Stafford arrived early at the arena, before most of the other regulars and organizers, giving him the cavernous space almost to himself. Good. He needed the time to acclimate to the tough challenges he would face that day. He must steel himself, get mentally ready.
Especially after yesterday.
He changed into his warmups, a simple off-brand pair of sweatpants and almost-matching sweatshirt, and laced up his running shoes. No pretentious logos adorned any of them. Talent and skill don’t need to shout for attention. He’d earned all accolades and renumeration coming to him.
Which is why today’s bout, and its arranged finish, bothered him so much.
Stafford started his warm-up laps around the gym. Physicality helped clear his mind and focus his thinking. He needed every bit of help he could get right now.
Foremost, Stafford had to come to terms with Cap’s order to throw his match. He understood the reasoning behind it, the importance of early wins for new recruits like the man he’d fight later that day. How winning boosted their confidence, and how that translated into a sense of belonging. Future losses would teach the lesson that nothing comes easy, and the value of overcoming hardships. How only the Group could lead them down the path of success, and how essential it was that they remain loyal to the Group.
He couldn’t push the thought out of his mind that being chosen to play the role of Loser was also punishment for his perceived “mistake.” Acting out of turn, taking initiative rather than waiting for orders. How this order—to throw the fight—was being used to reinforce the lesson of submission to the Group.
And how humiliated he would feel when he lost.
That, of course, was one of the great lessons he had learned long before the leadership drilled that resonating message into each of them: they were losers. Not through any fault of their own, of course: they were born with sub-par attractiveness, surface-level faults that led the Privileged Beautiful Few to look down upon them. It led Stacys to reject them, to deny them their God-given right to procreate, and to relish in the joys of sexual congress with the women they deserved.
Losing the occasional match—on purpose or otherwise—reinforced the reality of the injustice of their lot in life. They would endure their suffering as losers and rejects until they ended this insanity. On that glorious day, the Chads and Stacys would no longer dictate who would fulfill their reproductive destiny. Removing those gatekeepers was one of the key goals of the movement.
Not the end goal, which was the return of men to social dominance. Close behind: re-establish the freedom of every man to procreate with the woman of his choice. Nevertheless, removing the gatekeepers was an important intermediate objective.
However, even that objective required short-term steps, like recruitment. That meant, sometimes, losing.
Stafford realized he’d lost track of how many laps he’d taken around the facility. Judging by the clock, he’d run for about twelve minutes. At his slow pace, seven or eight laps. About half of his warm-up run. Enough time for a few people to arrive and start their warm-up workouts. Soon the arena would fill with noise, shattering his concentration.
Focus!
One of the new arrivals caught his eye, an athletic young woman with short hair. At first he thought it was that cop, Dawes, who had expressed interest in joining the fray this weekend. A second glance exposed his error: it was Nora’s scheduled opponent. This Becky wouldn’t need to throw her fight to experience the same humiliation as Stafford. Nora, a fierce and ruthless martial artist, had never lost. Which seemed unfair: why hadn’t Leadership asked her to throw a fight or two for recruitment purposes?
Because, of course, Nora was beautiful. Privileged. A Stacy.
And yet, she was damaged in her own particular, internal ways, which blessed her with an angry passion that made her sympathetic to helping the Group.
Stafford quickened his pace, keeping his eye open for Nora while his mind dwelled on Dawes. He had mixed feelings about the attempt to recruit the cop into a Nora-like role. Not least because Dawes, while moderately attractive, was no beauty. Pretty eyes and a killer ass, but skinny, stick-figured, and a little plain. Not one who would turn heads and bait top-notch men into the movement, like Nora.
Cap had insisted that he knew her history. Dawes, according to his sources, shared their inner anger. She had, he claimed, suffered in unspeakable ways they could exploit.
However, she was a cop. An enforcer of the Blue-pill status quo. Also, she showed signs of supporting, if not pushing, the FemiNazi agenda. Besides, the leadership allowed no women “inside.” Not even Nora. What made this woman so special?
Then his mind spun to a conflicting possibility. What if Dawes didn’t show? What would that mean? That she already suspected them—him—of breaking their pro-status-quo laws? What unreasonable risks had they taken in bringing her this close to the Group?
Stafford found himself running hard, his breathing becoming labored and his heart pounding, and he slowed to a brisk walk. The idea was to warm up, not exhaust himself. He should preserve his strength.
Or not. After all, Cap had ordered him to lose anyway.
