The guard is tired of dealing with this. He had a bad night’s sleep and drank a bit too much during lunch at the tavern. Now, he has to stand in between two doors and point people to the correct one, even though there is a sign.

  Dark eyebags are accentuated by a sck jaw and unfocused eyes. Three seconds. That’s all it takes to read “Competitors left, Patrons right.” He would eyeroll, but that would take took much effort.

  If the person looks muscur, left. Unkept, left. Poor, left. If the person looks rich, right. Not too hard people.

  So why, WHY, Won’t this young master type just go right???

  “Sir, Patrons enter through the right entrance.”

  “But I’m a competitor. And I’m not a sir.”

  “Look, miss, even if your bodyguard here enters the ring on your behalf, you still have to go through the Patron door. Otherwise, you won’t be able to get to the spectator seats.”

  The gruff woman standing behind the silken bck cat of a person chuckles. “I am the one who will be spectating— and the only miss here” She cps the young master’s back.

  “Whatever. Go through whichever doors you want, just don’t get me fired for it ter.”

  The guard watches them enter through separate doors.

  Exactly ten minutes and 52 seconds ter, two disgruntled personages emerge, one from each doorway.

  The registration period for the fighting ring and assignment of spectator seats was officially over. Those two weirdos were the st to show up, thank goodness. He could have done without them, but at least there weren’t any MORE of them.

  Besides, the guard is now much too occupied with the woman of his fancy to care about work.

  Ruffled red hair resembles a rooster’s feathers and a crinkled shirt tells of much woe. A young woman of about no more than three and twenty comes ranting from the left door. “Stupid management. They told me to ask the sex of the competitor. What am I supposed to do if someone answers ‘none’? Do I just pull down their pants? What the heck??”

  The guard straightens up, suddenly alert. He runs a hand through his hair. He has to say something clever, suave… wait, never mind. Thinking of something like that takes too long. He’ll just share in the excitement of compining.

  “I know! I was told to say Sir and Miss. What the heck am I to say to someone who’s neither?! ‘Oh esteemed one?’ They ought to update their policies.”

  “Yeah! And those stupid customers! What do they care what we call them! Just pick one. I’ll call you a jester if I want!”

  She would not. And how you address people does matter. Not that the three working at an illegal sughter house care.

  “And management never tells me how to deal with real life situations. Only stupid stuff like ‘oh, do this if there’s a thief or assassin.’ As if any of them ever show up! And how am I supposed to tell? Are they just gonna waltz up and hand me an identification pque?”

  The third person, a weasel-y looking person with bck hair and no eye bags, barks in ughter. “They’ll come and introduce themselves right quick- with a knife to the back and ssh across the throat for sure! I’m telling ya, no one’s as dangerous as these louts we’ve got fighting in that ring, except maybe that st spectator you let through!”

  The guard chuckles and tells his story to the redhead. He hates that the other guy won’t take a hint and just leave, but at least it gave him an opportunity to chat up the cutie. The three happily commiserate regarding their fates as low level workers, and decide to go out to the pub.

  Boots sp the pavement, spshing into a puddle.

  Wait.

  It hasn’t rained in days. The guard turns his head.

  A jaw lies a meter away on the ground, flesh torn and twisted. Red hair is now dull against a backdrop of crimson blood.

  Only two live.

  He has to get out of here! He can’t stay, forget her, forget everything! Just run, run, run!

  Bone crunches. “Arghh!” He tries yanking his leg away. The jaws of a bck-furred beast are clenched around it. Using his other leg, he kicks it on the snout.

  This is his chance! He feels the monster’s jaw loosen and he pulls away his mangled stump. It had let go!”

  But now he was slow. How would he.. “That’s it!”

  He grabs the annoying coworker running ahead of him by the shoulder, using him as leverage. He pushes the other man to the beast and propels himself forward.

  That one screams for the st time.

  A hound-like creature has a bloody throat caught in its jaws.

  It’s fine, it’s what anyone would have done… Survivor’s guilt is the blessing of the living. He can make it! He has to!

  A bck shadow runs effortless behind him.

  It leaps.

  He falls.

  None left alive.

  Fming orange stripes bck, smooth fur. Blood drips from white, pointed fangs. Ripples of muscle shine in the streetlight with every fluid movement of the predator.

  And a bck colr, barely noticeable in the twilight, graces the beast’s neck.

  “Oh, baby, look at what a mess you made!” A tall, lithe woman in a politician’s suit coos. “You know I told you to mind your manners~”

  She crouches, knees hovering above the ground to avoid getting blood on her pinstriped pant legs. From her breast pocket she pulls a white handkerchief initialed with the letters D.A. She dabs around her precious puppy’s mouth.

  “Your coat is too pretty to be spttered with the blood of those filthy sinners.”

  The mass of muscle and fangs whines in a delicate way, seeking its mistress’s forgiveness.

  “Oh, my pet. You know I could never be angry with you. Let’s go inside with mama.”

  Mistress and monster enter through the right door.

  “Let’s see which corrupt little imps have come to witness the Colosseum of Carnage.”

  She saunters through the hallway leading to the spectator seats. Hmmm, she needs an open seat for both her and her darling. She had purposefully come te, but she still wanted a good spot.

  A few spots in the back row are avaible around a tall, extremely buff personage. Guess those spectators were scared to sit near the people they love to see fight in the ring. She scoffs. Cssic cowards.

  “Excuse me, can you move over so me and my pet can use two seats?”

  They make eye contact.

  A blush rises in the Mistress’s cheeks. That woman… she’s beautiful. Strong, tan muscles, shoulder length hair in a wolf cut style, and a jagged scar running from the corner of her eye to her lips entrance the viewer.