Victus flowed through his Tai Chi forms with the peaceful grace of a fish gliding through water.  The cool dawn air, made humid by the surrounding acres of grass growing unnaturally on this near-desert world, felt dense and energizing as it moved in and out of his body, the well-trimmed lawn a welcome cushion under the pads of his bare feet. 

His comm gave an unexpected alert when the house’s security system detected an object penetrating the outermost security field.  A small cargo vehicle was approaching the house, and Victus paused his routine to watch as it eased down at the edge of the landing grid, stopping not a hundred meters away from where he stood.

Max emerged from the house before the van’s suspension had a chance to settle, trudging to the waiting ship with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.  He was nearly there when the van’s cargo hatch slid open and a booted foot shoved an unconscious body out onto the lawn. The large, furred form slid bonelessly to the ground, its dark brown and tan fur growing darker where it absorbed the cool, morning dew. The driver, it seemed, was eager to complete his business and get the hell out of there.  “Hey!” Max shouted, “be careful!  We paid good money for that!”

Curious, Victus swiveled his ears to catch the driver’s response, if he might hear it over the thrum of the ship’s thrusters. This was not the first time he’d seen a new indentured servant arriving at the house, but it was the first time they’d arrived unconscious.  There wasn’t much to hear, for the driver didn’t seem inclined to chat.  The transport agent had Max imprint his thumb in a certain spot, then wasted no time in pulling the document free of his clipboard and handing it to the other man.   “He’s your problem now,” he heard the delivery agent say, before he slammed the cargo door shut and clambered back into the pilot’s seat.  Max was left standing over the prone body, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and what looked like an antique gold box at the end of an equally ancient-looking chain in the other.

Victus moved closer to identify the person who’d been so unceremoniously dumped at their feet.  It had been over a month since the incident at the slave fights, and he’d long since abandoned the hope that Mal had paid any attention to his advice on a successor.  Thus, it came as quite the surprise to be standing now over the inert body of an unconscious and somewhat battered-looking pit fighter.

Max grunted in disgust and stuffed the papers into his back pocket with the casual disregard that Victus had grown to expect from the man.  Bending at the knees, the head of security took firm hold of one of the slave’s limp arms and started pulling him toward the manor.  Noticing Victus looking in their direction, he called,  “Don’t just stand there, help me get him inside!”

Victus shook off his ruminations and sprang to lend a hand.  “Here,” he said, putting a handpaw on Max’s shoulder, “I can do it more easily myself.”  Max helped push the unconscious man into the Kenzine’s arms and moved back as Victus stood.  “Where to?” he asked, once the fighter was secure in his arms.

Max looked at him with dull surprise.  “I was going to ask you the same thing.  This guy’s your responsibility, you know.”  The fighter’s arm slipped down his chest and dangled awkwardly in front of them.

Victus grimaced.  “That wasn’t in yesterday’s morning meeting.”

“Yeah, I know,” Max chuckled, thankful that this time, the negin’s mercurial desires were interfering with someone’s schedule other than his own. “Mal sent out the memo last night, timed to arrive a few minutes ago. Thought he would have told you, too.” He held the door open for Victus.  “Guess he thought it would be funnier this way.”  He grinned mirthlessly. “Surprise!”

Victus wanted to groan at Mal’s feeble attempt at humor, but he restrained the impulse. “Please tell me he did not also alter his schedule.”

“You’re good on that front, at least,” Max acknowledged, as he tried to find somewhere to put the fighter’s right arm so it would not flop around loose. “He’s still planning on being locked in his rooms all day long.  God only knows what he’s doing there.”  He shuddered visibly at the thought.

“If he’s my responsibility, he’s not setting foot inside the house until I have a chance to check him out,” he said, definitively.  “Please go inside and notify the medic that we’ll be in the holding room in the servant’s quarters.”  He turned and began to walk, moving as easily as though he weren’t carrying a hundred and fifty kilos of dead weight in his arms. “Notify him that there is an unconscious man who might have a brain injury.”

Max nodded and disappeared into the house, and Victus walked quickly towards the single-story building where the house’s servants, both indentured and employed, spent their meager off-duty time.  It was well-secured and had a special room where unruly residents could be detained until law enforcement officers could arrive and remove them.

