31 #2
Nothing about my current attire is appropriate for fighting, but that doesn’t appear to be a concern.
Wagner’s sinner—Vanya—is clad in a long dress of deep red as she stumbles into the makeshift ring.
She’s taller than me and well-built. What I can see of her face is set in fury and suggests she’s about a decade older than me.
I wonder what she did before working for Wagner.
If she’s known the walls of prison, or the lure of drugs, as so many sinners have.
I can almost imagine feeling some degree of empathy for her, because I understand her.
But then she lunges.
Her fist passes within an inch of my temple as I only just manage to spin away. My heart lurches into my throat, my vision sharpening as adrenaline takes over. There’s power in her swing, but I can move faster. Or at least, I hope I can, given that I’m hindered by my ridiculous dress.
Vanya comes for me again, then again, throwing a jab at my chest. It knocks the wind out of me for a moment, which means that when she follows up with a powerful strike, I just about eat it.
I manage to block her at the last moment, thrusting my own arm up to cover the side of my head.
Pain blooms as her fist makes contact with the bones of my forearm, and I stumble to the side, but it’s far better than taking a hit to the face.
It’s quickly becoming clear that I’m going to spend the majority of this fight on the defensive.
My mind is working harder than my body, tracking the other sinner’s movements and gauging the best way to react.
She’s fond of that jab-and-strike combination, and my best option is to let her tire herself out.
I can hear the crowd yelling, but I can’t make out any of the words.
I don’t even know who they’re cheering for, assuming they even care who wins.
I evade another of Vanya’s punches by leaping closer to her, taking the opportunity to palm-strike her sternum.
It’s the best I can do with so little room and no time to wind up.
It works though; the firm outer edge of my hand slams against bone, and she stumbles back a step, her eyes blazing in fury.
The action puts her more squarely in the wavering light, and that’s when I finally get a decent look at her. My breath hitches.
No wonder she fights like she has nothing left to lose.
Although her arms, like mine, are covered by long sleeves, her dress does nothing to hide the Bloodrot that climbs her neck and diffuses along her jaw.
Her cheeks are gaunt, and the only color in her face comes from that terribly familiar bruise-like flush.
Vanya is dying. The feral edge to her abruptly makes sense. She’s no doubt begun to lose her grip on reality and is growing more dangerous by the day. I wonder if Wagner will have her killed. A miserable existence cut short by a shameful execution.
Meaningless life, meaningless death.
She’s moving faster now, and I match her blow for blow.
I don’t understand why she isn’t tiring.
I get in a few decent hits, splitting her lip with one of them, and she leers at me through the blood, her teeth stained red.
If I die at her hands, it won’t be quick.
When hands are one’s only weapon, it never is.
As Vanya and I circle each other, I catch sight of Slade. He isn’t yelling—of course he’s not. He stands motionless at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze steady. For the briefest flicker of a moment, I wonder if he expects me to die. If he cares either way.
The thought ignites defiance within me, and my next punch sends Vanya stumbling backward.
I hook one of my feet around her ankle, and when she trips, I’m on top of her.
But I’m smaller than she is, and I only land a few more hits before she bucks me off with ease.
My hip slams against the stone floor. I’m ready to leap back up, but the other sinner is too fast, her body promptly crushing mine.
I bring my arms up to block my face as my thoughts whirl, trying to plan my next move through the haze of panic. I’m bracing for Vanya to rain down blows, but they don’t come. Instead, she pulls out a knife.
“What the fuck,” is the first thing that springs to my tongue. The words come out on a gasp. There are rules to this, aren’t there? Wagner asked if we were to use weapons, and Slade said no. But Vanya, it appears, doesn’t care about rules.
Neither do the crowd, I quickly realize.
Nobody cries foul or rushes out to stop the fight.
In fact, the spectators seem even more incensed, their howls cutting through the ringing in my ears.
A chill climbs my spine—I’ve never seen buttoned-up Regiment employees behave like this.
But when the fighters’ lives don’t matter, I suppose, neither does decorum.
Vanya’s blade is aimed at my throat. Both of my hands are wrapped around her wrist, trying to keep her arm from lowering any farther.
If I falter even slightly, all of that trapped momentum will let her put the blade clean through my throat.
I can’t reach my own weapon; not when it’s strapped to my thigh under layers of fabric.
And then I see it. The telltale glint of metal as something clatters across the floor, coming to a halt mere inches from my shoulder.
I’m grimacing, my muscles straining with the effort required to keep Vanya’s arm aloft.
The stitches in my own arm throb like hell.
In my periphery I can make out Slade’s familiar silhouette: He’s lowered in a crouch, and I realize what he’s just slid toward me.
It’s his knife. Between one frantic heartbeat and the next, I plan out my movements. I only have one chance to get this right, and I need to move fast.
I shift my torso to the side and reach for the knife at the same time that I let Vanya’s arm fall.
As predicted, she lurches forward, her blade striking the ground precisely where my neck was a moment prior.
There’s a burning sensation as it nicks my trapezius on the way down, but I pay it no mind.
I’m already moving, thrusting my own knife up with a grunt and driving it directly into her heart.
Her forward propulsion makes it so that she all but impales herself on my blade.
She stiffens, and I hear a labored intake of breath.
My hand is slick with blood, which makes it difficult to maintain a tight grip on the knife’s hilt, but I hold firm.
Then, finally, her muscles slacken. I shove her to the side where she smacks against the stone like a limp doll, Slade’s knife still protruding from her chest. I rise unsteadily to my feet and yank it out.
A rush of blood follows, pooling around her body as I struggle to catch my breath.
I’m not accustomed to killing like this—in a way that feels so personal.
I let out a long, shaky exhale, squinting into the darkness. Slade isn’t where I last saw him. The reflective sheen of his eyes has vanished.
“Well done.” The soft scrape of his voice at my ear makes my back stiffen. “You’re such a good fucking girl.”
I pivot to face him. I want to curse him out for thrusting me into this situation, but fury isn’t the only emotion that roils at my core. He gave me his blade, and he’s proud of me. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. “Did you enjoy that? Watching me nearly die?”
What I can see of Slade’s mouth is set in casual amusement. He takes me by the elbow, guiding me out of the ring and through the crowd of jeering onlookers, their features blurred. “I don’t think there was much danger of that happening.”
“Did you miss the moment when she nearly lodged her knife in my neck?”
“I didn’t miss a single minute.”