The air in the nursery is thick with tension. The walls around me are grey and cement. A pale white light flickers on the ceiling above, drawing in insects. The floor is also cement and is hard and dirt. The only door to the room is metal, and it is locked.

      I sit in the nursery with five others my age, but by no means are we infants. We’re just not old enough; not old enough to enter the ring.

      I was brought to this place shortly after my birth. A product of a pair of respectable Fighters, I never had the opportunity to get to know my mother and father. If they aren’t graduated from fighting by now, they’re likely dead. My caregiver, along with the many others in this room, is a dainty woman with an hourglass figure and curly brown hair. Each lock of hair looks like a corkscrew that ends at her chin and stacks on top of another just like it. It causes her hair to poof outward like a great, brown bush. She has a heart-shaped face with hazel eyes and a pixy-like nose. Her lips are full and always smiling, but she smiles in the way that makes men’s skin crawl. I have never known her true name, but I’ve always called her B.

      I don’t have a name. I am female, I know that much, and I also know that my time in the nursery is almost over. I am one of the oldest; one of six. My hair is long and tangled, because it has never been brushed or cut. My skin is pale, because it has never seen a single ray of the sun. The nails on my hands are uneven from being shortened by scraping them against the cement walls and floors of the nursery. I’ve worn the same outfit—a white t-shirt and denim shorts—since I was four. The clothing is dirty.

      The people around me are in no better condition than I am. We’re all dirty from lack of bathing. We’re all thin from lack of feedings. We all dread the day we’re torn from the safety of this filthy place and are pushed into the ring.

      Beyond our door lies the unknown. Everyone who has ever left through that door has never returned. Beyond that door lies another, which leads into a room that belongs to our master’s Fighters. We all become one after our thirteenth birthday, and it’s on that day our maser get his first look at us and he decides which he wants to keep and which he wants to sell to other masters.

      Fighters are lucky to live to see their twentieth birthday; for once they leave the nursery they face the harsh, cruel rules and laws of the ring. When a Fighter reaches their thirtieth birthday, they graduate the world of fighting and live luxurious lives alongside their masters.

      The ring is where the Fighters fight. The law is simple: if a Fighter wins, they move up in levels that define their fighting experience; level one being the lowest, level one hundred being the highest. If a Fighter loses, they die fighting. If a Fighter refuses to fight, they are taken down as many levels as their master sees fit, they’re beaten, or they could be killed. There’s no room for criers in the ring. Criers die. Fighters fight. Victors win.

      Our district is one of six secret districts that are involved in human fighting. A handful of Fighter—usually five or six—from each district is selected each week to compete in a fight. If a Fighter from District 1 goes into the ring, he or she is up against an opponent from District 2. If that Fighter wins, he or she moves on to fight an opponent from District 3, and so on until they win or die. In the end there is usually one winner unless more than on Fighter from the same district wins. Then the remaining Fighters gain a level in experience and whatever wounds they’ve suffered are treated.

      Whatever world that exists beyond this has only been told to me in stories. I’ve known no other life.

      On the day of my thirteenth birthday the sound of the nursery door opening makes all of our heads turn. The six of us who have reached that special age knows what this means; the younger members of the nursery only hope it’s their next meal.

      A man dressed all in black appears with choke chains and leashes in his hands. I know what this means, as I have seen it happen to others many times before.

      I don’t fight or fuss as the man wraps a choke chain around my neck and secures to the rings at the end with the clip of the leash. Some of the others aren’t so smart as to just let things happen. They thrash in the man’s grip. They claw and bite the hand that holds the choke chains and leashes, but that’s all I see as my leash is given to B and she begins leading me out the door. The choke chain hurts when I resist, so I don’t fight any more than the occasional glimpse over my shoulder. I know I’ll nave see that old nursery again. My time of peace of mind and being carefree was over. From here is where my journey begins.

      I am a Fighter, now.

2: The Process

We were brought into a bright room with no windows. There were four large, rectangular white lights shining down from the ceiling, but unlike those of the nursery, these ones didn’t flicker. The walls were white and smooth in texture and the floor was smooth under our bare feet. We were not permitted to sit down or lean against something, or we suffered a brief slap with the riding crop. It was great annoyance, so I stood straight without a complaint.

      My calm disposition did not match that of the five others that were with me. They were tense and nervous and scared. They shuffled restlessly in place like a herd of frightened sheep. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t in the ring, yet, so I saw nothing to worry about.