As Victus crossed the expanse of lawn between the buildings, he detected the unmistakable smell of electrical burns wafting from the other man’s fur.  Extending a small portion of his consciousness, he entered the man’s energy stream sufficiently to tell that no significant brain injury had occurred.  He’d been stunned so heavy-handedly that there were char-marks on his skin, but those were not life-threatening.  He did not need the medic to tell him that this man would live, but he did need him to document the fighter’s condition so that if the opportunity ever arose to file a complaint over the damage done to the man, Victus would have evidence to back up his claim. Impressive though they may be, a Kenzine’s powers were not proof in a court of law.

Pulling back from the other man’s mind, Victus crossed the threshold of the quarters and carried the fighter to the back of the building and inside the holding room.  Victus lay his burden on the room’s single bed and sat next to him, waiting patiently for the doctor to arrive.

It took a few minutes for the physician to gather his equipment and make his way out to the bunkhouse, and when he finally entered the room he was in none too pleasant a mood.  “It’s a little early to be roughing up the hired help, isn’t it?” he muttered, pulling his stethoscope out of his coat pocket and plugging the headset into his ears. 

Victus moved out of the man’s way before he could be elbowed aside.  The doctor was the one person on the House Mal estate who seemed utterly unaffected by the Kenzine, and perversely, Victus found himself liking the man more for that.  The doctor put the sensor against the fighter’s pulse points, and after hearing a strong heartbeat, asked, “What happened to him?”

The doctor didn’t pause for the reply, but continued his examination as Victus spoke. “I do not know,” Victus said, “he arrived in this condition.  What I do know is that he was one of the fighters in the death match the negin attended a few weeks ago.  I suggested that he might make an adequate replacement for me when I leave -”

The doctor’s head snapped around to stare at Victus with such a look of incredulity that it stopped the Kenzine in his tracks.  After shaking his head in a way that pitied Victus for his naivete, the doctor turned his attention back to his patient and Victus continued.  “That was almost a month ago,” he continued, “and then today a delivery van shows up and throws him out on the front lawn like he was yesterday’s garbage.”

For some reason he couldn’t identify, Victus felt the urge to justify himself to the doctor.  Something about the man made Victus feel as if he were an eight year old called to the principal’s office.  He worked to slow his speech and calm his suddenly frazzled nerves.  “He’s apparently my responsibility, and I need you to document his condition and verify that he’s not about to die from some hidden trauma.” 

While Victus was speaking, the doctor had been paying very close attention to the fighter’s ears, nose and mouth, then had moved to examine his fingerpads.  The Kenzine thought nothing of it when the man loosened the fighter’s belt, but his eyes widened in surprise when the doctor shoved his hand deep into the man’s pants and began handling his equipment. “Uh… doc?” he asked, uncertainly.

“You people have no goddamned idea what you’re doing, bringing a pit slave into the house,” the physician grumbled, as he fumbled his hands around in the man’s pants.  His eyes narrowed in concentration.  “Hand me a glove,” he said, withdrawing his hands long enough to point to the equipment he’d brought with him. “In there.”

Victus bent and found a pair, pulled them out of the sterile packaging as quickly as he could, and handed them to the doctor.  “Pull his pants off,” the man said, as he snapped the gloves onto his hands.

Victus paused for a moment, then began pulling the fighter’s pants off his body. “Hurry up,” the doctor said, “I don’t want to be around when he wakes up.”

“About that,” Victus said, as he worked the man’s pants over his knees.  “It might help all of us if he stays asleep for the next few hours, if you could arrange that.”  He had a momentary struggle to get the cuffs over the mans large, plantigrade feet, but soon enough the pants were off.  “The negin will expect him to begin training as soon as he is awake,” he continued, “and I think it would be best for all parties involved if he could spend a few hours recovering before that happens.”

The doctor considered the suggestion, then shrugged his grudging agreement.  Without a word, he reached into his bag and pulled out a hypospray.  Loading it with what Victus assumed was a tranquilizer, he bent over the unconscious form.  “This might sting a little,” he told the unconscious man, in what Victus took to be an attempt at gallows humor, then shoved the device against the fighter’s throat and administered the dose.

“How long will he be out?”  Victus asked.

“Five or six hours,” the doctor guessed, “unless they’ve done something to his liver, in which case all bets are off.” Considering what he’d just said, he made an adjustment to the hypospray and gave the fighter a second dose, then tossed the unit back into his bag with casual indifference. He retrieved a small bottle of clear liquid and moved back to the other side of the bed. “You said he was in a death match - was he a warmup act, or the main event?” He answered Victus’ reply with a disheartened grunt. “Help me roll him over.”

