365

jun.6.22

The cold steel of the shackles made his blood fizz; anger flooded through him, as the metal coated itself in his blood. His wrists ached, screamed, which was what he wanted to do. He wanted to scream bloody murder.

He knew he was bleeding, and bleeding everywhere, from several gaping wounds. He knew exactly where every single blade went into his skin – around the back of his neck, sitting the way a necklace would; along his cheekbone under his left eye; three times, side by side, down his right arm, from his shoulder to his forearm; the shape of an "X" over his heart on his chest; one long agonizing line down his spine, starting from the back of his neck and going all the way down – but because of his blood loss, he was blurring in and out of consciousness. And he hated that.

Two jailguards half carried him, half dragged him, down the dimly lit main hall. Through the cells they passed were bad men, calling the jailguards every foul name under the sun.

Eventually, the profanity faded. The guards slammed him into a metal chair in a dusty room; he felt a hand on his head, gripping his tussled hair in a fistful and forcing his head back. Through the red in his vision, he could see the silhouette of a richly dressed man without a speck of filth on him: The Warden.

The Warden looked the bloodied man over from head to toe and back again. "My, my. You're bleeding on my floor."

The man spat blood in The Warden's general direction. "Fuck you."

The Warden paused a moment, and slowly wiped the few splatters from his cheek. In a gesture too quick to watch carefully, he slapped the bloodied man across the face with the back of his hand. His body nearly rotated from the force. The jailguards pulled his shoulders back, and held his head with another fistful of his blond hair.

"Now, Mister Steel," The Warden began, his tone becoming that of mock professionalism. "I would appreciate it if you would cooperate with me. I am, after all, the man who has control of your life."

"Why don't you just fucken kill me," he spat with venom. "And get it fucken done and over with?"

The Warden chuckled. "No, no. Now, Mister Steel – or, can I call you Griffin? – you are a valuable pawn in this game. You may even be more like the rook, or the bishop. Why would I dispose of you like that? That wouldn't be a wise play of the game, now would it?"

The bloodied man, Griffin Steel, watched The Warden with nearly pure rage. He'd killed people before. Another one added to his tally wouldn't make him feel remorseful.

The Warden pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and began wiping the speckles of blood from his own face as he spoke. "Now, Griffin. I deeply do apologize for what my staff have done to you – the knives, the wounds.... They were too thorough. I simply instructed them to test you, test your strength and durability to open wounds." He tilted his head slightly as he looked Griffin over. "Now you look like a cut up Christmas ham. And for that, I am sorry. But that proves you're a very strong man – one of the strongest men I've ever encountered, as a matter of fact."

"So you nearly cut me to death to see if I'd live?" Griffin asked through clenched teeth.

"It was a simple test, Griffin." The Warden exhaled then. "And you passed. Which brings us here." The Warden leaned close to Griffin. "I believe you're a strong man. And we need you. You're in my prison for murder. You have a life sentence. If you do a job for me, I'll let you walk free."

"You think I'm fucken stupid enough to work for you?" Griffin spat.

"Just listen to it first, before you disagree with me." When Griffin didn't speak, The Warden continued. "You, and two others, will be entered in the Wasteland League: it's kind of like football but behind the wheel of a car, and the football is a giant ball of steel and pipes and toxic sludge. Each game, you'll earn a bit of cash to upgrade your cars, your weapons. You and your team play, and win the tournament, and I let all three of you go."

Griffin was quiet for a long moment. "What else?"

"That's it."

"No, it's not."

The Warden smiled. "I like your spunk, Griffin. Well, if you survive the game, you have a better chance. For the most part, it's a fight to the death. Not many people who enter this League get the chance to walk away. But, I feel that's a small detail. If you're a good driver, and can play a decent game of football, you shouldn't have a problem."

"So, it's either I die while playing the game, or I win."

The Warden nodded. "Pretty much."

"What if I lose, but live?"

"You'll go back to your jail cell, like nothing even happened."

"What if I turn you down?"

"Then you're of no use to me."

Griffin exhaled then. "So if I play, and the two other people I'm on a team with and I win, you'll let all of us leave this hellhole of a prison? Just like that?"

The Warden nodded once. "Just like that, Griffin Steel. Win the tournament, I'll let all three of you go. Like nothing even happened."

Griffin exhaled then, his shoulders heavy. Fatigue from his blood loss was catching up with him. If he could safe his life, and the lives of two others who were in the same place he was, he'd do it. "Fine. Who's on my team?"

The Warden smiled. "Rest first, and heal. You'll spend some time in the infirmary. You'll meet your team there. I had to see if they were strong, like you. And I think I've assembled the perfect team."

As the guards pulled Griffin from the chair, hauling him toward the direction he guessed was the infirmary, the darkness took him; briefly, he heard other jailbirds yelling his name, telling him they believed in the Blood Warriors.