Days ago.
Bloodied, punch-drunk, but a couple thousand credits richer on top of the day’s wages, Vayne was staggering down Rho-07’s backstreets, on his way home to the hab-block that housed some of the District’s most destitute delinquents. Sylvie would be leaving soon for the night shift at the moss farm tunnels, but he should be able to make it back in time to see her off.
…probably also in time for her to tell him off for the umpteenth time, too.
Not that he minded. It was just how she showed she cared, just like how the mind-numbingly tedious but safe job as a moss farmer in charge of splashing water across the same four stretches of tunnel every hour for twelve hours a day he managed to snag at auction for her was how he kept her safe. He knew she meant well.
Ever since they were left in the creche after their parents died from the shivering sickness, when Vayne was seven and Sylvie five, they were the only ones who could look out for each other. During the winter, they were often huddled together, sharing what little warmth they had. The creche caretakers were overburdened with work, in shifts of twelve to fifteen hours a day on their regular jobs plus five to eight hours keeping the creche running for no incentive beyond altruism; it was all the adults could do to keep the orphans warm and clothed (and fed, if only with watered down moss stew).
So there was no one to intercede when the bigger, stronger tweens tried to take anything good the younger ones had. Ratty quilts sewn from scraps of discarded Angel clothing from the trash heap, crumbs of bread or similarly small fragments of food fallen from passing Angel pedestrians, even handfuls of wall moss stolen from the farms – anything was fair game to those who could get them.
He couldn’t fight against the older ones half again as tall as himself at the time, not on even footing. And so he learned how to fight dirty. Groin shots, pocket sand, clawing and biting like a feral animal, concealed makeshift weapons and more: these were the tools of trade he mastered by the time he was ten. By then, only the bravest or the most desperate would dare to mess with him or Sylvie.
For her part, while Vayne protected what they had, Sylvie would disappear for hours at a time, returning with stuff scavenged from all over the District. A scraggly slip of a girl, she was quick and her fingers were quicker. Very few would even spot her sneaking about, and even fewer were those who could give chase. She knew the rooftops and the hidden crannies around the District better than many elders who had lived in Rho-07 their whole lives, a true gutter rat.
Together, they were well-fed by the standards of anyone but the overseers of the District. Vayne grew with a fighter’s brawn, while Sylvie had a deceptively wiry strength.
Then, Sylvie grew overconfident. At twelve, she tried to steal from an overseer’s larder. She was caught and let off with a relatively light punishment: broken fingers on her left hand and a severe beating that left bruises and welts all over. Vayne was beyond furious, and despite Sylvie’s insistence to let it go, he sought out the guard who dealt the punishment.
When the other guards and the overseer arrived, they were just in time to pull him off the broken, bloodied man on the ground, as he was smashing the guard’s face in with a brick.
Rather than charge him with assault and battery, as might be expected, the overseer instead saw promise in the young man and invited him to participate in an underground fighting ring to pay off the guard’s medical fees. Run by collaboration between several of the District’s overseers and an inter-District operation, fighters would brawl for the entertainment of a cheering crowd.
The skills cultivated over the past seven years were, for the first time, used to kill.
Standing over the body of a burly, grown man, shard of rusty metal dripping from the rough saw across the man’s heel tendons and throat, Vayne earned fifty credits on top of the medical debt he owed the overseer. The first credits he had ever earned through his own efforts. With that, he bought a handful of the most affordable pain meds and some splints. And that night, tending to a whimpering Sylvie, he swore that he would do anything so that Sylvie never had to risk herself so ever again.
Fast forward another nine or ten years, and Vayne was now a regular at the fighting rings, often the favourite to win on any given bout; the organisers would arrange multiple rounds for him, with increasing odds against him both literally and on the betting scene. Thus far, the only time he had lost was in a one on five against fresh fighters after two other bouts against other combatants. Fighting for himself instead of another patron or debtor, he could pocket a generous percentage of all the wagers made against him; even that one lost bout earned him enough to not work for a couple of weeks as he recovered.
