k-complex

They fell for it. Lowest of the low. She laughed, leaned back in the creaky fold-up chair and thought back to conjuring that exagerated accent. "Vladivlastok." How convincing. She'd stood up pouring blood and shaking, then minutes later turned the tables.

Now she twisted around, pressed borrowed boots against the back wall, curled bandaged fingers under the seat and thought who's fighting next?

The underground wasn't much different from hospital basements. Sometimes it leaked up into empty lots and concrete with a sky, and that was the fighting pits. Lowest of the low, no rules and no reasons really. Just the place for poor impulse control, and so, teenagers.

After she got a good look at the so-called second in command, she estimated he was about 14 or 15 at the oldest. Back in that garage. With the endorphins flooding from her torn-up skin, it was all she could do to keep from laughter.

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?" His voice broke with frustration. He paced, shorter than her and posture pitiful.

"Well, what do you want? Drugs, right?" She wiped some blood off her face and hands with the back of the dead kid's filthy shirt. "You said. We just made a deal. But, I don't even know what this outfit of yours does. I'm sure it's interesting, but I'd also like my vials back, please." They made a show of blocking the exit before surrendering the drugs to her coat pockets.

Nyx got various tales of the Moscow fighting pits after he'd stopped pacing and slacking. That was business--other than the regular shakedowns of whoever had change for food and cigarettes. Okay, so a bunch of curious thugs fell into my hands thinking I'm some dealer's toy. Does it get easier? "I think you cracked one of my ribs. He won't like that." ...And they fell in line like eager inpatients blasted out of their heads on thorazine. Easy.

It amazed her how eagerly they offered an arm and clean needles when it came to promising victory. She'd say, "I've been working on this new analog, I'm sure it'll make you stronger for the next fight," and they rolled up a sleeve and let her tap the veins of a scrawny or fleshy or muscled or bruised arm, flood them with a formula or placebo. They'd absently listen to her information about half-lives and drug-specific interactions while most likely mental mapping a terrible self-done tattoo to commemorate their latest victory. It didn't matter--she was rarely truthful unless it benefited her.

Their young blood received bits and pieces. Sometimes weak chemical failures, other times a pain flip to laugh through wounds, other times something unethical, unfocused. Unclassified synthetics, she tailored quick-acting experiments--they wanted something fast, that's how they fought. She touched their skin gently. Almost affectionately. She said, "even if you lose, you win" and pushed the slammer down.

Her guinea pigs attracted attention within a few weeks. So erratic. She didn't mind--she liked it here, in the fighting pits, and made headway on developing more analogs using the boys. The good stuff she kept for herself, of course; saved hidden pockets and kept her own rig off limits. Meanwhile, they were all hooked. Probably didn't notice. A short lifespan anyway. She'd leave soon, but until then--who's fighting next?

Yellow grass sprouted between cracks in the sidewalks, cracks in the floor. Barbed wire over torn fences and burnt out streetlights no one noticed because of blood and broken teeth. The temperature climbed up to 29, 40. Spring was coming.