I Am the Gladiator

9075, AKA Dominick Stark, had been a much more recent addition to the facility's collection of Foreigners – or Aliens, for those who haven't already gotten it – when shit hit the fan. He was the silent, domineering type, more inclined to ask the doctors questions than to answer them.

The first time I saw him, I hadn't expected him to look the way he did. He was one of the most human Foreigners I've ever seen – of course, I hadn't seen many until I started working there. At least, he looked the part. Mostly.

He was, I can't lie, a particularly well-crafted specimen. Much more than easy on the eyes, and quite pleasant to look at. I had never heard him talk before, not until that day. Not until three days ago.

He was affectionately known by the other workers – guards and scientists alike – as 'El Don', or 'The Alpha' sometimes. The reasons included made sense. Now they make even more sense than before.

But what was he doing up there?

I gaze back at the task at hand. Later I'll have so much more time to ask questions. Right now, however, I just have to worry about not getting beaten to a pulp. Should be easy enough.

I think.

This chick – Missy – looks like she can withstand more than a few punches. She looks like she'd grin if I snatched her up by her ovaries.

"What?" I turn my palms outwards at my sides. "No smacktalk, Missy?"

Her voice is unexpected. An Italian-American woman from New York. "I'll smack that talk out of you, punk."

"Don't be too hasty there." I don't imagine she's very flexible in having her arms shoved up her back.

"Don't get too rowdy! You know we all love an underdog! Give it up for CHARLIEEEEE DECKARRRRRRD!"

I'm astonished to hear their applause and their bravo is stronger than what they gave to her. I would've imagined, had I given it any thought, they'd be much more on her side. I suppose they can hit it off with the underdog part.

"Now, before one of you gets pummelled to death" – nice they can sugar-coat it so well – "it's probably better if we explain what you'll be fighting for. Missy Reever is already quite aware of the rules and rewards. This may or may not be a fight to the death. You do not have to kill the other. If I were you, Charlie, I'd keep her as far away from my spine as possible."

Well, damn.

"All you have to do is get the other to submit, but if she won't, then you are perfectly permitted to end this match in murder. It will not go on your record."

Now that I think about it, he kind of sounds like a deeper, British version of Robin Williams.

I don't think they have any clue who that is though.

"Are you ready?!"

"Not in a million years," I mumble to myself, but this is my last resort. Not that I have a choice even if it wasn't. I peel my coat off for the first time in who knows how long – it hadn't been my first concern upon being haled here.

"Guess you're gonna have to be ready soon, cupcake."

On more occasions than not, I would allow my opponent to get the first hit on me. But by the size of her meat cleavers for fists, I don't imagine it'd be the best idea.

Might wake up with a concussion.

"Set!"

I am the gladiator. I am the gladiator. I am the gladiator.

"Fight!"

Given the way I think she is, I expected her to just lunge at me, yet she doesn't. We approach to an invisible roundabout, and somehow end up circling each other.

"What?" I ask, baring my palms once more at my thighs. "Not gonna swing first? Don't I look like a nice slab of meat to beat up?"

With all the heartiness of Mrs. Claus, she bellows, shoulders shaking with mirth as she holds her stomach. "Don't I know it," she says, and finally pounces.

Missy dashes at me, full speed, fist outstretched, as though she doesn't expect me to be able to dodge in that time. She doesn't, though I do, and she nearly tumbles face first into the dust. This makes her mad – duh – and she spins around on her heels, not far in front of me anymore, and swings both of her meaty fists at my head.

Again, I dodge, and dodge, and duck.

Shrek's wife growls. "Stop moving, you little rat!"

I chuckle. "I would, but I'm afraid you'll do more damage than I'd like done to my face."

My opponent catches me off-guard, and I move almost too late. Her fist grazes my cheek and skids across my temple and my ear. I think I nearly go deaf, a quarter of my face throbbing in that strange way it does when you know you're going to get a bruise.

I gasp, briefly laughing in disbelief, and then check to see – which I had already known would likely be the case – the ultimately pleased expression on her strong face. She takes this rather small victory as a sign and takes another swing, this time towards my throat.

Barely missing her fist by a hair, I use the moment to punch her in the gut, then turn and knee her, and shove her over in her astonishment. This time she does eat dirt.

The only reason I let her get up is because I don't fight when my enemy is still swooning. A thing I was taught of course, I think it's only fair.

Even if she'd just tried to crush my larynx in like a compressed pop can.

"You little bi – " She's stopped by the curve of my fist smack dab in the centre of her face, her head snapping back as drops of blood rain her broken nose like a whip.

I know it isn't enough to keep her down. The crowd gasps like it might be anyhow. Oh, yeah. I forgot they were here. "Stop talking. Just hit me."

The moment she gets up and lunges once again, I swerve away. She's had to have guessed by now. She grabs instantly in the direction I fake as I dive in the other, swinging my leg out to knock her down.

I don't quite surmise that she'll grab me by my ankle.

The wind gets knocked out of me as I slip with her. Missy Reever climbs over me, fumbling as I fight her, and tries to bend over my head from the back, teeth bared. I knew she isn't – !

I knock my head back into her face as hard as I can, not worried that the blood in my hair doesn't belong to me. As she stumbles away, my eyes catch the sway of a sturdy black belt around her waist left unlatched.

When I reach for it and grab onto it with both hands, I kick her knees in to yank it out. I roll over as she nearly crushes me with her weight. I don't imagine it'd be any more pleasant than being stomped on by an elephant.

With her on her stomach, I straddle her back, and while she makes an effortful attempt to uproot herself from the position, I yank her belt around her throat, quickly slipping it through the buckle and jerking it closed around the back of her neck. She wheezes, scratching at her leather throat as I brace her there in that choking position, one that will kill her if she doesn't give up. "Submit," I snarl.

She thinks she can bump me off like a bull, that is, until I snatch tighter and prod my knees into the back of her shoulders, the heels of my shoes into her ribs.

"I said. Submit. I won't ask again. You'll be taking a trip to the fucking resurrection room; amongst other things, I'd think you'd like to save yourself all the amazing paperwork."

"F...F...F-Fine... I yield...I...I yield!" She's not really yelling; how can she when her air passages can barely open to get out even a few words?

The belt slips through my fingers, slithering off her neck and onto the ground, throwing her into a coughing spasm. So much so that it actually encourages her to gag.

I huff, puffing out my cheeks, finding myself a little sheepish by the wooting crowd. I hope my ears aren't flushed with blood, but inevitably, that pulsing heat is there. I glance up at the top of the crowd where Dominick had – at some point during the show – leaned forward and stood up. Something in his features displayed mischief tinged with incredulity. And I think . . . a little bit of pride too.

I can understand why he wouldn't've expected me to defeat his champion. A young, average-seeming chick with an hourglass figure does not exactly give off the vibes of an experienced combatant.

This isn't my first rodeo, so I have no clue why my heart is raging blood through my veins. Maybe it isn't that though.

Maybe it's that I was threatened so much by the chance that I may never know the truth, and the threat in itself reduced the confidence in my own well-known finesse a great deal. Even as a 'scientist', I tried to maintain my contending prowess. A gruelling thing it is, keeping up a triple life.

Dominick simpers a little, proceeding to slow clap as though he'a not dead convinced with the results. Or my adeptness.

He won't have to worry about a thing.