Assassins, Detectives, and the Mafia

Slaves and Fighting

The girl has no name.

She has been told for as long as she can remember that she has no name. She is but a tool, something to be made useful.

When the masters talk about her, however, they call her MK-1. She supposes that must be her name.

She is a girl, she knows that. She has brown hair and red eyes from what she can see in the small puddles. But she does not know her name. She does not know her family.

She has her own family, here. There is PK-0, a white-haired girl with red eyes like hers. There is her roommate, MK-2, a blond girl with deadened blue eyes. And there is Master and Princess.

Princess is her master, so she must obey her. But she does not like Princess. Princess enjoys pressing the buttons to set off their shock collars, and smiles as they claw at the slick metal. Princess begs her father to have them sent away for the most minor offenses, and smiles when they come back with bloody fingers. No, she does not like Princess at all.

Once MK-1 tried to pronounce her name. It's a difficult name to pronounce, and when her tongue tripped over the syllables, it came out more as Mah-nee-kah instead of Monica.

Master definitely didn't like that.

They are reminded that they don't have names with every idle touch Master and Mistress share, every whispered word in low, soft voices. They are reminded that they do not have family with every touch the Masters give to Princess, every soft glance and sweet smile.

"You don't have a family?" MK-2 asks, voice hoarse and weak.

"No. You shouldn't either," MK-1 states, head resting on the mossy bricks that make up their room.

"Do you have a name?"

"No. You shouldn't either."

"You don't have a name?" MK-2 plants her hands on the floor and leans in close, studying MK-1's eyes.

"No...?" MK-1 stammers.

"Hmm... that decides it." MK-2 allows a faint smile to cross her face, despite it not reaching her eyes. "From now on, you're Maki."

"Maki?" MK-1 tests the name out, tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables. "Why?"

"Do you need a reason? Everyone should have a name."

MK-1 doesn't know if Maki is her name or if it isn't, but it's a nice thought.

MK-2 calls PK-0 Peko, and MK-1 Maki, no matter what either of them say. They eat together (or as together as they can, with PK-0 in a separate room) spar together, and even have small, hushed conversations in the dead of night.

It may not be a typical family, but it's all the family MK-1 has.

One day, a client comes.

The news is passed around in hushed whispers and rumors, hints that someone might come in need of a tool. Hints that someone might escape, hints that someone might find a way out and bring the news to the rest of them.

That day brings with it another round of fights to the death.

It's a cruel, animalistic practice. Everything is fair. Nobody helps you if you're knocked down or surrender. Nobody helps you if you're dying, guts spilling out onto the pristine white mats.

It's cruel, to be sure. They all bear varying scars, PK-0 has a long, white slash across her ribcage, and MK-1 has a cobweb of white lines on her skull. They never know who they're going against until they're thrown in the arena. All they know, when they have the collars around their necks and as soon as the shackles are snapped open, is that they have to kill.

MK-1 finds herself led down the labyrinthian tunnels, lithe wrists in chains. The last pulsings of fear make themselves known in the pit of her stomach, but she refuses to acknowledge them. Fear has no place here.

They shove her to her knees, force the helmet on her head, and snap the collar around her neck. It's really just for show, since everybody knows it barely stops anything.

(Maybe it's meant to make them look more like the obedient dogs they are.)

Before her, the large, metal doors open slowly, revealing the inside of the arena.

It's a large, whitewashed building, the floor covered in mats and the walls with weaponry. The ceiling is huge, creating a large dome meant to entrap and contain.

They push her inside the arena, and the door slams shut with a sense of finality. Across the arena, her opponent does the same.

The large board in the sky counts down, and a buzzer sounds once it hits zero.

MK-1 scrambles for a weapon as her opponent charges. They slam a katana into the wall next to her face, drawing a line of blood across her cheek.

MK-1 ducks out of the way, sprinting along the side of the arena. She can hear her opponent's feet racing behind her, and lets out a low groan of pain as they bury a knife in her thigh.

She goes spilling to the ground, hitting the mat with a small 'oof'. Her opponent advances, weapon raised, and they grasp her throat and pin her to the ground.

"Ghk-" MK-1 groans, grasping faintly for a knife or something behind her as her opponent raises her pocketknife.

She can't find anything. Fear pulses in her ears as she realizes that she is going to die here oh god.

But, suddenly, her opponent stops. She stares at her, knife held just above her head.

In that moment of hesitation, MK-1's hand finds a kitchen knife, and she drives it into the girl's head.

"Ma... ki..."

Blood spurts out of the girl's head for a few seconds, bright pink a garish contrast to the pristine mats. Her hand loses its grip on the knife, and it clatters to the floor.

Staggering to her feet, MK-1 raises the kitchen knife in the air and relishes in the cries of victory, until her eyes find PK-0's.

There's such a sense of despair, and anger contained in their crimson depths, that MK-1 finds herself needing to check the board to see her opponent.

MK-2: Eliminated.