      The door to this white room opened and a pudgy man in a suit strode up to us. The others shifted away from him as he passed. I stood fast and continued to look him over. His black hair was slick and shiny. He had the eyes of a rat and the nose of a goose. Tiny, prickly black and grey hairs were showing themselves from his two chins. The crooked grin his mouth seemed to be twisted into appeared to have been forcefully carved into his face. I could only guess that this man that smelled of sweat and filth was my master.

      “Quite a bunch!” his voice boomed. He quickly grabbed a small boy with light brown hair and green eyes and pulled him closer to him, “I like this ‘ne, and . . .” he grabbed a girl with reddish-brown hair, brown eyes and a tan-freckled face, “. . . this ‘ne.”

      He looked me over and stood toe to toe with me. I was a while head higher than he was and I did not squirm like the others did as he looked me over.

“You . . .” he said, “You seem to have guts, but no muscle to show for it!”

In short, he wasn’t interested in me. I appeared to be weak, and meant worthless.

“Process the others!” our master demanded, “I’ll take my favorites to the Fighter’s area and find a nice cage for them.”

Cages. This is what I had to look forward to. If my new master wasn’t going to be any different, my life was definitely going to be harder.

The four of us that remained were taken to another room with several chairs. Upon sitting down, our hands, legs, feet, torsos, and necks were strapped down so we couldn’t move. There was a person tending to each of us individually. Mine was a tall, lanky fellow in a dark blue shirt and black trousers. His eyes were a dark brown in color. He had a triangular face and an ideal nose. His skin was of a darker kind, though not necessarily black. His hair was black and curly, but his curls could not compare to B’s corkscrew locks. I looked at his chest and noticed he wore a tag with his name; Leonardo C.

The Process began with my hair getting brushed for the very first time, and by no means was it pleasant. The brush instantly got caught in my hair at the end and it took several strokes to work out the rest of the knots. Each time the brush got caught a sharp stinging pain shot through my scalp. It felt like Leonardo was trying to rip the hair right out of my head, but I had to tough it up. I couldn’t whine over a little brushing, because in the ring there will be people that will be trying to rip the hair out of my head.

About a half-hour later, the brush was gliding smoothly through my hair. It was then that Leonardo picked up the scissors and began to cut away at it. Short hair made it harder for other Fighters to grab the hair and pull back a person’s head. An expert Fighter could snap a person’s neck with a good tug. A good Fighter could pull a person’s hair back and expose their throat; instant death if the Fighter has a weapon, so I felt no qualms about Leonardo cutting away at my hair.

Eventually, he set down the scissors and ruffled the hair left on my head. He looked around at the other soon-to-be Fighters, who were thrashing and struggling in their chairs and making it harder for their stylists to work on them.

“They bred you well.” He said to me, “You have a good temper and you’re tough. That’s what buyers are looking for.” He pulled back my lips and looked at my teeth, “Sharp teeth, too? Oh, yes. They’d better ask for a high price for you.”

I doubted it. I, along with the others, was at a level one with no fighting experience. The fights we had in the nursery were the closest thing we’ve ever had to an actual fight we’ve had, and we showed great mercy on our opponents and stopped when we got tired. But that would not be the case in the ring. There’d be no mercy from our opponents or breaks. The only option was to win or die trying.

I was taken to a place to be bathed. Hot water and soap and shampoo were foreign things to me. Before, when I was bathed, one tub was prepared for all of us to share, so we bathed in each other’s filth. The person who bathed first was the luckiest. The water would still be warm and clear, but by the time the fourth person entered, the water was cold and a beef broth brown and smelled like sweat and grit. But here, the water was crystal-clear and warm. My hair was thoroughly shampooed and my limbs had a brush foamy with liquid soap scrub them clean.

When I was pulled out of the bath they put me in a new outfit; a black long-sleeve shirt, black pants that hugged my legs and hips, black socks, and black pleather gloves. I was then stood in front of a mirror.

It was the first time I got to see what I actually looked like. My eyes were a bright, icy blue color. My hair was jet black; cut short into a pixy cut and ruffled to look fringed. My face was round with a sturdy nose and thin lips. This was me.

I couldn’t admire myself for long before the choke chain, which had been removed for this part of the Process, was wrapped around my neck once more and secured with the leash. The rest of the Process would be completed by my new master at a new district.

