The unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh made her cringe, but she didn’t allow herself to step back completely, though she could feel panic rising at the pit of her stomach. The man that took the blow stood back up, visibly dizzy, but strangely enough, his assailant seemed as dizzy as him, trying to stay up on his legs. The taller man was now looking up at the one in front of him from his knelt position on the dusty floor, fighting for a breath, and standing up he started hitting him, punching him with all he had. She held her breath, unable to take her eyes off the scene before her, realizing the extreme violence of it. Her eyes watered and tears actually rolled down her burning face as images of what she was running from assailed her. Metal sticks hitting her body, skin cut deep with each impact…
Ever so slightly, almost barely visibly in the dim light, the man that was receiving the punches started to turn a strange shed of grey, his skin clammy and pale as if he was losing his very life force with each blow. Both men were shirtless; the one now at advantage was very tall and muscular with wild hair and muttonchops, the other was a little shorter and bald and was now crawling on the floor. She could swear she saw tiny blue veins popping out of their skin each time they came into contact; something was very wrong there. She couldn’t stop her feet from stepping closer to the metal fence of the cage; maybe, just maybe there was a chance that tall man with his shoulders hunched over was like her; if only he was like her.
It hit her as she was just a few feet away from the fighting area as the taller man stepped back from the now limp body of his opponent; there were tears in his eyes. It was so out of place! He didn’t look like the type to shed tears after a fight; the man was barely restrained violence! The bell rang and he was declared ‘King of the cage’, but instead of a triumphant face, his head was hunched low, pale and his eyes red from the tears he tried to contain. The MC didn’t touch him as he was doing what appeared to be his routine speech. Wasn’t he supposed to lift the winner’s hand in sign of victory? That’s what she was taught, that’s what the men in white lab coats told her and did to her when they forced her to fight the very same way just to entertain them, just after she killed her opponent; they always lifted her hand, she always won, she always killed, even though she did it out of desperation, did it to make the pain they inflicted her stop; never because she liked it.
The tall man stepped out of the cage, catching a bottle of whisky on a close by empty table and gulped it down like it was water. That’s when she allowed herself to let go of the breath she was holding, breathing him in, trying to read him, and all she could smell was the salt of his hidden tears as he walked away, people parting like the Red Sea as passed.
What should she do now? She was starving and almost dying from the cold. She had no money, nothing to offer in exchange of some food. She could kill just to have something warm to eat; oh yes and she would, just given half a chance to, if only she had the strength.
She knew she was far away enough from that God forsaken place and she could look for a shelter for the night, just a place safe enough for her to close her eyes, because it wouldn’t be long before her legs just flat out refused to cooperate and hold her weight. It had been a whole week, spent walking in the snow. One week half lost in the cold woods, fighting off frostbite and hunger, half mad with the paranoia of hiding her trail well enough to lose the ones tracking her. She approached the bar and sat on one of the stools. Most of the spectators were gone now, the only ones left being the bartender, the MC and a tall blonde woman counting the night’s winnings. She smelled him even before she could catch sight of him, a strong and alluring smell of wood, citrus and a deep note of earth, he smelled good, she could tell. She looked at him without turning her head, from the corner of her eye. He was dressed now, layers of flannel and cotton covering his body, leather jacket and gloves completing the portrait, the only skin showing being that of his face. The bar although not exactly warm, wasn’t cold enough to necessitate gloves, the young girl noticed as her eyes lingered on the tall man’s approaching form. His expression wasn’t the same, he looked simply tired now, somewhat exasperated.
The MC approached him but kept a few feet distance from him, and then he almost threw his share of the money at him, a disgusted grimace twisting his wrinkled face. The blonde woman stayed behind the small man, almost hiding, the smell of her fear hanging thick in the air. The tall man sat at the far end of the bar where a beer he didn’t ask for sat like it was waiting for him to just drink. The bartender didn’t even look up at him when he sat another opened bottle next to the first, keeping a good distance too; the hand depositing the new bottle encased in a dirty leather glove. Not a word exchanged, not even a nod.
He pocketed the money from the MC and sat down on his stool gulping down his beer, lifting his gaze from time to time to watch the news going on the old TV set. Then his eyes dropped to the small form of the girl sat at the bar, the way she was there sitting in silence, observing, a glass of water staying untouched in front of her. She was young, he could tell, bone thin and not warmly enough covered for such a cold place. He saw her, the way she wore that black shirt with two pockets on the front, a pair of oversized dirty jeans and boots obviously not her size. Her hair was hanging thick and dirty behind her ears, two white streaks framing her small face making her eyes look even bigger than they were. She was out of place. What was such a young girl doing in a fight bar in the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere? Someone must be looking for her, it can’t be otherwise.
She felt his eyes on her, the faint smell of concern mixed with curiosity coming from him and reaching her almost like a caress. She had rarely felt such a warm feeling coming from someone. The last time she felt it, she had to kill the person who showed her that little amount of compassion; they made her, telling her that she wasn’t worth any compassion, least of all from a human. And she did as ordered; she sliced through the woman’s chest a clean cut between the third and forth rib, straight to the heart, not willing her to suffer too much.
But man kept looking her way, his concern growing thicker by the moment. The faint sound of the news anchor’s voice suddenly caught his attention as the words ‘mutant problem’ echoed in the otherwise silent air. He looked up, eyes dead serious and jaw set at the TV set, his second beer completely forgotten as he almost pierced the screen with his gaze. She noticed the change in his demeanor and smell and then she was sure: he was a mutant.
He looked at the girl, taking in her appearance as he let the anchor’s words sink in; the way she was slightly trembling at the words, expectation written all over her. He was an expert in reading non-verbal language. It was what you rely on to judge situations and people when you have the kind of curse he had. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who noticed the girl’s aloof behavior because even before she could clearly make it out, two men were standing beside her, obviously aware of how misplaced she looked. One of them tall with long hair grabbed her shoulder strongly, a wicked smile twisting his thin lips. The other one, just as tall wearing a thick black beard and grey, wavy hair just stood there his arms crossed over his broad chest, smiling down at her. Her breath hitched but she didn’t turn around.
The smell of their arousal made her stomach flip and her mouth go dry from utter disgust. What now? She didn’t want to have to kill but if they forced her, she wouldn’t have a choice but to defend herself the best she could; and it meant one thing: eliminate the very source of the threat, just as they taught her. She remained silent as they addressed her with easy voices, thick with lust. The hand on her shoulder slid down dangerously low, inch after inch almost resting on her breast. She could take it no more. When would they understand? And with a twist, a back flip, she found herself pinning her assailant on the floor with three metal claws piercing his shoulder. The bearded man stepped back at the rapidity of her actions, frightened by the blades had just that popped out from her tiny hand. The bartender reached for his shotgun, aiming at her head.
“Get out of my bar freak.”
He saw her and the almost animalistic way she moved her body. He saw the blades and then he had no doubts about what she was and why she was there. He stood and took advantage of the confusion to step behind the bartender and grab his bare lower arm with his bare hand. The touch instantly put the bartender to his knees his very life essence flowing into the tall man’s body through thick bluish veins. When he felt that the man was down enough not to run after them, he grabbed the girls arm with his gloved hand and made it to the door. The claws slid back in her hand at the touch and just at that moment, looking up at her rescuer, she felt that it was okay to let go, that she could trust him with her life, because she knew him after all…and her legs gave up on her then and there; she was safe now.