I lay tied up on a table, once again helplessly drugged and poisoned. When the stimulants cleared the fog from my mind, I took my rage out because I knew it was the only thing that would get me through. Sure enough, I could see the iridium, rhodium, cobalt, and vanadium dripping off, already cheerfully. Tungsten was also one, as were copper and tin. Oh, that's going to be a good metalized feeling. My thoughts were getting pretty sarcastic as I realized what was being done to me.
Several implants were shot into my stomach, and a hard plastic implant was also placed there. Then, I was turned over on my stomach, and something was installed near my spine. Mimosa and Mirella were out of the picture, both asleep. The metals had more and more effect; the stimulants sped up my metabolism to the point where I knew I was losing weight and a lot of it; I'm not supposed to be fucking fit; I'm not supposed to be fit at all.
My rage helped me to focus, and I knew I couldn't get out of here. It's no use. It's just going to last me the whole fucking six weeks. I knew I just had to concentrate, get really furious for the whole six weeks, and then see if I could get any men back to their senses.
The men weren't the main thing now. At least this time, they would be okay, and I wouldn't have to fix them. If the men wanted to be in their new lives, then so be it. My goal is to get better after I am free, and then my new sacred task is to destroy these horseshit ships.
They drugged me, poisoned me, whipped in me with such a frenzy. Finally, I gasped for air, my chest heaving with the intensity of my rage. It simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. I struggled to contain the beast within me, my body trembling with an uncontrollable energy. The drug coursing through my veins heightened my bloodlust, amplifying my growls and snarls as the men forcefully dragged me forward.
Reason had abandoned me entirely. I had transformed into a soulless killing machine, fueled only by the desire to maim and destroy. Violence consumed my every thought, leaving no room for anything else. They led me to yet another cage, a symbol of my perpetual existence as a fighter.
They also dubbed me "The Flea" here, a name meant to evoke fear and recognition among those who came to witness the spectacle and place their bets. This place was filled with despicable individuals called The Fuckers, eager to toy with their victims, fighters, that is, attempting to incapacitate them with drugs or any means necessary. These people became fair game, permissible targets for slaughter once the fight concluded. It was mandatory to kill all the fuckers.
Thankfully, my rage remained intact and was a reliable companion in this merciless arena. I relished the anticipation, knowing that I would not simply put on a show this time. Stripped of all but a shirt, trousers, and sneakers, I stood as a stark reminder of the brutality that awaited. It would hardly fit for a fighter to be adorned in a skirt and satin shirt.
The door to the cage swung open, releasing me. In a haze from the drugs, I entered the arena, confident that I had already killed everyone before. The fights were a blur in my memory, but I recall the metallic scent of blood, the visceral stench of entrails, and the sensation of plunging my hand inside an opponent, retrieving something gruesome. I remember sinking my fangs into a neck, drinking greedily until the life drained away.
The grueling schedule demanded 16 hours of non-stop fighting, with only brief periods of rest and preparation or the administration of drugs. The fights varied, sometimes involving bets and cocktails of substances. The effects of what they injected me with remained a mystery. But I discovered another use for the fuckers—they were a source of cleansing through their blood.
As I drained them, they perished quickly, as my fangs released toxic poisons and metals, ruining my makeshift purification kits. The dwindling supply of fuckers made it clear they knew about the effects of human blood on me. They restricted my access to it, no longer allowing the cleansing process.
The memories of the cage and the ship are hazy, but I recall the crowded stands, although I recognized no one. All that mattered was to keep going, to maintain the burning rage that consumed me. Pain, distress, and any trace of humanity vanished, replaced solely by the murderous lust that propelled me to kill, maim, and mutilate.
These fight clubs ships, and everything else shitty in my life was slowly but surely eating away last of my humanity, so to speak. Every time I recovered, I was little more ruthless, little harder, little stronger than before. They were slowly changing me into beast or predator, one who would love to snuff out a life when it was necessary. Nothing that Damon would do could not help, the change was permanent more or less and it was just one more thing for me to learn to control.