Victus wasn’t certain what the doctor was doing, but he complied as best he was able.  “Lift his knee up,” the doctor said, when the fighter was on his side, “push it all the way to his chest, if you can.”  Victus complied, but his brow creased in concern when the other man slathered an immodest amount of lubricant onto his glove and started working his hand into their patient’s rectum. 

Victus had heard of fetishes that mimicked this behavior, but the disgruntled look on the doctor’s face told him that what he was witnessing wasn’t in that category.  “Pit fighters almost never escape without having at least a few modifications,” the doctor said, wincing when his ministrations brought forth a sizeable fart from their patient.  “The fact that I didn’t find any of the usual modifications makes me wonder whether he’s had some of the more unusual ones.” He moved his body to a better position, then rotated his hand around inside the fighter, palpating every surface he could reach in the man’s body.  “It wouldn’t surprise me if I found a loaded gun up here,” he said, “but this guy seems clean.”

“Can you be certain?” Victus asked, warily. 

The doctor thought for a moment, then made for the door and motioned the Kenzine to follow.  Victus closed and locked the door behind them, and followed the doctor out the dormitory’s back door.  The older man wedged the door open so it would not lock behind them and wasted no time lighting a stimstick and bringing it to his lips. “There’s really no way to be sure of anything,” he explained, after taking a deep drag on the stick. “Those crazy bastards can turn anything into a weapon.  Bone knives in their fingers, gas bombs up their assholes, that sort of thing.”  He shrugged. "You could do a deep scan of him, and that might tell you more.”

“Is the scanner in the house good enough to tell me what I need?” Victus asked.

“Nah.” The doctor took another drag.  “They might have one good enough on the other side of the planet at the Mayo, but what we’ve got here isn’t any better than what you’d get at the WalMed in town.  My guess is, he’s clean.  Judging by his age and his lack of scars, he hasn’t been doing this very long.  Give him another five years, and he’ll be as full of implants as Percy is.”

Victus nodded soberly.  The sweet name “Percy” hardly fit the flesh and bone monster that lived in their basement.  Mal was having him prepared for the fights, and by all accounts, Percy was looking forward to the experience every bit as much as Mal was.

“You could probably do as well by examining his background,” the doctor added.  “The better houses don’t engage in those kinds of shenanigans.  If the house he comes from is a good one, he’s probably okay.  At least,” he added, dropping the remains of the stimstick to the ground and crushing the remains under the toe of his shoe, “as okay as anyone who’s been a pit fighter could be.  That shit fucks you up.”

***

The moment he opened his eyes, pain like he’d never experienced shot through the man’s head. “Fuck,” he groaned, closing his eyes and settling back onto the...whatever it was he was lying on.  Wherever he was, it was softer than the last place he’d laid his head. Slave quarters weren’t known for their comfortable accommodations.

A gentle voice, a man’s voice, drifted into his ears. “I’m going to touch you.” It wasn’t a request for his permission, it was a statement of intent. Under normal circumstances he would have broken the fingers of any man who touched him without asking permission, but right now he just didn’t give a shit.  Nothing he could think of would be worse than the bees stinging his brain, so he allowed it.

He felt an even pressure on the front of his right shoulder, then a moment later he felt the sensation of fingerpads at the base of his neck.  They gently squeezed in several spots, moving a few millimeters to the left and right as if they were searching for something.  It felt like a gentle massage and he relaxed into it, a quiet moan of pleasure escaping his throat.  There was a pause, and then he got a firm pinch that felt as if the other man was trying to nip through muscle and fur and sever his brain stem.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouted, attempting to lever himself off the bed.  The hand on his shoulder continued its pressure as he rose, twisting his spine at an extreme angle.  A series of wet, sucking pops told him that every single vertebra in his back had released. “What the fuck are you…” He stopped himself.  The pressure on his shoulder had moved, going from restraining him to helping him remain upright.  His head was remarkably clear, and the pain was all but gone.  He turned and looked at the man who’d assaulted...helped...him.

Victus stood tall under the other man’s scrutiny.  “I am Victus Entrades,” he introduced himself. “I believe I am the reason you’re here.”

“The reason I’m here is that I zigged when I should have zagged,” the fighter grumbled as he rubbed the back of his neck.  He grimaced and held out a handpaw. “Lucas MacKenzie.”

Shaking hands had always made Victus feel odd, as if he were a child participating in an adult ritual that he didn’t quite understand.  He vastly preferred respectfully bowing to those he met, but he didn’t turn the gesture away.  The other man’s hand was rough and warm, and for a moment - a short, unexpected moment - Victus found himself enjoying the physical contact.  But then the man’s grip tightened uncomfortably in obvious challenge.