Tonight’s earnings were just enough to cover next month’s rent. Combined with both of their wages, Vayne and Sylvie would not go hungry until the rest of the month. If he fought again as scheduled next week, they would also be able to afford several days’ worth of Sylvie’s favourite food: farm-fresh tunnel rats, cultivated by specialists in one of the long-defunct tunnel networks. Meat was rare to come by even for the overseers.
It was something to look forward to in their dreary lives. He wondered if he could win enough to also get some moonshine from -
Repeated tremors shook the ground. Vayne’s head snapped to the commotion from his right, blanching in aghast disbelief as the distant but rapidly approaching silhouette of an Angel loomed over the District’s walls. It was night and the District was only lit by a few sporadic torches at major intersections, and so Her face was shrouded in darkness, far above the tallest District buildings.
From what little light there was, Vayne could see that She wore not much at all. A pair of tight denim shorts hardly reaching a third of Her thighs, and a bare midriff exposed by a crop top. The underside of breasts larger than Vayne’s entire apartment floor peeked beneath the tight top. Creamy legs that were slim and fit, each like a spire of the overseers’ watchtowers, ate up the distance to the District walls swiftly.
There was something familiar about that way She moved. Swaying with an uneven gait, footsteps syncopated out of rhythm. The sloshing of liquid was audible from a bottle a dozen storeys high clutched in Her hand, and the sour sting of alcohol was unmissable, albeit smelling somewhat more refined than moonshine. He realised that the Angel was drunk.
Cries of alarm from the night watch and what few people were still on the street did nothing to alert Her as to just where She was walking. To the collective dismay of all watching, Her left foot landed just before the District wall – and as She took the next unsteady step, the unexpected obstruction of the shin-high wall made Her tip forward with a startled gasp.
Wide-eyed, Vayne watched in mute disbelief as the titanic woman toppled like a descending piece of the falling sky. Instants felt like minutes as adrenaline flowed within him. The growing shadow. The crunch and crumbling masonry of the wall. Her yelp of surprise that surely woke the entire District, if they weren’t already up from the tremors of Her footsteps. The bone-chilling horror as the Angel fell towards the hab-block and Sylvie within. Crushing relief as She missed. Muted guilt at the relief as Her chest collided with an adjacent building. Frantic backpedalling as plumes of dust rose amidst a terrible grinding crash. Knocked off his feet as the ground shook from the violent descent. Screams from the distance as who knew how many were caught in the ruin.
Anguish as the Angel reached up to grab the nearest thing to pull Herself up – only to instead pull down the hab-block as She toppled once more.
Vayne scrambled to his feet as soon as he could. While most were fleeing, his only thoughts were of Sylvie, still likely inside. He fought against the stream of fleeing inhabitants, not quite caring who he shoved out of the way to be trampled by the rest of the horde. All that mattered was getting in there to get Sylvie out.
The Angel groaned and pushed Herself up partway. Vayne could hear an ominous gurgling noise from Her belly as he approached, and skidded to a halt as Her throat convulsed.
A torrent of vomit spewed forth as She retched all over the ruins of the buildings. The acidic stench of gastric juices mingled with half-digested chunks and pungent alcohol was like a repulsive physical wall and staggered Vayne. Viscous bits splashed down, scattering far and wide. Even Vayne, who was still out of Her arms’ reach, had to dodge as a glob of eye-stinging puke the size of a person splashed down near him.
“Uuuuurgh, fuck,” the Angel moaned. “Too… too much to drink. Fuck.” She blinked, bleary and confused, looking down at the sounds of screams and wailing beneath. “Oh shit. You guys live here? Uh. Sorry, didn’t mean to make such a big mess. Lemme just… clean up a bit.”
Vayne’s horrified scream for Her to stop was just one of dozens, but She was too drunk to parse their diminutive voices. The sloshing bottle rose and upended itself over the rubble, splashing down in a stinging wave directly over the ruins, rinsing away most of the vomit but possibly drowning anyone trapped within.
