Viper was a legend in himself. Tall and blonde with an athletic, muscular build and beautiful blue eyes that sparkled like ocean water glistening in the sun, he was an undeniably gorgeous man. He was also a dangerous tyrant with a definite attraction to the darker aspects of the world. One cross look from those lovely eyes could send a grown man running; a strategically placed hand could squeeze the life out of a giant.
He was a man who liked to see others suffer. As a child, he'd been the neighborhood bully. Now, as an adult of thirty-four years of age, he was the headmaster of an underground fighting ring that operated from the basement of Coils, his bar and restaurant. Fighting humans would have been too simple, too easy. Instead, he pinned mutants against each other. Depending on each one's individual powers, the fights could last hours and often proved to be the best piece of entertainment within a hundred-mile radius of Doland, Pennsylvania. By keeping his own team of fighters and allowing challengers to try their skills in the ring, the underground network provided amusement for sometimes hundreds of betting men a night.
But not just anyone could control such a crowd of beings. Viper was more than just an ordinary man. With the strength of a body builder and a conscious that rivaled that of the devil himself, he both hated and adored mutants. After extensive experimentation, he and a well-paid scientist of national fame—who Viper later had murdered quietly—had developed an artificial form of mutant power. Though he had been born a normal human being, at the age of twenty-seven he was able to produce various types of poison which was excreted through his skin at will. And so a bully became a true threat to the world.
As he searched through the messy files on his desk, Viper exuded an air of confidence and power that was truly frightening. Anyone to walk through the door to his office would take a look at the bulging muscles that were on display under the tight black shirt stretched across his torso and think twice before even talking to him, much less messing with him.
Anyone, that is, but Heather Andrek. The mutant, known to all as Instinct once she was in the ring, walked into Viper's office with a detached, almost bored, look on her face. After being Viper's champion fighter for the past year, Heather had no reservations when it came to talking to the boss. If she had a question, she asked it. If she had a problem, she voiced it. If he wasn't ready to listen, too bad. She made him cater to her in some respects and felt no guilt over it; she was aware of how much money she made him as the only female fighter and, though she did get paid quite well for her battles, she knew that Viper was receiving even more for her work.
When Viper didn't notice her presence after a moment, Instinct cleared her throat impatiently. She just wanted to get this speech over with. "We need to talk."
Viper froze for a second, shocked by her sudden appearance. He lifted his head and let his beautiful eyes slide over her body slowly before returning to his search. He knew the slip of paper was around somewhere… he'd had it only a few minutes before. "Okay, talk."
She rolled her eyes at his behavior and tossed a small metal wristband onto his desk, right beneath his gaze. That caught his attention; his head immediately snapped up in confusion. "I'm out," she stated simply, looking him straight in the eye. Screw her well-planned tirade; short and to the point was just as good.
With those words spoken, a massive weight was removed from Heather's shoulders. She hated Viper—absolutely despised him with every fiber of her being. Not only was he cruel and heartless, but he was also domineering and grossly perverted. She had done as she'd planned—made enough money to keep her alive for at least a few months while she traveled—and she'd more than paid her dues. While being ogled by Viper and her hundreds of male spectators, she had at times wanted to die. Now it was time to go.
Instinct's mutant gift involved heightened senses and a powerful intuitive feeling that drove her to constantly move, searching for something she couldn't name. She only hoped that when she found it, she would know. She had been walking around the country for years before she was roped into the fighting ring, pushing aside her intuition to make a living.
"What do you mean, you're out?" Viper wanted to know, his face a mask of calmness despite the panic rising inside of him at her announcement. He knew he had to stay cool; she would be able to sense it if he was obvious. "What are you doing, Instinct? Put this back on."
Her dark eyes focused with disgust on the wristband in his large palm. She hated that simple silver chain almost as much as she hated him. Wristbands were his claim on fighters; he forced everyone in his team to wear them during fights so he could control how far they went in battle. If one of them got too close to killing their opponent, he would give them a warning with powerful poison that burned into their skin. The purpose wasn't to kill; that would have made him search for more fighters and the team he had assembled was damn powerful.
"No," she replied directly, putting her hands in the pockets of her long jacket. Her senses were now yelling at her, telling her it was time to go, and she was hell-bent on complying. "I told you when this started that I don't tend to stick around. You said it was fine. It's time for me to go."
Viper had feared as much. He'd seen her in the past few weeks and noticed that something was beginning to fade. The drive she had to fight, the desperation that had initially forced her into the ring. He knew that once that was gone, she would want to leave.
Playing noble, he nodded his head in understanding. "I guess I did say it would be okay for you to go. But why not stay until tomorrow's fight? The guys are looking forward to seeing you fight and we usually get some good competitors on Fridays. Go out with a bang. We both know the money would be helpful on the road."
Something wasn't right about his proposal. Heather could feel the deception like a heavy layer of slime settling on her skin, and it only furthered her determination to get away. "Fine, I'll stay for tomorrow. But I mean it, Viper. No more fights after that." Grabbing her wristband from his open hand, she turned on her heel and left the office in a hurry.
When he was sure that she was out of hearing range, even her hearing range, Viper picked up the slip of paper he'd been searching for, a sigh escaping his lips. She had so much talent, so much strength and attitude. With her instincts, it was wonderful to watch her fight, to see her opponents struggle to catch her off guard. Only once had he seen her really screw up, and that was at the very beginning of her career in his ring. She had been too confident, not giving her opposition the credit he deserved, and she had let her guard down a second too soon. The long, pale pink scar across her collarbone was her lifelong reminder of that painful blunder.
He would miss her—the thrill of watching her, the money she brought in, even her temperament. Picking up the phone, Viper dialed the number on the paper and waited for an answer. When he got it, he winced at its cheerfulness. Doubt began to worm into his mind as he replied gruffly, "It's happening tomorrow night. You'll be here?"
"If my money's there, I'll be there."
Her cockiness offended him. If this bitch screwed up, Viper would have to take Instinct out himself and it wasn't something he wanted to do. "I have your money. You just worry about beating her, Trixie. You don't seem to understand this girl."
"I understand her, all right. I'll mess her up so bad she won't be able to see straight," the girl on the line avowed.
Viper nodded his head; if her powers were as good as she said they were, everything would work out fine. "Remember, I want this one dead. A lot is riding on this, so you better pull through." With that, he hung up on her.
Viper had put a lot of thought and money into Instinct's final fight. Not only would Trixie need to be paid exorbitantly for killing her, but the overnight advertising to regular attendees would have to be huge. He expected an enormous turnout of men ready to see one hell of a fight. After all, how often did a real challenger come into town?
More accurately, how often did the beautiful and tough-as-nails champion get killed at her own game?