Victus relaxed the muscles of his hand and slid his fingers free of the obnoxious grip as smoothly as if they’d been oiled.  “We’re not going to do that,” he said, using a matter-of-fact tone that left Lucas MacKenzie feeling as if a teacher had just caught him poking a small animal with a stick. 

Victus continued, smoothly.  “I am to teach you the art of protection,” he paused, “assuming that is possible.” He’d been given little time to compose his thoughts so he said what came to mind, hoping that the truth would be sufficiently motivating.  “I’m a Kenzine protector, but my contract--”  The other man’s barked laugh cut him off. 

“Sure you are, buddy” Lucas chuckled.  “And so’s my great-aunt Tillie.”  He reached out and flipped the end of Victus’s braid in blatant disrespect.  “Long hair don’t make you a Kenzine, pal,” he mocked. “I’ve seen you before, serving wine at the fights.  Besides, they don’t let us into their little--”

With no expression on his face, Victus placed his finger on the fighter’s chest, in a spot roughly between his well-developed pectoral muscles and slightly to the right, and pushed with a deceptively gentle motion that caused the other man’s diaphragm to seize.  He released him after only a moment, but the interruption in breathing had been sufficient to stop Lucas in his tracks.

“They let me in,” Victus said, calmly.  “There is still the considerable pressure of tradition which prevents others from attaining my position, but every assignment I complete helps to wear those barriers down.”

Lucas reached up to his chest and rubbed the sore spot where Victus’s finger had jabbed him silent. “Sorry” he said, quietly.  “So what’s your part in this?  If you’re a…” he stopped and rephrased his question. “Kenzine priests don’t work the slave pits.”

“You’re correct.” Victus stood and moved back a few feet to get a better look at his charge. His eyes scanned the man’s seated form, noting sturdy bone structure and muscular overdevelopment, and the way the two interacted to pull him out of balance.  At first glance he appeared to have the closed posture typical of most strength athletes, but the slight forward slump of his shoulders was more than a matter of lazy posture, it suggested a lack of equality between the development of his chest and his back muscles. “Kenzines don’t interact with violence that way,” he said, as he gently pushed the fighter’s spine into alignment and moved his shoulders back until they were plumb with his hips, then stood back again to see what effect that had on the man’s balance.  “If you elect to train with me, you won’t be a pit fighter anymore.”

“But I’m still a slave,” Lucas said, wryly, his thick, pointed ears rotating back with his frown of annoyance.

“No,” Victus corrected, after a thoughtful moment.  “You’re an indentured servant.  And you now have the ability to rectify that situation, where before you did not.”  Sensing that he had the man’s attention, he continued speaking as he made subtle changes to the way the man was sitting. “Negin Mal requires a competent bodyguard, and when my contract ends, someone must take my place.   That person can be you.  If you are willing and able, you’ll earn a salary, and you’ll eventually be able to buy back your freedom.”  Victus put one hand on the fighter’s cannonball shoulder to keep his torso from moving, and used the other to pull his arm straight out in front of his body. 

“Huh,” Lucas snorted, allowing the physical manipulations without really thinking about them.  “Never works out that way, buddy. They pay you just enough to think that you might actually make it, but they back-charge so much shit on your account that you never get out.”

“I can make it different this time,” Victus said. “I think I can have the terms written so you can do it, if only so that Mal can eventually earn back the money he lost on that fight.”  He placed his index fingers in the fighter’s extended palms.  “Squeeze.”

“You think.” Lucas muttered, absentmindedly complying with the Kenzine’s request.  His fingers were thicker than Victus’s, and their squeeze was powerful and steady.  The locations of the rough calluses on the inside of the man’s fingers and palms suggested that his overdevelopment was attained in the gym and not in the field.

“I can only do my best,” Victus admitted, shaking his fingers gently as a signal for the fighter to release his grip.  “But I think I have good leverage here.”  He looked the other man over in a quick visual inspection.  “You appear sufficiently recovered. Do you wish to proceed, or would you prefer to return to your previous accommodations?”

Lucas grimaced in distaste then gave a half hearted shrug, his arms flopping back to his sides.   Victus noticed that he maintained the erect posture he’d been placed in.  “Whatever. It’s not like I’m doing anything else at the moment.”  He turned his head back and forth and worked a finger under the collar surrounding his neck. “You know, it’s tough to buy into your rosy little vision of hope and opportunity with this goddamned noose around my neck.”