3: The Selection

Chapter 3: The Selection

 

      Upon re-entering the bright white room we were in before the process, we were met by our master and four others. I was nervous about this. Being passed to a new master was never an easy transition, or so B once told me. I could end up with a master who is kinder than ours, or I could be passed to a master who was far worse.

      “My, my!” our master said with a chuckle as he looked us over again, “You little runts really clean up well!”

      “Looks aren’t everything, you know?” one of the four others in the room said, “How well can they fight?”

      A woman that was as thin as a toothpick with long dark brown hair strode up to us. Her eyes looked as though they belonged to another person. With her heart-shaped face, full lips that were brightened with blood-red lipstick, and her snow-white skin, I reasoned that this woman’s eyes should be a subtle shade of blue, if not a shade of brown. However, the eyes of this woman were a piercing shade of blue that were almost as bright as mine; they were nearly white.

      “They fight like little devils, I assure you, Ms. Rose.” Our master said.

      “Do they?” Ms. Rose inquired, clicking her tongue, “That’s what you said about the last bunch; the bunch where that pretty, young male Fighter I bought from you—the Fighter I paid five-hundred dollars through the nose for—crawled away into a corner to cry in the middle of a fight! Is that what you mean when you say ‘They fight like little devils’ Mr. Theodore?!”

      Her voice was a shriek by the time she’d finished her rant, and Master Theodore’s head had sunk down between his shoulders and into the collar of his white dress shirt.

      “They’re only level ones.” His voice was a pathetic whimper, “So they fight like level ones.”

      Ms. Rose nodded, “That’s what I thought.”

      She started at the furthest end of our line; the furthest she was away from me, anyways. Her crimson high-heels clapped as she looked each of us over. Her ice-colored eyes stared us down until we were writhing in her gaze; all of us silently begging, “Not me! Not me! Not me!”

      Ms. Rose took Master Theodore’s riding crop into her hands and propped it under my chin to force me to make eye contact.

      “What a pretty face you have.” She said through gritted teeth, as if she didn’t want to say it, “What a pity. It won’t stay that way. But what say you?”

       I swallowed a growing, nervous lump that was lodged in my throat. I had never talked to anyone of the upper class, nor had I ever been instructed to. My face, deemed pretty, was going to be mutilated in the fights. Now she wants my opinion about that fact?

      “I’m nothing special.” My voice is of a soft and polite nature, and because Ms. Rose is so close to me, it is quiet, “My looks can’t compete with yours, nor do my looks matter as much as yours.”

      A toothy grin appeared on Ms. Rose’s face. It was as if what I’d said was the right answer to a very important question, to her.

      “I like her!” she boasts, “Even she admits that my beauty is superior to hers. I am the most beautiful in this trade; that little rat over there proves it!” she turned to Master Theodore, “How much are you asking for her?”

      “You know the rules, Rose!” a tall gentleman with short, dust-brown hair speaks up, “The Fighter goes to the highest bidding master.”

      A disappointed pout settles on Ms. Rose’s face, “Very well, Mr. Yorkshire. You tell me what you see in your favorite Fighter.”

      Mr. Yorkshire stepped forward and took the riding crop from her. He is a very thin man with long limbs and boney hands. He has the face that reminds me of a man in a roman paining and his hair is straight and sweeps forward. He looks like a fine, fine gentleman. But if the eyes are the gateways to the soul, then his—ones of an ashy green in color—lead straight into Hell. I can see his ruthlessness and I feel horrifically sorry for whoever he chooses.

      “Now, your choice is a fine one.” Mr. Yorkshire says, “But she wouldn’t last ten minutes in a fight. She has no muscle and she shows no aggression. She’s a waste of money if you chose to fight her, if you ask me.”

      He looks over the Fighter beside me. He is my height with bleach blonde hair. His eyes are a wet shade of blue and his face has a light pink tone to its paleness. His shoulders are broad and his arms are muscular. He is built like a soldier; as if he’s been training for the ring since he started kicking in the womb.

      Mr. Yorkshire smiles at him, “Now him, he looks like a winner to me. He’s very well bred.” He leaned into the boy’s face, “But what say you?”

      A scowl appeared on this boy and he wrinkled his nose, “I’m not goin’ to kiss up to ya, if that’s what ya want.”

      Mr. Yorkshire began smoking a cigar, “Are you telling me to back off?”

