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Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Nina

T wo Hov guards frogmarch me from the brothel bedroom down endless identical corridors. They're each grasping one of my arms, their fingers pinching my flesh in holds I can't break. More humiliating is the fact that I don't even try hard to escape because I know I can't walk on these god-awful floors without help. So I practically just let myself be dragged after them, unable to gain my footing.

Humiliation burns my face as the three of us finally reach a large hall. It looks like a college cafeteria, with a serving window set into one wall. Long tables with benches take up most of the space. Only a few gladiators have already seated themselves, alone or in small groups. They're mainly watching the TV screens plastered over the other three walls, most of which show fighting highlights, and I hurriedly look away as blood splatters the screens and someone's head rolls across the sandy floor of the Arena.

Thankfully, the sound isn't on, so I don't have to listen to the recorded glee of the parasitic audience. I imagine them sitting in the stadium, waving their betting slips in the air like streamers and calculating how much profit that gladiator's death just made them.

"Where's Vennkor?" My question echoes, and when I look up, I see the ceiling is about a mile away. A circular staircase in the center of the room leads to the balcony floors above, and a quick calculation has me guessing I can see about ten doors on every floor and about ten floors in total.

Three days, the voice in my head repeats. Three days. Three days until you die.

My two guards halt their march, and as they release their grips, I yank my arms out of their holds, pretending it was my choice they finally let go of me. Immediately, I'm unbalanced, and I clutch the closest table to keep from falling.

"Fuckwits!" I shout after them, and my voice spirals up the stair. But already the door has closed, and I doubt the guards heard.

The dozen or so gladiators seated around the cafeteria heard, though, and most of them glance over. Nobody approaches. Nobody even bothers to tell me to shut up. Rather, I get the distinct impression they're waiting for me to realize that the Hov aren't going to pay my dramatics any attention.

I scan the meager crowd, searching. None of the gladiators are Venn or Reke.

I do see three Locranian women, distinguishable by their crocodilian exoskeletons. In fact, all the gladiators in the cafeteria are women; I must be in the female-only quarters. The small amount of hope I'd gained since being dragged into this room that I'd find my two alien men here dies a painful death, and I press a hand to my chest, trying to ease some of the tension inside me.

I risk another glance toward the TVs, thinking they might hold some clue as to where Vennkor is right now. I'm rewarded with the sight of two gladiators strangling each other. My stomach churns, and I've got to look away again for fear of being sick.

Three days. Three days.

The closest gladiators to me are a pair with matching gray skin and tails. Their movements are rather stiff, as though they can't bend at their waists. They're crowding around one of the few screens not showing horrifying recaps of the death matches. Instead, their screen is scrolling through rows and columns of … words? I squint, but I can't decipher what any of it says.

Maybe these are the odds the Ambassador was telling me about.

One woman stands up to point at one of the scrolling rows. She alone has deadly looking spikes down the backs of her arms, each about two inches long. Has she seen her name or the name of her companion? From their reactions, I can't tell which it is. While their facial features are like my own, their expressions are unfamiliar; it's like trying to read a foreign language reflected in someone else's eyes.

Pushing up the sleeves of my sweater, I examine the throbbing bruises the Hov left on my arms. Each of their fingers has imprinted a circular mark into my skin, like I've had suction cups roped around my biceps.

Not all the other gladiators are wearing clothes, but those that are look to be dressed in costumes rather than in everyday wear. One woman even has ribbons strung with bells tied around her ankles and wrists, and they jingle every time she moves.

I'm guessing that either these few women weren't scheduled to fight today or they've already fought and are today's survivors. They're clearly obsessed with watching the match highlights, because knowing your opponent's tactics would be a good way to ensure you don't succumb to them yourself.

Is it insane that there's a small part of me that's still hoping I'll wake up and realize this has all been some horrible nightmare? Even my worst night shift in the emergency ward at the hospital when I was a trainee nurse was better than this. Yes, it was still bloody, and yes, people had still died, but at the hospital there'd never been this stifling air of complete acceptance that life is a shitshow.

At the hospital, there'd always been some sense of hope, some sense of purpose. We were, after all, trying to save lives, not destroy them.

Here, in the cafeteria, I'm filled with the very real sense that none of these women are at all hopeful about their future. They're not trying to escape. They're not screaming at the guards to set them free. They're not even crying.

Nope. They've traveled right through the first four stages of grief—through denial, anger, bargaining and depression—and have arrived smack bang in the middle of acceptance.

Well, fuck acceptance! And fuck three days!

"Are these the fights?" I point to the screen with the scrolling lists as I slip and slide my way toward two women, using the tables and benches as supports. "Are these for today or for tomorrow?"

The two of them stare at me, and for a second I think their translators can't understand English, but then the one with spikes down her arms bows her head, making it clear she's unimpressed by my short stature, and says, "For tomorrow."

