5
Adam and Dagmar had been standing in the center of the arena for nearly twenty minutes, enduring the jeers and profanities of the Marauders while everyone awaited “Queen” Emily’s arrival.
Dagmar was braving the situation quite well, Adam noted with satisfaction. She stood with her back straight, her eyes fixed on the entrance, her expression composed and a little frosty, as if a tardy envoy were about to come through the door rather than her de facto executioner. Though Adam knew Dagmar wasn’t a queen after all, right now she looked far more regal than the Marauders’ lewd, egocentric mistress could ever dream of being.
Finally the door in the west wall flew open, and Emily strode in. The Marauders cheered and whooped and shouted “Hail, Emily!” She took it all in with a small contented smile, like a sunbather soaking up rays on a tropical beach.
Adam’s eyes were immediately drawn to her outfit, which in some ways was far more revealing that the one she had worn in her throne room. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her full, round breasts barely contained by their jeweled leather slings; the delicate comma of her navel in the center of her taut belly; the sleek curves of her legs sheathed in her skin-tight pants.
She was an arrogant, self-absorbed, murderous bitch, but he couldn’t deny that she aroused in him a primal lust like nothing he had ever felt before. Since abandoning his mad quest for a mate all those years ago, he had consciously suppressed all his sexual instincts. It seemed best to do so, for he knew those instincts were unlikely to ever be fulfilled. But as Freud could no doubt tell him, suppression was far from eradication, and the instincts remained, seething below the surface, caged but as feral as ever. And now this horrid girl had set them free.
Yet while she aroused him, she also filled him with a stew of far less pleasant emotions. Moments ago he had labeled her arrogant, self-absorbed, and murderous—adjectives that could also have described him once upon a time. In his youth, he really had been a monster, not because of his appearance, but because of his actions. He had been aware of that for many years now; but to see that truth paraded before him in the form of this depraved young beauty brought that knowledge home in an especially sharp and painful way. It shamed and enraged him to think of how much time and energy he had wasted despising the world because it was not his own private paradise and enacting bloody vengeance on people for failing to do what he wished they would. Good lord, if he had met this girl then, what a terror the two of them might have become.
His thoughts broke off as a robot similar in appearance to Freud entered behind Emily. As it looked around the room, its gaze briefly fixed on Adam and Dagmar, then moved on.
“Do you see?” Dagmar said.
“Yes,” said Adam. “Judging by its curious head movements, I believe that is the injured analyst Freud told us about the other night. Adler.”
Emily made her way to the west side of the arena, where a chair stood in a wide, level area midway up the rows of bleacher seats. Similar to her throne, the chair was large and high‑backed and covered with silver paint. “EMILY” was once again written in an arc on the back of the seat, this time with glued-on green glitter. The arm-rests of this seat had holes for cups and a section that could flip inward across her lap to serve as a tray. Atop the chair was a green-and-white striped canopy, which struck Adam as particularly useless, given that the sun never shone in here.
She sat down, setting the Twinkies on an arm-rest. Adler stood at attention at the rear left corner of the seat. Emily picked up a megaphone that sat on a small table to her right. The megaphone was white, and on its side it read, “#1.”
“Have we got a fuckin’ awesome show today!” she said through the megaphone, her amplified voice echoing throughout the hangar.
The Marauders cheered and stamped their feet and pumped their fists in the air.
“As most of you already know, a bunch of prissy little do‑gooders have attacked us in an attempt to shut us down. I could not, of course, allow such aggression to go unchecked. The only aggression I’ll tolerate is our aggression!”
This inspired another round of shouting and fist-pumping.
“Well, we caught the bastards. The Annihilator blew one of ‘em up.”
More cheers, but Emily didn’t notice. She was scanning the bleachers with a slight frown of concern. Adam realized then that the Annihilator wasn’t present. Was there trouble somewhere? He hoped so.
“And the Grottle chopped off the head of another!”
A resounding bout of cheering. The Grottle grinned and held up its shovel.
“And Skippy and Oscar are in hot pursuit of another!”