“I’m tellin’ ya t’ back off ‘fore I make ya!”

“Can you at least ask nicely?”

“The ring’s got no time for nicely!”

“Just once.”

The boy inhaled sharply through his nose and clenched his fists, “Would ya please get out of my goddam face?”

Mr. Yorkshire took a step back, “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I hoped I’d never meet this boy in the ring. He looked as though he could bite Mr. Yorkshire’s head clean off of his shoulders. Of course, as infuriating he had become, I probably would have given him a good punch to that face, myself. But a move like that was what brought Fighters into the unforgiving world of infamy, and my name that would be forever placed by my new master would be looked upon with sour looks. I’d be on the bottom of this sick food chain forever.

There was a third man standing with Master Theodore and Ms. Rose—a Negro—but he didn’t say much of anything. His wise-looking black eyes scanned us, but I knew he was also looking at me. I caught his name once; Mr. Freeman. The fourth man that had come here seemed to be so lost in his thoughts he was forgotten by the others; of course, from where I was standing, I couldn’t make out his appearance.

The room was silent for a while before Mr. Theodore clapped his hands together to start the sale. Now we were going to find out who our new masters were going to be, and I was terrified.

“Since we’ve spoken so much of the black-haired female there,” he said, “We shall start with her. Let’s start small. Fifty dollars?”

“Fifty, here!” Ms. Rose said loudly as she raised her hand.

“One-hundred!” Mr. Freeman spoke up.

“Two-hundred!”

“Two-fifty!”

They went on like this for quite a while. The price on my head went from two-fifty to three-hundred, and then from three-hundred to five-hundred, seven-hundred, eight-hundred, one-thousand, one-thousand-five-hundred, and then to two-thousand dollars. Ms. Rose seemed to have claimed me when a new voice—one that didn’t belong to Ms. Rose, Mr. Yorkshire, Mr. Freeman, or Master Theodore—spoke up from the back of the room.

“Ten-thousand dollars!”

All heads turned to the fourth man, who had been completely forgotten about in the back of the room, with their mouths hanging open. The man was tall—a few inches taller than me. His hair was jet-black and messy, yet it hadn’t been touched with the slightest drop of gel or grease. He wore a black suit and tie with a red dress shirt underneath. His skin was pale and he had the face suited for modeling. He had grey eyes, a sturdy nose, and a pert little mouth. Unlike the other masters, he worse no jewelry. The rings masters received from winning fights usually lined each finger until there was no more room for them. But this man didn’t even have one. Some master had chains with dog tags and some had ear piercings, but this man only had a suit, a tie, and his good looks.

“What did you say, Mr. Markson?” Master Theodore asked.

“Ten. Thousand. Dollars.” Mr. Markson replied slowly with a smirk on his face.

Mr. Yorkshire scoffed, “A respectable man like you—a man from District Five—would risk that kind of money on a Fighter; a Fighter that’s as good as dead? Are you sure?”

Mr. Markson slowly made his way towards the brown-haired gentleman.

“If you know me, Mr. Yorkshire, you’d know I’d never make a bet I know I can’t win.” He pushed his way past him and approached me, “Besides, I can see how much strength this Fighter has, and I say I’d be willing to pay ten-thousand dollars for her.”

Everyone was silent for a while before Master Theodore merely shrugged, “Is there anyone willing to ask more than ten-thousand for the black-haired female?”

Mr. Freeman took a step back and Ms. Rose bowed her head in defeat.

“Sold!” Master Theodore shouted as he pointed a fat, sweaty finger at Mr. Markson.

A fat stack of money exchanged hands and B was the one who passed my leash to my new master.

Master Markson.

4: The Departure

Chapter 4: The Departure

 

      Master Markson led me away from the others after the Selection was over. The blonde-haired boy had gone to Mr. Yorkshire, a brown-haired girl had gone to Ms. Rose, Mr. Freeman had chosen an African-American boy, whose limbs rippled with muscle, and I, of course, had been given to Master Markson.

      No other Fighter had been bid for a price that was higher than mine. Some were lucky to surpass five-thousand dollars, but compared to my ten-thousand dollar price tag, that was nothing. Mr. Leonardo from the Process had gotten his wish; a high price had been asked for me, a very high price.

      The sight of a pair of unfamiliar double doors made me stop in my tracks. The choke chain made me jerk forwards an inch, but I didn’t budge any further than that. Master Markson looked back at me and gave my leash an encouraging tug.