"And they show the men's fights as well?"

"There are no segregated fights," her companion snarls. A scar cuts through her face, indenting her brow bone and slicing straight through her eye. When she looks at me, there's a slight mechanical clicking sound, giving me the impression she's got a prosthetic eye.

The hairs along the back of my neck rise as she watches me. Maybe she can see even better with her prosthetic eye than her natural eye. Maybe she can see how close I am to absolutely losing it.

Something about her scowl reminds me of Venn always telling me to keep my feelings to myself. Any emotion that isn't anger and determination are a weakness, he'd said—or something to that effect.

"Can you see Vennkor's name?" I square my shoulders, attempting to look taller. "Is he fighting tomorrow?" If he is, fuck the Hov for doing that to him, but at least I'll know he's alive. "The massive blue guy with the horns who's been here nearly two?—"

"We know who he is," the spiky-armed one sits down. Were she Human and were we on Earth, I might have thought she was taking pity on me by bringing herself down more to my eye level. But she isn't and we aren't, and I know that what she's really doing is proving to everyone in the cafeteria that I'm so unthreatening she's willing to relax in my company.

She's right, of course, but I wish it wasn't so fucking obvious.

"Can you just tell me if his name is on the list?"

"Why do you care?" She presses her hands to her hips.

"Because—"

"Just because he is Ves'os and you rutted with him," she interrupts, "does not mean you must be his Mate."

"I'm sorry, what?" I've had less confusing conversations with patients on a morphine drip. "Is there anybody on this space station who hasn't seen our sex tape?"

The two gladiators exchange a look which I can't interpret but which my imagination tells me is the alien equivalent of them saying of course everyone's seen it. And you're a fucking fool for having had sex in front of cameras.

"When a Ves'os claims their Mate, they rut with them," the other one answers. "But if that is not your culture, then you do not have to accept him as your Mate. You can rut with a Male and not be his Mate."

"Wow. Okay." They're giving me a lesson in consent. Of all the places in the entire universe, the space station where the Hov force gladiators to fight for their lives in an illegal Arena is the absolute last place I ever would've expected to be having this conversation.

Clearly, not only am I not a threat to these women; I'm so pathetic that they're actually worried about me. I don't doubt for a second that either of them would bother hesitating when killing me if we were thrown into the Arena together. But here we are, talking about consent.

I point to the screen with all the words I can't read. "If you could just tell me if he's listed, that would be great."

"He was not listed among the dead yesterday," the spiky-armed woman says angrily, like she's disappointed in me. "Nor is he scheduled to fight tomorrow."

"Oh, thank Jesus." I run a shaky hand through my hair, my fingers catching on the knots. Was it only a few days ago that Reke, Venn and I were sent into the Arena? It feels like it was weeks ago. So much has happened since. "And Reke?" I ask.

They stiffen at the sound of his name.

"There," the other woman stands and points to a line on the screen, her finger momentarily following the scrolling text, indicating he is going to be fighting tomorrow. "Now you will tell us about him." She releases her spikes, which pierce through the skin of her arm, kind of like Wolverine's claws piercing through his fingertips.

Both women stare at me, expectantly.

"What do you want to know about Reke?" I watch what is presumably Reke's name, trying to memorize the shape.

"How to beat him," one of them says. "We helped you, now you help us."

I slump onto the closest bench and glance between them. They're watching me expectantly. I should have realized they weren't just talking to me out of kindness or pity. I have information they want, and they're clearly willing to barter for it.

Across the room, the three Locranians are casting me quick glances, as are a few of the other women. Maybe Reke is the only reason why none of them have attacked me yet. Maybe they all want to know about him.

Information is power, after all. That's why the TVs are playing constant reruns of past fights.

"Well?" they both demand.

"Give a girl a second to think." I honestly don't know what I can tell them that will help. It's not like Reke and I spent any time exchanging fighting techniques. And even if I knew something, how could I tell these women? He's Reke. He's my Reke, and I can't bear the thought of anything bad happening to him.

Then again, if I admit to not being able to help them, will they kill me? I can't see what's stopping anyone from fighting. They're not wearing pain collars, and there aren't any guards in the cafeteria. There are probably cameras filming us, but if the gladiators wanted to hurt me, they easily could attack me before any Hov could stop them—that is, if the Hov even wanted to stop them.

"He doesn't know any different," I end up saying. "He was made here, and this is the only life he knows." It's the truth, but it's definitely not the answer they were hoping for. "It isn't his fault."

Standing, they exchange another look, and it's clear, even to me, that they're pissed.

"He will grow tired of you quickly," one spits, her mechanical eye seemingly boring into my soul. "Then he will rip off your head and eat your heart."

"The crowd will cheer for your death," the other sneers. "And we will cheer for your death too."

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