A slender woman with short black hair entered the gym and caught his eye. Christ! Nora cannot see him like this! He wiped his face with a towel, turned his head to catch a discreet whiff of his underarm sweat. Not too bad. He glanced back at her, and she smiled at him.
Stafford could have melted into the floor.
Instead he walked on, calculating that their paths would intersect before she reached the women’s lockers.
But she outpaced him, and arrived several steps ahead of him. Dammit! He’d miss his chance again, and—
Nora paused outside the lockers.
Oh. My. God. She waited! For him!
“H-hey, N-Nora.” Stafford stopped a few feet away from her. For discretion, and to minimize the risk of her smelling him.
“Hey. You fighting today?” She shifted her shoulder pack, a nervous gesture.
“Yeah. I guess you could say that.” Stafford’s eyes sank to the floor. He’d hoped to avoid this topic with her.
“Oh. I see. You got a newbie?”
He nodded, knowing how sullen he appeared, but he couldn’t help it.
“Don’t fret it. You know what that means, right?”
He shrugged. “That I’m being punished.”
“No, dude.” Nora play-punched his shoulder. “It’s good news. It means they trust you. Leadership would only ask the Tried-and-True to take a fall for a recruit. You know that, right?”
He glanced up, his confidence returning. “For real?”
“Of course. It only makes sense, right? They wouldn’t entrust that responsibility to just anyone.” She leaned closer, her firm breast brushing against his arm, sending a thrill throughout his body. Nora whispered, “It’s a reward, silly. For a job well done.”
Stafford wanted to believe her. He really did.
But she didn’t understand.
How could she? High-level strategy would never be understood by, much less shared with, a woman. Even an attractive, Top 20% woman like Nora.
He risked so much even being seen talking to her. He’d need to cut this short.
“I hope you’re right,” he said, his tone noncommittal. “I kind of got the opposite impression from Cap.”
“Him?” Nora leaned in again. “He’s nothing, Stafford. A tool, at best. You’re way better than him. Always remember that.”
“You think?”
“I do.” She considered him for a moment. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you proud of what you accomplished this week?”
Stafford cleared his throat. “I don’t think the Group quite sees it the way you and I do.”
She cocked her head, a sad expression on her face. “They’re idiots.”
“Idiots who control my future in the movement,” he said.
Nora stepped closer. Dangerously close. Breast-brushing-arm-again close, almost. “Don’t you believe you did the right thing?” she asked, her voice almost too soft to hear.
Stafford shrugged again.
Her eyebrows rose. “You have doubts?”
He met her gaze, fierce and unyielding. “Shouldn’t I? I mean, the way they responded—”
Nora lifted his chin with a single finger, and her red lips hovered inches from his. “You know what they say,” she said.
“No, what?”
Those. Moist. Lips. Closer, closer. Whispering, “When in doubt,” and her slender tongue wet those ruby-red lips again, “escalate.”
Her fingertip slid down his throat, resting a moment on that little gap at the crest of his sternum. Then she spun on her heels, hitched her backpack up onto one shoulder, and practically pranced into the women’s locker room.
Val arrived at Tank’s mixed martial arts arena over an hour late, thanks to her mugshot assignment with Isaac Goldman. That meant she missed the tutorial for first-timers Tank had promised, meaning she’d have to rely on some last-minute side coaching during the warm-up drills and a quick sparring session. Plus, she hadn’t eaten since an early light breakfast, and her energy levels had already started to sag. To top it off, the spacious gym’s hot, humid air exacerbated the heaviness in her step.
Maya, her new friend from the dojo, greeted her as she entered. “You made it!” She gave Val a quick, unwelcome hug. “We were getting worried you’d be a no-show.”
“I had to work late.” Val noticed Maya’s attire—a loose-fitting workout set that made her figure seem even rounder than before. “I didn’t know you were part of this, Maya. I take it you’re not fighting today?”
“I…can’t,” Maya said. “I’ll explain later. The good news is, I’ll be your second. Come on, I’ll get you outfitted.”
“Is there a vending machine or someplace I can grab a quick bite first?” Val said. “I’m famished.”
Maya scrunched her face into a doubtful grimace. “Not a good idea.” She pressed her hands over her stomach. “You take a lot of hits to the midsection, and the last thing you want is to puke mid-round. That ends the fight.”
Val shrugged. Not a bad out, to her way of thinking. “Maybe an energy drink of some kind, then? I need something.”
“I’ve got a protein shake in my locker. Just drink half and you’ll be fine.”