“It’s not there by my choice,” Victus said, shamed by how his employer was treating this man, “Mal feels it necessary if he’s going to have a trained killer standing at his back.”

“Trained killer, huh?”  Lucas chuckled.  “I like the sound of that.”  He turned to Victus and snarled menacingly, exposing intimidatingly sharp-looking teeth.  “Grrr!”  Before Victus could take offense, the fighter dropped the pose and his face returned to its normal, affable state. He gave up trying to stretch the collar and dropped his hands to his lap in acceptance of its presence.

Victus noticed his pupil’s posture begin to slide back to its previous state.  “Sit up.” he corrected.  “I don’t have the key,” Victus said, once Lucas had straightened his back. “I don’t think anyone but Mal can remove it at this point.  He is a cautious man.  Perhaps even too cautious.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Lucas said, with a sigh.  “Chances are, most of the guys in the pits wouldn’t think twice about slitting his throat and making off with the family silver.”

“But you’re not like that?” Victus asked. He had been observing the other man closely for signs of deception, but so far had seen none.

“I’d probably lock him in a closet instead of killing him,” Lucas admitted, “but I’ll wait to see what the silver looks like before committing to that decision.”  He stretched and stood up, accidentally breaking wind in the process. “Whoops,” he said, chuckling with minimal embarrassment.  Varii weren’t known for attempts to hide their bodily functions from one another, after all. “That one just slipped out.”

Lucas looked preoccupied for a moment, then reached a hand behind him and felt under his tail. “Damn, I’m sore back there.” His probing elicited an uncomfortable wince. “Feels like I got fucked by an elephant.” He shot a wary glance at Victus, then thought better of his suspicions and shook his head.  “I guess I don’t need to worry that you had anything to do with that.”  He rubbed the last of the crusts from the corners of his eyes and yawned again. “How long was I out?” 

Perfectly happy to speak of any subject that would lead them away from his participation in the man’s violation, Victus said, “About six hours.”  At the other man’s startled look, he added, “I asked the doctor to give you something to help sleep until you had a chance to recover.  It’s mid-afternoon,” he said, helpfully, “about fourteen fifty.”

Lucas grunted and scratched his belly.  “No wonder I’m so muzzy-headed.”

“So are you ready to get started?“ Victus asked. “Life as a bodyguard isn’t perfect, but it beats spending the rest of your life as a fighting slave.”  At the other man’s accepting shrug, he held out a leather training harness.  “Put this on."

Lucas had fought off the four sapiens guards who were responsible for locking him in the damned collar until they’d shocked him into submission, and he wasn’t about to willingly put on a harness and be paraded around the grounds like a beast of burden.  “Nope,” he declined.  “That’s not going to happen.”

Victus looked at the harness and tried to understand why the other man might be so opposed to wearing it.  “It’s a useful training tool,” he explained, holding it out one more time.  "It will cover you, and give me handholds to grip.”  Lucas merely crossed his arms and stood, staring at him.

Utterly unconcerned by the other man’s state of undress, Victus tossed the harness onto the bed and turned to the door.  “This way, then.”

“But…” Lucas reddened.  He was...naked! 

Victus paused at the door and looked back.  “I have no idea what you want unless you tell me, Lucas MacKenzie.  If you wish clothes, they are only a request away.“

Lucas found that, suddenly, asking this rather pompous man for anything was beyond consideration.  “Nope,” he said, calling the other man’s bluff and enjoying the feeling of cool air around his nether regions, “I’m ready when you are.”

“As you wish.” Victus nodded and exited the room, holding open the door for Lucas to follow.  The tips of the fighter’s ears burned with embarrassment, but he gamely followed the other man into the hallway.  He was surprised to see that they were in the main house and not in the servant’s quarters, as he’d expected. Victus turned and locked the door behind them.

“Are you afraid I’ll scamper back into the room?” Lucas asked, smugly.

“No,” Victus answered. “The chambermaids have a tendency to rearrange my possessions if I do not lock the door when I am out.  This way,” he raised an arm to indicate the hallway. “You may walk ahead of me.”

Lucas tried hard not to let his embarrassment show as he walked through the fancy house, naked as a jay bird.  Hundreds of different people in his life had seen him naked, but until now it had always been by his choice.  Having his clothing stripped from him and being made to walk through public spaces wearing nothing but a slave collar was demeaning in a way he would never have imagined. “That was your room?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself. “Didn’t really match the rest of the house.”