      “Come on, now.” He said as he gave another tug, “What’s the matter with you?”

      He kept tugging until the back of my neck started to hurt. I wanted to go, but unfamiliar places struck the fear into me more than an annoyed master did. I didn’t know what sort of a world I was leaving this one for. The world of the ring held many surprises for Fighters; some more terrifying than others. I was afraid.

      The clopping of heels from behind me made me turn my head, and I was relieved to see that it was B, who wanted to be there to say good-bye to me one last time.

      “She’s just scared, Mr. Markson.” She explained.

      Markson gave her a questioning look, “Why?”

      “She’s never been outside before. All she knows is a dark room with a cement floor.”

      A playful smile settled on Master Markson’s face, “Then this will be a real treat for her. It’s nice and sunny outside, today.”

      Nice? Sunny? They were all words I had no familiarity with.

      “Let me take her.” B said, “She might be a little less skittish with me.”

      Master Markson nodded and passed my leash to her. B gave me an encouraging tug forward and slowly—step by step—I started towards the door.

      As the doors opened, my eyes snapped closed. There was a blinding light beyond the door; a light brighter than any in this building. The light burned my eyes.

      “Don’t worry.” B said calmly, “It’s just the sun. Slowly open your eyes.”

      My eyelids fluttered and blinked, but the light outside was too bright for me to get them open.

      I looked to my feet and realized whatever shadows where there was enough for me to open my eyes. I looked down onto a flat, rocky surface. I saw powder dust flying up into the air as a breeze started up. As my eyes adjust to being outside, I looked around.

      The things B had told me about in my days in the nursery suddenly became real. There were trees and grass and earth. There was a blue sky with white clouds. The sun; it was so bright, and it was the yellow-white color B had always said it was. It was warm too and it made all the cold of the building behind me vanish into nothing but a bad memory. The Outside was beautiful.

      Up ahead I could see a truck with a trailer attached to it. The trailer only had a row of slits towards the top to let in light, but aside from the doors, it had no other openings. The floor of the trailer was padded with straw, and nothing else.

      Now that I officially knew what was going on, I allowed B to lead me into the trailer. She unhooked my choke chain and placed her hands on my shoulders.

      “Now, I don’t want to hear about you getting into trouble, okay?” she told me, “I’m not goin’ to be around to baby you anymore.”

      I nodded, “Will I see you again?”

      The words seemed to send a pang of sadness into her. B could only look at me with a sad look.

      “Maybe . . .”

      The reality that she would never see me again was a very likely one. I could be killed in a fight, which was a common fate for most Fighters. On the off chance that I did survive to graduate from the fights, it was likely I’d stay well within my district and I wouldn’t be visiting any other.

      Master Markson came around and rested a hand on B’s shoulder and pulled her back.

      “We’re almost ready to leave. Have you said your good-byes?”

      B brushed a tear away from her cheek, “I think so.”

                With that the doors the doors of the trailer closed. Rays of sunlight come in through the holes of the trailer, which I played with happily in my hands. Even in small amounts, the sun was warm and had that yellow-white color. I heard a metallic roar and it grew louder as I felt the trailer getting pulled away from the building. I curled up in a nest of straw and closed my eyes. I didn’t know where I was going, but something told me it wouldn’t be all that terrible.

5: The Arrival

Chapter 5: The Arrival

 

      I was in the trailer for many hours. It felt like I would never reach my new district and that I would be locked away in here for the rest of my life; never to see a single moment in the ring. I hadn’t been given any food or water and the heat of the sun made me tired. I didn’t want to move.

      Suddenly, I felt the trailer turn somewhere and stop. The truck pulling it let out a hiss and went quiet. I could hear footsteps outside the trailer before the doors opened and light flooded in. Master Markson came in with a bottle of water and a small bag of crackers and set them in front of me.

      I stared in awe at the bottle. I hadn’t drunk out of a bottle since I was an infant. Once we’d mastered drinking out of a cup or a bowl, we were denied a bottle to drink out of, and I had never, ever been given a luxurious food such as crackers. For my whole life I had only been given flavorless oatmeal as food; so a salty treat like crackers was something foreign to me.

      “What’s the matter?” Master Markson asked me, “You look like you’ve never seen these before.”

      “I have seen these before.” I replied, “But we’re not allowed to drink out of bottles or eat crackers. All we ever drank was water out of a cup or bowl and we at oatmeal.”