“Ugh. Never drinking this again,” She muttered to Herself, stumbling up to Her feet. Bits of concrete and clouds of dust rained as She brushed Her front down. She grunted another halfhearted apology and stumbled away, tremors fading off into the distance.
This had to be a bad dream. Stumbling across the strewn rubble, eyes stinging from the twin alcoholic and acidic fumes, Vayne joined the desperate few who had loved ones caught in the destruction, digging through the rubble until his hands bled and his knees were scrapped raw.
Three times he came across people trapped in the rubble. One was drenched in the Angel’s vomit, skin melted away so as to become unrecognisable. The second was a smear beneath fallen concrete, dead before they had time to drown or burn. The third was pinned by the knees, still gasping for breath and keening in agony. Not Sylvie, and so he ignored the weak cries for help.
There. He recognised that square of cloth – a strip torn from a discarded Angel’s dress and fashioned into a blanket. Shoving a large block aside with a roar of effort, Vayne stumbled into the partially intact remains of their home – and beheld the wreck that was Sylvie.
At a glance, her left arm and both legs were broken. A light splatter of vomit had melted much of her exposed skin, leaving the flesh beneath an angry, raw red. Her chest rose and fall only by the slightest of motions, weak and fluttery. She did not stir from his anguished cry.
The next few hours were a blur. A frantic rush to the chirurgeon's ward, her limp, fragile form cradled in his arms, fighting his way past dozens of other desperates who likely could not afford any treatment for their charges. Demanding his way past the guards, proving his ability to pay with the night’s fighting ring earnings. The chirurgeon’s assessment that she would die without further treatment, and the mind-boggling sum needed for reconstructive surgery – fifty thousand credits, more than perhaps all the overseers in Rho-07 combined could pay. The rental of a stasis pod with all of his money and setting up a separate credit account for the payment, buying Sylvie two weeks for him to somehow… somehow get the payment.
He couldn’t even go into debt to the chirurgeon, Dr “Bloody” Mike, to pay it off at a later date; the materials and medicines needed to be imported from outside the District, and Mike would not earn more than a few hundred creds by the end of it.
A desperate hunt through the watering holes and black markets, grilling traders and smugglers and other ne’er-do-wells on any possible way to earn or loan fifty grand in a week. Only a rumour gave him hope: The Circle, an Angel-run illicit club where mortals could fight for Their amusement in exchange for ludicrous sums of credits.
With no other possible recourse, he set out on his journey to –
Now
Vayne was thrust out of his recollection as the fist holding him opened, launching him in an underhanded swing that sent him flailing through the air. The world spun end over end in a mess of blurry colours, and he didn’t even have the wherewithal to think about the fatal drop to the ground below before he slammed to a painful rolling stop, far sooner than he could have expected.
A lifelong student of the school of hard knocks, Vayne recovered from the physical disorientation within moments. He rose shakily to his feet, stunned by the glittering opulence all around him so much that he failed to notice his looming hosts.
The room – if room it could be called – was cavernous. He was standing on a smooth marble desk filled with books and implements of various indiscernible functions, neatly organised like District blocks and streets. Beyond, the room itself could fit Rho-07 a hundred times over, filled with mountainous furniture made with such fine quality that his uncultured eyes could appreciate the workmanship nonetheless. The room was lit from above by a dazzling, glittering arrangement of glass and lights, casting a soft glow not unlike a campfire.
“It is not every day that a mortal comes looking for work at an Angel establishment,” a cordial voice commented.
Vayne spun around to face the speaker, going weak in the knees as he beheld an Angel reclined regally upon an armchair before the desk. Where the guard Viper was uncaring and imposing, and the one who brought him here, still glaring down at him from a distance beyond the desk, was openly scornful of him, this one…
A faint smile curled full, glossy lips painted a deep shade of grey. Eyes glittering like stars, deep green like… like moss, but clean, fixed on Vayne like a curious felid stalking a trapped mortal, amused and curious but also with a detached distance. Luscious black hair, dark as the night, piled in an elaborate curl, leaving clear shoulders white as snow and smooth as silk. The swell of Her breasts, accentuated by a revealing black dress, proportionately larger than any he had ever seen before among malnourished, ever-hungry mortals or even the flawlessly perfect Angels – he flushed and yanked his gaze up to meet Hers at the thought, praying that the dim light hid the warmth on his cheeks yet knowing from the subtle widening of Her smile that his efforts were futile.