“Yes,” Victus said.  “Our room, actually.  The only way the negin would agree to this arrangement was to have you work at no additional expense to the house, so we must share quarters.”

“Sweet,” Lucas said, sardonically.  “Still beats the shit out of the pits.”  He thought that although his nudity was not by his choice, perhaps acting as though it were might help him feel less conspicuous. In that light, he held his head high and tipped his hand to a passing pair of middle-aged housekeepers who were trying very hard to look anywhere but his genitals. “Hello, ladies.”  The scandalized titter he heard as they passed made him smile.

“Turn right at this corridor,” Victus instructed, “and go down the stairs to your right.”

The stairs led down into a main hallway of the servant’s area, and through this they passed into the large common kitchen, where the presence of the naked varius caused a minor stir.  Being the object of scrutiny for so many people would have been far more unnerving had Lucas not pretended that it was his idea to do so.  With his head held high, he proudly walked through their domain as might an emperor resplendent in his new clothes. All of the other workers, Lucas noticed as they passed, were sapiens.  “Are we the only varii here?” he asked his companion.

“There are a few others,” Victus answered, “but we are the only two in positions of any importance. Mal seems to enjoy seeing us given the most menial of duties.   Turn right here, and go through that door, please.”

Lucas pushed through the heavy wood door, and was surprised when they passed not into another room, but out of the building and into the bright, summer day. He paused for a moment, shielding his eyes against the glare.

“What’s wrong?” Victus asked, hoping that his new charge wasn’t agoraphobic.  That could be a serious issue. 

“Nothing,” Lucas said, after a pause.  “It’s just been a long time since I’ve been outdoors with real, live grass under my feet.”  He looked back at Victus and grinned, devilishly. “And naked.”  He turned back around and surveyed the grounds. “They don’t let slaves out much, you know.”

“Huh.” Not knowing what else to say, Victus pointed at their destination. “The training room is in that gray building.”

His eyes now adjusted to the light, Lucas led the way toward the building Victus had indicated.  “All this empty space,” he wondered aloud, looking around them at the expansive back lawn.  He shot a glance at the Kenzine. “You’re not afraid I’m going to run off?”

“No,” Victus said, with assurance. “From what I am told, your collar is tied into the estate’s security system.  If you stray into proscribed areas, you’ll be immobilized.  If you somehow manage to continue past that point, you’ll be terminated.”

Lucas muttered under his breath and stalked into the building, chafing at the restriction.  He’d been far more constrained at his previous owner’s, but even there he hadn’t had to wear a collar like a fucking dog.  When he saw what was inside the large building, his spirits lifted considerably.   The space they were in might look plain on the outside, but from where he was standing it looked airy and light.  Lucas would have judged the building they were in to be around forty meters by sixty, and the room they were in seemed to take up most of that space.

Victus saw the look on Lucas’s face and guessed that the man’s reaction was similar to what his own had been.  Such a big, empty space full of synthetic grass and sunlight begged to be run around in. “Follow me,” he said, taking off in a loping run. 

Lucas followed for a few dozen steps, then overtook Victus in a streak of naked brown and black fur, slapping playfully at the Kenzine’s shoulder as he passed.  “Come on!” he encouraged, exuberantly. “Betcha can’t catch me!”

“We’re not going to do that,” Victus said, maintaining his pace. “We are running a few warm-up laps, and then I’m going to evaluate your fitness.  A part of that evaluation,” he warned, “is your ability to follow directions.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lucas fumed, annoyed by Victus’ attitude.  “Do you always have to be such a prig?  Loosen up!”  When Victus merely looked at him, Lucas sighed and fell back into step behind him.  Running at the Kenzine’s measured pace reminded him of the running he’d been forced to do at Boot Camp.  He was a canine varius - he loved to run! But being forced to run was another thing entirely.  Being forced to do anything stuck in his craw.  Still, if he forgot the reason he was running and just paid attention to the physical sensation of grass passing under his feet, it could still be pretty enjoyable.

Without warning Victus whirled and stiff-armed him, driving the air from his lungs and knocking him to the ground.  He hit with considerable force, his skull only saved from hitting the ground by the Kenzine’s other hand behind his head. The instant Lucas was on the ground, Victus bounced out of reach.  “You must be prepared for the unexpected at all times,” Victus said, emotionlessly.

“What the fuck!” Lucas exploded, coming off the ground in a fury.  He’d been trying to be nice to this guy, but it was looking like everything he’d heard about the temperament of Kenzines was true.  They were a bunch of self-righteous pricks who thought they were better than everyone else in the room, just because they knew a few fancy tricks. Well, fuck ‘im, Lucas thought.  I’m gonna mess this guy’s shit up!