The irony of the ship's name, "Fight Club," was not lost on me; it was pure slaughter, not a mere fight. I didn't fight. I slaughtered. It should have been called a Slaughter Club, not a fight club. I did not know my condition, the time, or where it went. How long had I been here? The pure, white-hot rage that boiled in my mind was all that existed at that moment.
Samuel's jaw dropped in astonishment when his wife, with a glimmer of excitement in her eyes, announced that she was pregnant. However, deep down, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt. Despite their intimate moments in bed, which were usually rushed affairs lasting less than an hour, Samuel never truly envisioned himself as a father.
His thriving career consumed his mind, and thoughts of starting a family took a back seat. Meanwhile, his wife tirelessly tried to fulfill her role as a supportive spouse, always there to lend a listening ear, even when he remained silent. But Samuel's focus remained solely on work, his thoughts revolving around business matters. His wife was putting in her utmost effort, striving to be a good wife and assist in any way she could.
However, as time went on, Samuel grew bored. He sought solace in his demanding job, taking on more on-call shifts to escape his wife's presence at the hospital, allowing him to indulge in his own desires without pondering the gender of their unborn child or planning for their future education. Gradually, Samuel began secretly slipping medication into his wife's morning coffee, leading to an abortion. Surprisingly, he felt no remorse for his actions. In fact, he administered a drug that rendered her sterile, pressuring her to find employment.
Bran's professional life was no less demanding. Juggling responsibilities and constantly racing against time, he succumbed to the allure of his attractive secretaries, offering them favors to ease stress. At home, his wife had her own career and joyfully revealed her pregnancy. Bran nonchalantly agreed, suggesting hiring a nanny and opting for a private hospital, but his enthusiasm was lacking.
He had only been intimate with her once, and now she was bearing the consequences. The image of his wife's once-perfect body grotesquely swelling with child, her breasts engorged with milk, and her skin deteriorating haunted his mind. Yet, the secretaries provided a welcome distraction.
Bran no longer contemplated the future gender of his child or reveled in the joy of having an heir. His attention was now fixated on the new secretary on the sixth floor, daydreaming about how to lure her into his web of desires. However, Bran soon realized the consequences of a crying baby and the potential exposure to his indiscretions.
Fearful of losing his supply of indulgences, he arranged for his wife to have an abortion and generously financed her month-long Caribbean cruise with a couple of handsome young men. Surprisingly, once he had possessed her, jealousy no longer plagued him. The thrill of the chase faded, and Bran found himself bored with possessing a wife.
Adam's face turned red with anger as he forcefully threw his wife out of their home. The slamming of the door echoed through the empty hallway, leaving a lingering sense of tension in the air. The sound of shattered glass punctuated the silence as Adam's wife tearfully pleaded for him to reconsider. The stench of bitterness filled the room, as Adam coldly reminded her that their prenuptial agreement still stood, denying her any share of his vast fortune.
In a desperate attempt to salvage their relationship, his wife confessed that she would have an abortion, hoping it would change his mind. But Adam remained resolute, his focus shifting to his beloved farm. Calluses formed on his hands from years of hard work, a testament to his dedication. Yet, his anger continued to simmer, fueled by the betrayal he felt.
Adam's resentment grew stronger when his wife insisted he undergo a fertility check, questioning his virility. The derogatory words that escaped his lips were filled with venom, branding her as a manipulative and deceitful woman. Even when presented with evidence of her abortion, it only fueled Adam's disdain for his wife. He believed no woman would ever take advantage of him, and he saw her as nothing more than a shallow, blonde bimbo. The initial allure of a beautiful wife had faded quickly for Adam, leaving him unwilling to endure her demanding and shrill voice any longer.
Meanwhile, Damon, a prime minister, faced his own challenges. The demands of his position were overwhelming, compounded by his wife's extravagant spending on clothes, makeup, and parties. Then, the unexpected news of her pregnancy added to Damon's mounting stress.
As the pressure mounted, Damon's frustrations reached a breaking point. He unleashed his anger upon his wife, using physical force to assert his dominance. Gradually, she subdued, learning to fear the consequences of displeasing him. Tragically, the pregnancy was abruptly interrupted when Damon deliberately struck her in the abdomen, denying her the privilege of carrying his child.