Despite the air of genial hospitality, he was thoroughly intimidated by this Angel beyond any other he had ever encountered.
“Well? Surely you did not come to waste My time,” She continued in a light tone. “Tell Me why you are here.”
Vayne’s mouth was dry. This was it. He swallowed and cleared his throat, and bowed as low as he could go.
“Mistress Angel,” he began, pitching his voice to carry up to Her, “my name is Vayne. Vayne Rho-07-25816. I’ve come to loan fifty thousand credits from The Circle, and will fight for You until I have repaid my debt.”
She nodded. “Hmm. You have My interest, Vayne Rho-07-25816. You may address Me as Miss Sharpe, as all of My employees do.” A sly flicker of Her gaze towards the Angel who brought him to this room, so quick he thought he might have imagined it before it returned to pin him. “Fifty thousand credits is… not a small sum for a mortal, though you hardly had to come here if you needed less. What does the average mortal earn as monthly wages at Rho-07, Tira?”
The other Angel, Tira, consulted Her handheld device. Her voice was tightly controlled. “Five to eight hundred a month, Miss Sharpe.”
“Oh my. How very quaint,” She remarked. “Now, fifty thousand credits is not much for Me to transfer up front, but I am not in the habit of wasting credits on a frivolous whim. What makes you think you can fight at the standards The Circle’s spectacles have to offer, against vat-born mortals trained to fight from decantation and vicious feral beasts you have never seen before in your District-bound life?”
Vayne stood straight. The one thing he was proud of himself was his experience in the ring. “I’ve fought in rings since I was a child, Miss Sharpe. I’ve only ever lost once, in a bout against five fresh opponents after two bouts of my own. I can fight dirty, and I can put up a spectacle for Your customers if You wish.”
A chuckle. “Bold claims. We’ll revisit that in a moment. Now then, the terms of your contract.” She tilted Her head towards Tira, who nodded and brought up Her device once more, ready to write the dictation down. “Fifty thousand credits up front to the credit account of your choice. You will fight as part of My stable until you have paid off all debts to Me. Five hundred credits for each fight you participate in, five percent of all tributes made in your name, and the same five percent for all wagers made against you. You may not leave until your debt with Me is settled.”
Five percent? Even the most cutthroat ringmasters back home gave cuts of forty percent to victorious fighters. His expression flickered in doubt, but did he dare to voice it out?
“Miss Sharpe,” he spoke carefully, “I don’t mean to insult You or The Circle, but… five percent?”
Her smile gained a mocking edge for a brief moment. She leaned down towards him, immense breasts bunching invitingly against the desk as he forced himself to keep his gaze up. “I can assure you that Our patrons regularly tribute or wager credits in the tens of thousands, My little would-be fighter. Rest assured, you will be adequately compensated… for a mortal. You -”
A distant, booming knock on the door. Miss Sharpe glanced up with a raised eyebrow.
“Your dinner, Miss Sharpe,” Tira interjected softly. “This meeting was unscheduled.”
“Oh, very well, then. Our little fighter here clearly needs some time to think this through, regardless, and I have been looking forward to tonight’s meal. You do not mind if I eat while we negotiate terms, do you?” She said the last to Vayne, who shook his head mutely.
Tira went to open the door. Vayne watched as an Angel with a tall white hat and a matching white outfit glided in with a trolley hovering above the ground, upon which stood four plates of varying sizes covered with silver domes, utensils, three glittering bottles, and several empty glasses. She dropped into a deep curtsey.
“Miss Sharpe,” the newcomer greeted with a demure smile. “Your dinner at the nineteenth hour, as ordered.”