A half second later the fighter was off the ground and headed straight for his opponent - for that’s what the Kenzine prick had become to him, an opponent.  It was as if a switch in his brain had been flipped.  Lucas uncoiled the power in his legs and sprang at Victus, only to find that he’d misjudged the distance between them and had sailed past his intended target.

Regrouping, he lunged at the Lupine hybrid with intent to do serious bodily damage.  Again he missed, but this time the sneaky little bastard tripped him on his way past, shoving him to the ground with surprising strength. 

This time, Lucas didn’t move.  He could be a sneaky little bastard, too.  With a heartfelt moan, he curled one leg up to his abdomen as if he’d broken a rib.  He didn’t have to feign a tired pant. 

“You’re not hurt,” Victus said, with certainty.  “Get up.”

Lucas continued to groan, but reached one hand up in apparent compliance.

The sight was absolutely pitiful.  “Fine,” Victus sighed, reaching down to his trainee to assist him to his feet.  “We’ll do it  your way.” 

In a flash, the fighter had locked hands with the Kenzine and had pulled with all his strength at the same time as he whipped his legs around to kick his tormentor in the gut.   What actually happened was that he ended up with his face mashed into the synthetic grass and his arm twisted behind his back in a painful submission hold. “Well, that didn’t work,” he muttered, trying his best to see the humor in his situation, if any existed.

“No, it didn’t,” the Kenzine agreed. “Please learn from your failure.” He eased the pressure on Lucas’ shoulder but did not allow him to rise.  “If this is going to continue to be some sort of dominance pissing match, then let me assure you that I am the alpha here. You’re really good, Lucas, and on another day, at another time, you might well be my superior.  But for today, right now, I’m the one in control.”  He released his grip and let the other man roll onto his back, then once again reached down to offer his assistance. “I’m not asking you to like it, Lucas, I’m asking you to accept it.  I don’t care whether you like me or not, but if you can’t accept my leadership, we’re done.”

Lucas’ options flashed through his mind.  It didn’t take long, because there weren’t many of them. He would never have told anyone as much, but he’d pretty much run out of tricks in the ring. He knew he was only one or two fights away from having his head separated from his body.  He was good but he really wasn’t in their league, and even if he was in their league, the idea of killing another man for some rich fucker’s amusement galled him.

 In the end, the Kenzine was right.  It didn’t matter one way or the other if he liked the guy, he just had to work with him.  And considering that the only other path led straight back to the fighting pits, he wasn’t about to turn this opportunity down.  Where there was life, there was hope.  Reaching up, he accepted the hand that the other man offered him.  “Deal.” 

***

By the time they were through sparring that first day, Lucas hated Victus more than he ever thought possible.  But even though the man was a sanctimonious, arrogant asshole, Lucas had to admit that he knew how to fight. The only time he’d managed to lay a hand on the Kenzine was when Victus wanted him to do so, to prove his point about how foolish Lucas had been to try. 

He’d been slammed to the ground too often to count, but never so hard that he wasn’t expected to get up and do it all over again.  Lucas had left the building sore and exhausted, and was very much looking forward to a hot meal and a bed.  He hadn’t even had the energy to protest when Victus handed him a thin dressing gown and instructed him to put it on.

Once back at the house, Victus made the attendants aware of their presence and directed Lucas to a small wooden table at the back of the main kitchen.  A few moments later they were served identical plates of salad and a communal bowl filled with lentils, spinach and rice.  “Yummy,” Lucas drawled. He picked at his plate for a few seconds, then pushed the salad away from himself disparagingly.  “What’s the main course?”

Victus looked up from his meal. “That is the main course.”

Lucas looked disgusted.  “I’m a carnivore, for the love of god. I can’t live on this shit.”

“Your chemistry is B2 and your digestive tract is ninety-eight percent sapiens,” Victus said, after chewing through a mouthful of leaves. “As tempting as it may be to pretend that you’re a big, scary animal who’s unique to the universe, you’re not anything special.”

“How do you know?” Lucas challenged.

“I had plenty of time to check your records while you were out,” Victus said. “Even if I hadn’t had time to do a complete background check, it would have been easy enough to check your tattoo.“ He gestured to the food between them.  “This meal has been scientifically planned to provide all of the nutrition either of us need, without slowing us down with fat and extra waste.” He noticed how Lucas was sitting.  “Straighten your back.”