Damon's contempt for his wife grew and whispers about the Swedish Prime Minister's impending divorce spread throughout the country. His meticulousness in handling the situation earned him a swift separation from the royal house. Damon ensured his wife's silence, using fear and intimidation to control her. A carefully crafted cover story about a drunken car accident masked the truth, explaining her broken bones and internal injuries. Damon's indifference to his wife's survival became apparent at this point. His own ambitions and career took precedence as he set his sights on becoming a diplomat in another country.
Chaos cat meowed contentedly. It's not every day you get to spoil the bad guys' plans. Her power was limited, though. To Mimi, her former owner, she could offer no help other than to get men off women. The rest would be up to Mimi. The chaos stretched. Her little, well, her "little" balls of chaos had ruined the Wulfe's plan to disperse the herd.
Chaos Cat had the freedom to do what she had to do. It was a counterbalance to Wulfe. Balance. Chaos Cat was delighted with herself and her accomplishments.
God walked on the beach in his cat form and came to ask, "What did you do again? You are so damn smug again."
The chaos cat smiled and said, " What happens if I throw an enormous ball of chaos into the plans of the evil ones? I had a chance when Wulfe did what he did, so I got to act, and I did."
The god smiled. Always this cat, always up to some mischief.
He said, "Just keep going, just keep going..."
The god was satisfied that his minions were doing his job, so he walked off to eat his prawns.
After four weeks, when the men's memories came flooding back, they remembered everything. They didn't know what had been done to Mimi, and Adam called everyone as soon as he remembered.
They all abandoned their fake lives, and Wulfe couldn't understand why. It was supposed to go another way, and now it became one big fucking chaotic mess. Wulfe understood when he took his time. He had done what he had done, and apparently, then, the good side could do this. Fine. Wulfe thought. He wouldn't give up yet. He would one day get his unicorn the freedom it deserved. Although he was furious at his brother for mistreating the unicorn, his brother gave him a slightly different account of what was happening on that ship.
Damon had the rage on full display and badly. He wanted to attack Wulfe, but the men decided to find Mimi first and see if she needed help. They did not know what Mimi had been through. Damon felt Mimi's rage, murderous hatred, and pain through their mating bond and knew she was certainly not in a good place.
Adam cursed as he felt it, too, and Damon used his powers to help Adam endure the white-hot rage that burned at the bond. Mimi would be a very dangerous creature when they faced this, and Damon wondered how the hell they could help.
The men had been free for two weeks and were in Washington when Mimi got off the ship. They had a house there that Adam had gotten and were having breakfast. The doorbell rang. Bran went to answer it, and Wulfe came in, freezing everything in place.
He said, "Fine, my little plan didn't work out then, so I can tell you where your lovely little flea was, so she spent time on my brother's cruise again, a pretty rough fight club ship. That cruise ended today. Don't worry. I'm not gonna jump on this pack just yet. And I'm not going after the flea. My brother is thrilled with the win he made on his bets. The spell that binds you in place will last an hour; by then, I will be long gone. See you sometime."
Then Wulfe was gone, and the men had frozen in place an hour before the spell was lost.
Damon would have liked to have gone straight after Wulfe, but Adam said, "Mimi's been on the fight club ship for six weeks; what condition do you think she's in? Do you think we can just go to her and start treating her? What do you, Damon, think she's been dealing with for six weeks, rage? We both feel what condition she's in. Mimi's got rage on display, all blown open, and plenty of it. She's injured, drugged, and metalized. She's been fighting for six weeks or probably just slaughtered blindly. We need to get her under control first, rest, and help where possible. Then maybe only then can we consider going after Wulfe."
Damon sighed. He hated it when someone talked sense into him, when he wanted to react and do something, but they would have to find Mimi first. Damon called the Magnum. First, they had to knock Mimi unconscious quickly and harmlessly, and then he could help with her anger management. Bran was already looking into the marrok business he had pending, and Samuel and Adam had no choice but to wait for Damon to find a way to fix Mimi.