“Excellent. On My desk, please,” Miss Sharpe indicated, moving a few objects out of the way and casually doing the same to Vayne, depositing him on top of a stack of books. Her nails, as dark as Her hair, were like blades as long as he was tall. “Do Me the favour of introducing tonight’s dishes, if You would.”
“Certainly!” With practised ease, the chef arranged the various utensils in what seemed like ritual positions to Vayne, then each covered plate, finishing with the empty glasses.
She then removed the second-smallest cover first, and a mouth-watering wall of scent staggered him backwards. Revealed within was a bowl of steaming, creamy liquid, wide and deep enough for a mortal to drown in.
“To begin, then: a smooth and creamy bisque, rich with the flavour of shellfish plucked from the depths of Serravo Prime’s oceans, brought to our kitchens in stasis so as to preserve their freshness – You will find they taste exactly as if freshly caught. The soup is kissed with a splash of warm spirits and a touch of herbs that will warm You up for the next courses.”
The next dish was the second largest plate. It revealed… three identical yellowish packet-like objects in the middle of the plate, taking up a measly fraction of the available space. Vayne stared in confusion at the packets, each barely wider than he was tall. An Angel would be able to effortlessly pop one into Her mouth whole. The chef poured a glimmering golden liquid – alcohol, by the smell, but sweeter by far than any he had ever smelled – into the glass next to the dish.
“Next, the starter. Tender folds of golden dough filled with a mixture of meats and spices from across the sector. Hand-ground wild elk, gryphon, and naga, offering a mix of textures and subtle flavours bound together by the earthiness of truffle. Each mouthful a hearty delight, to be paired with a light wine.”
The largest dish was revealed, and Vayne stared in awe as he beheld a slab of white meat, easily bigger than the largest underground fighting rings he was used to fighting in, slathered in some glistening, viscous ooze. Chunks of green plants on the side, covered in a different kind of glistening liquid, thinner than the one over the meat. A different light-coloured drink was poured into the second glass. He had never felt so enticed yet so utterly confused.
“Ah, and then the jewel of the meal: fillet of Terran Blue, sourced from none other than the seat of the Empyrean capital itself – as an aside, Miss Sharpe, I am eternally grateful that working for You has afforded Me a chance to work with this sublime creature. Ahem. As I was saying. Grilled fillet of Terran Blue flank, cooked over an open flame to unlock its full depth of flavour. The buttery nature is elevated by a glaze of tangy charred fruit, and the side of tender greens cooked with garlic and preserved citrus adds a touch of the fields to this dish of the sea.”
“It smells divine,” Miss Sharpe noted, leaning in to savour the scents. “Well worth the investment, I should say.”
“I’m glad you think so, Miss Sharpe,” the chef demurred. “As for dessert…” lifting up the cover over the smallest plate.
Vayne stared in disbelief at the glass bowl on the plate. Trapped within, writhing with manic energy born from what must have been sheer terror, two dozen mortals with the pale white skin of the vat-born, trussed up by artful knots of string. A dark red liquid was poured into the final glass next to it.
“... the finest mortals for consumption, well-exercised and fed on a diet of the healthiest feed. Each has been infused with essence of saccharine, caramelising their blood content to ensure a refreshing burst of flavour with every bite. Won’t last long, I’m afraid, but if consumed within the next hour or so, guaranteed to provide a pleasant wriggling sensation along with the delectable taste. A literal sweetmeat, so to speak, with a dark red to ease them down.”
Miss Sharpe plucked one of the trussed mortals up with delicate care, leaning in to scrutinise the hapless woman. “Delightful. Well done, indeed. You may leave Us now.”
The chef dipped into a deep curtsey once more. “Enjoy your meal, Miss Sharpe.”
Before She left the room, Miss Sharpe called out to Her as an afterthought. “By the by, if You were serving this meal in a restaurant of Your own, how much would You charge for this?”
The chef cocked Her head to one side in thought. “I would say… three to four hundred thousand credits, depending on the availability of the Terran Blue, Miss Sharpe.”