“Extra waste?” Lucas questioned, sitting taller in his seat, “You mean like, shit?”

“Your assignment can go to the bathroom whenever they wish,” Victus explained, gravely.  “You can not.  Hopefully, having you around will make things easier in that regard.  In the past I’ve had to go eighteen hours without a bathroom break.”

“Man,” Lucas chuckled, “You’re really selling this job, aren’t you?”

“It’s not just a job for either of us,” Victus corrected him.  “For me, it’s a service to bring order to the world and to bring financial stability to the abbey.  For you, it’s a way out of the trap you’ve fallen into.”

"Yeah, yeah..." Lucas poked a fork at the mass of greens in front of him and tried to convince himself that it looked tasty.  “I still want meat.”

“The last thing I need is to be hampered by someone who is fat and slow,” Victus said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Eat your vegetables. You’ll need your energy.  And use your salad fork.”

“What the fuck difference does it make?”  Lucas shot back.  He’d had about all he could take from this arrogant prick, and getting schooled on his table manners wasn’t helping.

“You’re no longer a pit slave or a grunt,” Victus explained, unfazed by Lucas’s grumpy attitude.  “There will be numerous occasions when you will be expected to eat alongside civilized people, and not using the proper utensil will make you stand out.  The last thing you want to do as a bodyguard is to call attention to yourself, so use your salad fork.”

“Yes, mother,” Lucas droned.  He shoved a fork full of salad into his mouth and chewed determinedly.  He had to admit that it wasn’t a bad salad. It had decent variety to it, and a couple of surprising inclusions, but it still wasn’t what he wanted. “We doing more of the same tomorrow?”

“Somewhat,” Victus answered, “but at lesser intensity. You will be sore tomorrow and I will make accommodation for that, but prepare yourself for rigorous training.”

Lucas considered boasting to the Kenzine that what they’d been through that afternoon hadn’t been so hard, but the truth was that he was exhausted.  What galled him most was that even after hours of high-intensity exercise, the stupid prick didn’t even look winded. “Why me?” he asked, suddenly.  “You’ve got to know there’s a thousand guys out there better suited to this gig than I am.  You don’t seem the type to be all, ‘Varius Rights! Gotta stick together!’” he said, waggling his fingers expressively. “So...why?”

“You are correct that a preference for other varii had nothing to do with my decision,” Victus admitted, sounding stony even to his own ears.  He made a conscious effort to ease up on the formality.  “You looked capable, you looked out-of-place, and you looked as though you might appreciate an opportunity to better yourself.”  He took a moment, considering his words carefully.  “The background check confirmed your capability.  Your scores from the Earth military academy were all exemplary, as were your evaluations from every one of your commanders in the field.”

Lucas inclined his head in silent confirmation of Victus’ facts, and the Kenzine continued. “Then one day, seemingly overnight, your records were sealed and you next appear a hundred light years away from your last posting, at a labor camp on Exxon 3.  They sold your rehabilitation contract to a construction team on Minos, and after only three months, they turned around and sold your contract to an unnamed private party, which almost never happens. He brokered you out to a “Mister Smith” here on Galise, and you ended up in the pits.”

Victus leaned back in his chair, pushing his food bowl to the center of the table to make room for his folded hands.  Although Lucas had verified the facts, he hadn’t volunteered any information.  Curious as he was about the other man’s past, Victus was not about to pry. He sought other information instead. “With each transfer your sale price increased, but your available funds decreased.”  His eyes narrowed.  “How does a man’s value go up, when his financial worth goes down?”

“Like I said,” Lucas sounded annoyed, “the more you’re worth to them, the harder it is for you to buy out your contract.  If they can’t charge enough on your account to keep you, they’ll just raise your buyout based on the value of your training, or whatever.  And guess who gets to pay the legal fees when you get sold?”  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, not wanting to become angry when he was already so tired.  “We’re just another commodity to them, and after the novelty of having a varius bodyguard wears off, I’m going to get sold to the next guy in line.” 

He looked around them.  The cooking staff had served the main dinner and finished their cleanup and had retreated to the servant’s lounge to eat their own meal, leaving them alone in the kitchen.  “So far as I can tell, this isn’t a bad gig.  But no matter what you tell me, no matter how hard I work,  I’d be a fool to think I was ever going to be able to buy myself out.”  He flipped his fork into his empty bowl, where it landed with a resounding ringing noise.  “And if there’s one thing Lucas MacKenzie is not, it’s a fool.”