More cheers, but somewhat subdued this time, as if everyone suspected something bad had happened. Even Emily looked unconvinced by what she had said.
“But even if that one gets away, it’s no biggie. It’s just some skinny, old chick. And as for the other two—they’re right here, ready to put on a fuckin’ show for us!”
The loudest cheers yet, accompanied by more foot-stamping and fist-pumping. Some of the Marauders even took to banging their weapons on the floor or on nearby seats.
“You all know how the arena works, but I don’t think our guests do.” She leaned forward and smirked at Adam and Dagmar. “Here’s the deal. Each one of you will be pitted against a Marauder. They’ve got weapons. You don’t. Chances are you’ll get hacked to ribbons in, like, no time. In fact, most of the guys have made bets on how long you’ll last.” She focused solely on Dagmar. “You’ll be facing Tork. The odds say you won’t last more than a minute. Some guys’re sayin’ you won’t even make it past thirty seconds.” Her eyes swiveled to Adam. “You’ll be up against the Grottle. Considering the little battle you two had a few days ago, everyone’s betting this will be the real fight. The baby girl’s just the warm-up act. Anyway, if either of you manage to defeat your opponent, then you’ll face a new challenge: You’ll have to take on two Marauders.” She started to chuckle. “And if by some bizarro miracle you defeat them, then you’ll face three Marauders.” She was laughing so hard she could hardly speak now. “And so on and so on until you’re totally dead.”
The Marauders howled with laughter. The rafters shook with the sound. Adam and Dagmar just stood there, silent and still, refusing to give their captors the satisfaction of a response.
“And so,” said Emily, raising her arms, her eyes aglow with demented merriment, “let the games begin!”
Tork with his two-headed battle-axe and the Grottle with its shovel stood up to applause and cheers and cries of “Kill ‘em all!” They hopped from the bleachers to the dirt of the arena and without further ado charged at their opponents with their weapons raised, Tork screaming a dwarvish war-cry as he raced toward Dagmar, the Grottle silent but grinning as it loped toward Adam.
“Get behind me,” Adam said to Dagmar. She did. He pulled his arms apart and the rope that bound his wrists snapped like frayed string.
Cries of foul went up from the audience, but no one seemed to expect any actual penalty for Adam’s rule-breaking. After all, he and Dagmar had no chance of getting out of the arena alive whether their wrists were bound or not.
Tork fell back a little, allowing the Grottle to distract Adam so he could circle around and pick off Dagmar. Adam divined their plan and told Dagmar, “Just run. Stay out of his reach. I will try to defeat the Grottle, then help you.”
“Um, okay,” said Dagmar, not really convinced of the soundness of his plan. She sprinted for the north end of the arena. Tork raced after her.
Adam nodded when he saw his suspicions confirmed: Tork, with his armor and battle-axe and stocky dwarf body was much slower than Dagmar. He had no hope of catching her unless she did something incredibly stupid.
And then he couldn’t think about Dagmar any more, for the Grottle had reached him.
The Grottle raised its shovel over its head, but before it could strike, Adam grabbed the Grottle’s wrists.
It tried to pull its arms free, but Adam held on tight. The
Grottle bared its teeth at him. He responded by head-butting it, his forehead smashing into the Grottle’s nose. Green blood squirted from its nostrils.
The Grottle shook it off as if it were nothing and swiftly kicked one of Adam’s legs out from under him while simultaneously pressing forward, sending both of them crashing to the ground. Adam landed on his back with the Grottle straddling his waist, its wrists still clutched tightly in his hands. The Grottle returned the head-butt, slamming its shiny yellow forehead into Adam’s left eye socket. Stunned, Adam let go of the Grottle’s wrists. Laughing its distinctive laugh—“hurr hurr hurr!”—it raised the shovel again.
Adam bucked his hips. Thrown off balance, the Grottle stretched out its arms to steady itself, at which point Adam delivered a swift punch to its neck.
Gasping, the Grottle rolled off him and jumped to its feet. Adam rose as well. The two of them faced each other, glaring.