“Excellent. That will be all.”
Vayne choked at the ludicrous sum so casually thrown out for a single meal.
“Strictly speaking,” Miss Sharpe commented to him, “Angels do not need to eat. Our perfected form can maintain itself without external sources of energy. Dining is, therefore, an art form to appreciate and a luxury to enjoy. I personally make it a habit of dining only once every week; too often and the novelty wears off, I fear.”
Dipping a curved utensil into the bisque, She scooped up a mouthful and slurped it loudly, an approving purr rumbling from the depths of Her throat. She maintained eye contact with Vayne, watching his utterly flabbergasted reactions with an amused glint in Her eyes.
“So. While Tira writes up your contract,” Miss Sharpe glanced at the other Angel, who nodded and began tapping on Her device, “you will entertain Me as I have My meal.” She picked up a handful of three trussed vat-born, plucking apart the strings tying them up. Curling Her fist, She bunched them together before dropping them around Vayne.
“Now, My little toys, I’m sure you heard My chef say you have barely an hour to live. If you can kill this one here, I will bring you to My physician and fix you right up. My fighter,” She addresses Vayne, “prove your worth.”
The three vat-born, two women and a man, twitched towards Vayne. This close, he saw the bloodshot eyes and bulging veins. Their characteristic vat-born pale skin was steadily darkening, like a flush but across their entire nude bodies and somehow wrong. Their movements were erratic and abrupt, almost vibrating.
Unarmed and outnumbered. A familiar situation, if Vayne was honest to himself. He ducked under the first wild haymaker from the man, hammering a punch of his own into his gut. The women both attempted grapples, but were obviously inexperienced in combat. He twisted out of the way and tripped one into the other, sending both sprawling to the ground. By this point, the man was still wheezing from the gut punch. Vayne could have pressed the advantage and struck again, but a furtive glance at Miss Sharpe showed that She was still only halfway through the bisque. Part of ring fighting involved showboating and prolonging the combat to entertain the audience. No one liked watching a fight that was over in seconds.
Instead, he danced back and waited for his opponents to recover. Their movements grew more erratic, wild swings that entirely forwent defense and wordless screams through strangled-sounding throats. It was almost trivially easy to duck and weave around their mindless aggression. A more sporting person might have let them land a few blows (or at least fake taking some), but he was not taking any chances with the stakes being so high.
One of the women overextended, twisting in a mad attempt to strike Vayne. Her ankle snapped with a sickening crack, and she tumbled to the ground with a scream. The other two got in each other’s way as they tried to attack him. He sent them sprawling yet again, and whirled to eliminate the fallen one –
– only to flinch as a massive, multi-pronged metal utensil descended, the middle prong spearing the woman in the back with a horrific squelch. The battle paused as even the sugar-frenzied other two watched the gruesome spectacle. The speared woman rose into the air, flailing weakly and choking out bloody globs of clotted blood as she was brought towards the Angel’s gaping maw.
Miss Sharpe popped the woman into Her mouth. Tossing her about with a colossal tongue to between Her left molars, the Circle’s proprietor made sure to angle Her head such that Her audience could see the mortal’s final throes. Her jaws closed with a deliberate slowness that proved She was no stranger to putting on a show. Arms and legs crunched like broken twigs. The ribcage collapsed with just as little resistance. A last, brief gasp escaped, and the woman was turned to paste.
It was all Vayne could do to swallow his own gorge as it threatened to spew from his lips. Miss Sharpe smiled, baring bloodstained teeth. She quirked an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at his remaining two opponents.
Something struck the back of Vayne’s head. Stars exploded in his eyes. By pure instinct, he turned the stumble into a roll. Vision spinning, he snapped his arms up reflexively and blocked the follow-up, bones aching from the impact.
His male opponent roared and lunged forward, desperation to avoid the same grisly fate evident in every line of his face. Yet even Vayne, unlearned in chirurgic arts though he was, could see from the purpling veins all across his body that he had but a short time before his body failed from whatever arcane processes the Angel chef used to turn his blood sweet.
