one right over his heart. On cue, he keeled over and his heavy body thudded to the ground.
Turning on his heel, the blond ran out of the pit and straight into the tunnel.
140 sighed. When I looked to his face, he looked at me, too. Shaking his head, he said, “They will test us in skill.”
I agreed. Master could get exactly what he wanted from this tournament—a new champion. And me, dead.
The guard appeared and signaled for 140 to wait in the tunnel. He left, and I held my Kindjals tighter, knowing my turn was coming soon. The guard closed the door to the cell, and I watched the pit, waiting for 667 to come out. Movement from the back of the stands caught my attention. I narrowed my eyes, seeing 667’s mona in the arms of a guard. Just like 152 a few days ago, the guard had a knife to her throat. He was standing directly in front of the tunnel, directly in 667’s sight as he ran out.
I watched as the fighter ran to the pit, stumbling in his step when he circled the ring. He had seen her, seen his female in the guard’s arms. His face contorted in rage as he glared at Master. Master barely reacted, but for a small smirk pulling on his mouth.
I rocked on my feet in agitation. That fuck should not be able to get away with this. 152 looked up when 667 began grunting in anger, waiting for his opponent. She stared at the champion, then tracked his gaze to the back of the stands. I watched as her eyes widened and her mouth dropped in shock. Then, as I hoped she would, she looked to the cage that held me. I could see the plea in her eyes.
She wanted me to do as Master demanded. She wanted me to live.
The sound of feet running up the tunnel drew my attention. 667 held his daggers in hand and took the first blow of his opponent’s spiked club. With his shoulder beaded by tens and tens of holes from the spikes, I knew he was doing as Master commanded.
He was giving the people a show.
I moved closer to the bars as 667 turned on the fighter. But just as he did, the fighter swung his club at 667’s head. It happened almost in slow motion before my eyes. 667, instinctively defending himself from the blow, ducked and struck out his daggers. Both long blades slipped like butter through the chest of his opponent.
667’s face blanched as he turned to watch the male fall, headfirst to the sand. The once excited crowd now groaned in disappointment. 667 turned his body to the stands just in time to see Master flick his wrist to the guard holding 667’s mona. A loud, pained roar left 667’s mouth as the guard, with no time to lose, sliced his blade across 667’s mona’s throat. Blood immediately burst free from the blond female’s neck and her eyes widened in a mixture of fear and shock.
The guard threw her crumbling body to the ground, leaning down to wipe his blade on her quickly soiling dress. My attention fixed back on 667 just as he jerked forward, a war cry wailing from his mouth. With only one focus in his eyes, he leapt into the lower levels of the stands, slaying anyone in his path as he fought to reach Master’s seat.
The crowd began to rush from their seats when, from the tunnel, 140 came sprinting out, axes held high. He charged across the bloodied sand, jumping over the slain fighter’s corpse.
My heart thudded in excitement at seeing the spectators running for the exits, my brothers spilling blood as they raced toward Master. Needing to help them, wanting to join them in taking the fucker down, I began roaring out in frustration. I turned and slammed my shoulder against the cell door. It didn’t move, and guards ran past my metal prison. Running toward the pit. Turning to face the bars showcasing the pit, I hit them with my blades. “Get me out!” I demanded, and looked up. When I did, fear wrapped around me. 667 was staggering, still rows from where Master sat … where he held 152 before him like a shield. A gunshot sounded. I realized that 667 had already been shot and was fighting to stay alive.
140, however, was still charging toward Master, the guards’ bullets missing his every move.
“No!” I screamed, seeing Master holding 152 toward where 140 approached. I was wild as I charged against the bars, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. I wanted to take Master down. I wanted to punish him for using my female as a shield and for slaying 667’s mona.
667 staggered to his feet, riddled with bullets. But just as he did, a guard moved behind him and sent a bullet straight through his head. 140 never heard the shot that came for him. He raised his weapon, ready to strike Master, when another guard fired a bullet into the back of his skull. 140’s body stiffened as his skull splintered, and his body collapsed on the row of chairs beneath him.
The cacophony of fearful voices and the crowd’s screams were nothing compared to the roars pouring from my throat. The guards moved quickly, rounding up the crowd. Master’s spectators were forced back toward their seats. The head guard appeared seconds later with a mass of chiri. He hit them with batons as he commanded them to retrieve the slain bodies and remove them from the ring.
But my eyes stayed locked on Master as he released 152 to dust off his jacket like nothing had even happened. 152 was shaking, white in pallor as she swayed faintly on the spot.
Rushing down to the middle of the pit, Master held up his hands as his guards raised their guns high and forced the shaken crowd to listen. When they did, Master spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for that small accident.” He forced a smile that I could see straight through and said, “This is the Blood Pit. It is a death ring. Occasionally the fighters forget their place.”
He tried to speak again, but I clanged my blades louder on the bars, pacing back and forth as I shouted to let me the fuck out. Master didn’t look back at me. He continued talking, informing the crowd there would be a slight break before the final match: mine.
Movement from behind me made me turn, and I saw several guards at the cell door. “Shut the hell up!” one snarled, but that only poured fuel on my fury.
Clutching my blades, I charged the door. The guards jumped back, their guns held high. One of them held an unfamiliar gun toward my chest. When I backed away to charge again, something shot out from the gun and lodged inside my chest. I looked down to see that a small pellet had hit my skin. I looked back up, incensed at being shot. I moved my feet so I could lean and strike out at the guard, but my legs were suddenly leaden and my vision began to blur.
“Direct hit!” one of them shouted, as the world flipped to the side and I staggered until I hit the wall of the cell. I heard the sound of the lock sliding open. I saw the blur of several guards dressed in black filling the cell. Hands grabbed at my arms and dragged me from the cell and out into the hallway. My feet tried to find purchase on the sand beneath me, but my muscles struggled to work.
The guards dropped me to the floor. I hit the floor with a thud and blinked my eyes. My vision cleared some, but my movements were delayed, my limbs moving a second later than when I’d ordered them to.
The guards circled me, guns raised. I managed to push myself to a sitting position, just as two feet came into view. Two feet wearing black shoes.
It belatedly sank into my mind who t
“You pathetic pieces of shit!” a voice snarled down to where I lay. It was Master’s voice. Fingers gripped my hair and ripped back my head. Master’s face swam in and out of focus as he glared at my face. “You all thought you could revolt?” he snapped lowly. “You thought you could best me in my own fucking pit?”
I tried to tell him to fuck off. That he dared hurt 152, dared put her in his fucking way, but nothing came out. Master’s hands let go of my head. It wanted to flop to the floor, but I fought to keep it held high. Master laughed down at where I lay, drugged and losing strength. “You think you can fight?” he asked sardonically. Master then looked at the guards. “Get the chiri to finish cleaning the stands and pit quickly.” He kicked me on the ground, then said, “Then get him into the tunnel. He will fight. And tonight, he will finally die.”
Master walked away and I lay on the hard sandy floor replaying his words in my head. Then get him into the tunnel. He will fight. And tonight, he will finally die … 152’s terrified face blasted to the front of my mind. Even drugged, I pushed my hands onto the floor and forced myself to sit up. My arms shook with the strain, but I held on as I saw 152 screaming when Master pushed her in front of him as 667 and 140 charged. Anger swirled in my stomach. I reached out my hands, feeling my blades lying beside me. Wrapping my hands around the handles, I felt better knowing I held cold steel in my hands. I had fought with these Kindjals for so long that I prayed my body would remember how to fight.
I had to make it to the final. I had to live for 152.