      “Well then this must be a real treat for you. You’ve been locked in here for the better part of five hours, so I knew you must be getting hungry and just a bit thirsty.”

      Thirsty? I was parched. I unscrewed the cap to the water bottle and took a sip. The water was cold and fresh and it instantly washed away the dry, prickly sensation in my mouth. Crackers were simple foods, but their salty taste was something I had never tasted; the closest thing I could compare the taste to was the sweat that would leak into my mouth whenever fights occurred in the nursery.

      “We’re about ten miles away from our district.” Master Markson said, “When we arrive, you’ll be taken someplace to be bathed, given a name, and put with the other Fighters. They’re an easy lot to get along with, so I’m sure you’ll make a few new friends.”

      Friends? I’d never had any friends in my old district. The closest think I had to a friend was B, and now that I had been sold I didn’t even have her anymore.

      I only nodded as I nibbled away at a cracker, and then I stopped.

      “Why did you pay so much money on me?” I asked.

      Markson only shrugged, “I like to take a gamble on the things people turn their noses up at; the things they see as worthless or useless. Sure, every master wants a Fighter with muscle in their bodies, and lots of it. But what are they going to do with all that muscle when they have no clue how to use it. What are they going to do if they’re put up against a Fighter that’s twice, maybe even three times their size? That is where wits become stronger than muscle. I put up ten-thousand dollars on you because I know you have the wits.”

      “But, I’m just a Level One; I don’t know how to fight against someone who is twice, maybe even three times my size.”

      “No, maybe you don’t; but I’m willing to bet your parent’s fighting genes were passed on to you.”

      My eyes snapped open, “You knew my parents?”

      “Yes, I did. But that’s a story for another time.”

      And with that, Master Markson walked out of the trailer and shut the door behind him.

      He was the only person I know who knew my parents. I had never heard much about them, other than that they had respectable fighting skills. I didn’t even know if they were still alive; then again, most of us didn’t know who our parents were, and most of us never found out.

      I heard the metallic roar of the truck engine starting up again and moments later we were traveling once again, and I sat in the trailer as I happily nibbled away at the crackers I had been given.

      Within the hour, we pulled up to a very large building where the trailer stopped and the doors opened once more. A pair of unfamiliar men dressed in black strode into the trailer holding another choke chain and leash. I allowed them to secure the collar and the leash and I obediently followed them into the building. Fighting against hem would have been futile. They’d carry me inside if they had to.

      I only caught a glimpse of the outside world before I was surrounded by the familiar gloom of the district building once more. For a place that was considered “well respected” as Mr. Yorkshire had said, it didn’t really stand out to me. There didn’t really seem to be anything fancy about it.

      As Markson had told me, I was taken into a room where I was bathed. My nails were trimmed evenly, they cleaned out my ears with swabs, and my teeth were brushed with a gooey, minty substance that foamed the longer it was brushed around in my mouth. They forced me to spit the foam out, even though my first instinct was to swallow it. A piece of thin, white string went between my teeth; all of them! I didn’t understand any of this. What were they trying to do?

      By the time it was over, my teeth and gums hurt. I wanted nothing to do with the toothbrush, minty goo, or the white string anymore, and it was a real punch to the gut when one of the men said I had to do this sick ritual with my teeth every day. Twice a day. Morning and night.

      A man led me to a room where Markson was waiting.

      “You don’t looked pleased.” He commented.

      “I would have been just super if my mouth didn’t have to be tortured.” I remarked, “What was that about?”

      “Brushing your teeth helps keep them from rotting and falling out. It’s completely necessary.” He stood from his seat in a cushioned chair and looked me over, “Now you just need a suitable name. Normally, masters will give their Fighters vicious names so they scare other Fighters and intrigue those who bid on them in a fight. I don’t aim to do that. You need a name that suits you, not your fighting ability.

      Master Markson was silent for quite some time. He just stared, locking his eyes with mine. Eventually, he pulled a man aside and whispered something into his ear. The man nodded and vanished out the door. He returned ten minutes later with a blue collar with a metal tag. The collar was secured firmly around my neck. I couldn’t help but pick up the tag and try to spell out the name while reading it upside down.

      I-R-I-S.

      Iris.

      I looked back up at Markson, who smiled at me before nodding to the man that held my leash.

      “Please show Iris to the Fighter’s Lounge.”