Certain that merely outlasting his opponents would not impress his patron, Vayne darted forward and lanced his right hand straight-fingered at the man’s throat, followed by a hammering fist to the groin. The man dropped, wheezing, buying enough time for Vayne to meet the charging woman and tackle her to the ground.
Without the distance to take advantage of her wild swings, the maddened woman had not the wits to escape from Vayne’s grapple. Anchoring himself to her with his legs, he wrenched the woman’s left arm clean out of its socket with an audible snap. She screeched and bucked from the pain, unable to prevent him from doing the same with the other arm. He clambered to his feet and kicked at her nearest knee for good measure, knocking her out of the fight.
Vayne barely had enough time to back away before the pronged utensil descended once again, spearing the frothing woman through the stomach. This time, Miss Sharpe didn’t bother putting on a show, simply chewing and swallowing her like a snack. He turned away to face the man, still gasping in pain on the ground, trying not to be affected too much by the horrible chewing sounds and muffled screaming from behind.
His opponent didn’t have the same luxury. Unable to keep his attention focused solely on Vayne, reactions sluggish from purpling veins, he was unprepared for Vayne’s sudden burst of aggression. A hammering thrust to the jaw and a clap to both ears, a follow-up to the gut, and a bone-breaking heel thrust to the left ankle to drop him to the ground.
Grappling his opponent in a headlock from behind, Vayne looked up at Miss Sharpe. In his experience, the hosts of fighting bouts loved to give the command to spare or finish off a losing combatant. Something about giving them the power of choice over life or death… though he supposed that it was different in this particular situation, what with the Angel being completely able to swat the two of them with one casual slap. Still, the sentiment mattered.
He was rewarded with an approving smile and a nod. The pronged utensil hovered menacingly over them. He was prompted to release his broken opponent and back away with due haste with a shooing gesture of the utensil. The man tried to throw himself out of the descending utensil’s path, only for it to change course, unerringly impaling him through the chest.
Vayne forced himself to meet Miss Sharpe’s gaze as She chewed and swallowed his final opponent. For a moment, he could have sworn there was a glint in Her eyes, as if She intended to spear him with the utensil and devour him as well.
Then, She smiled. Her teeth were stained with the viscera of his erstwhile opponents.
“An adequate performance… if a little messy. It seems you can actually fight.” She sipped from a glass, stare never wavering from Vayne. “I have no qualms about signing you on. Should you accept My most generous offer,” Her tone leaving no doubt that he would, “you will be Mine until your debts are paid. The contract, Tira?”
The handheld device, screen wider than a District building, slapped down next to Vayne. Any closer, and he would have been naught but a stain on Miss Sharpe’s desk. Before he could recover from the shock of its sudden appearance, he was pinched by Tira and dropped onto its glowing white surface.
“Your handprint,” Tira said, curt and frowning. Her index finger, tall as a tree, jabbed down at the screen, pointing above a dotted line.
This was it. Sylvie would be getting her treatment. All it would take was a temporary signing away of his liberty. What was the worst that could happen, anyway? It wasn’t as if Miss Sharpe would mistreat Her own fighters, given that they needed to be healthy to fight in the rings.
Vayne knelt. He pressed his palm onto the screen above the dotted line. A digital imprint was left there, signifying his consent. Barely had the device beeped, confirming the signing of the contract and the transfer of credits, before a vast shadow fell over him. He could not even turn to look up before he was snatched up into the fleshy gaol that was Miss Sharpe’s flowery-scented hand.
“Very good, My fighter. Now, let’s get you settled in, shall We?”
Manhandled again like he was nothing, like his rights as a registered mortal meant nothing. Vayne supposed that he really was nothing to these Angels… but the offhand expenditure Miss Sharpe gave out on a whim would save Sylvie’s life, and so he could not help but feel grateful to his new, temporary owner.
Ensconced in Her closed fist, Vayne closed his eyes and resigned himself to his fate.