Val followed Maya to the women’s locker room, taking in her surroundings on the way. At the far end of the facility, a circular performance ring, well-lit and encircled by a stiff, black net, rose up from the floor. Bleacher seats with the capacity to seat two or three hundred spectators surrounded the ring on three sides. On the fourth side, a folding divider wall stood poised to close off the public-facing performance area from the much-larger practice gym where she now stood. All around her, fighters in various forms of combat—at the moment, all men—occupied a half-dozen or so practice mats. Other participants engaged in solo workouts, stretching, or watching others train.
Val and Maya slipped between two sparring mats where Tank and Stevie Ray shouted advice, jeers, and scoring updates to the sweaty men grappling in front of them. Tank did most of the shouting, and he seemed irritated any time Stevie Ray chimed in. That bothered her. Even though she felt the constant need to repel Stevie Ray’s clumsy advances, Tank’s irritable bossiness and ego struck a deeper nerve. She pitied Stevie, but she disliked Tank.
The men wore gray practice shorts, no shoes, and protective headgear and mouthpieces. One was shirtless, and his smooth, muscular chest dripped with sweat. His opponent wore a tank top with an odd alien-face drawing on it, a flat-oval shape with something resembling a single antenna sticking out the head. Val recognized it from somewhere.
Her blood went cold when she placed it. It was a symbol she’d found in the IncelNation chat rooms. She glanced at the man’s face, long enough to verify he wasn’t one of the five guys on Goldman’s shortlist from that morning. She gave silent thanks she wouldn’t be fighting against men, particularly those who adhered to such extremist beliefs.
It confirmed her suspicion, though, that the incels were linked to the MMA fighters and could provide promising leads.
Val followed Maya back to the locker room, a cramped space with walls and floors of unmatched cracked tiles and flickering overhead lights. A loud ceiling fan removed none of the steamy moisture from the air. The entire space smelled of sweat, dirty laundry, and ancient attempts at disinfectant. Two aisles with fiberglass benches down the center and tall, harvest gold lockers on each side filled one half of the room. Toilets and shower stalls—none with doors or curtains, to her horror—occupied the other half.
Maya led Val to her assigned locker, where she stripped out of her jeans and blouse and reached into her gym bag for her gi.
“We don’t wear gis in this league,” Maya said. “Use these for your warm-up.” She handed Val gray shorts and a matching, tight-fitting spandex halter top. “You’ll wear blue in the ‘real’ fight. Your opponent will wear red. The ref will shout things to you by your color. If he says, say, ‘Foul Blue,’ that means you’ve broken a rule and can lose a point in the round. Scores are usually close, so don’t let that happen too often.”
“I don’t even know how they score these things, and what’s legal or not.” Val sipped the chalky-tasting protein drink Maya gave her. “Can you fill me in? You seem pretty comfortable with all this.”
Maya’s gaze swept the room. Her gaze lingered on the form of a tall, thin woman with short jet-black hair changing at the opposite end of the room. Val was certain she’d seen her somewhere, but couldn’t place where.
“I’ve been sparring here for a few months, but I’ve only competed once.” Maya lowered her voice. “I…didn’t do so well.”
“Is that why you’re sitting out today?”
Maya’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Not exactly. It’s…more personal.”
Val, sensing that she’d waded into a sensitive topic, changed the subject. “Tell me about this gear. Is all of it necessary?”
“Only the headgear and gloves are mandatory.” Maya fitted the soft plastic helmet around the crown of Val’s head, made a few adjustments, and snapped it into place. “The chest protector is optional, but recommended.” She held the thick, halter-shaped garment up against Val’s chest and clucked. “Might be too small for you, though. See how it feels once you put it on. The blue top goes over it.”
“If it’s too small for these boobs, it must be child-sized,” Val said with a grin. She turned away from Maya, self-conscious, and peeled off the sports bra she’d worn to the gym. She tried pulling the chest protector on. It got stuck around her shoulders.
“As I thought,” Maya said. “Too small on the band size. It’s a 32. Sorry, my fault. I’ll see if there’s a 34 available.”
Val peeled it off again and put her own bra back on. “I’ll pass. I’d swim in a 34. Besides, my girls feel comfortable in their own home.” She pulled on the gray halter and shorts. “Tell me about the fight itself. Rules, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll tell you while you warm up, to save time,” Maya said. “Don’t bother with shoes. We fight barefoot. Knee and elbow pads are optional, and I don’t recommend them—they interfere with your freedom of movement.”
Val weighed in, and Maya recorded her weight—one hundred twenty-four pounds—with a woman holding a clipboard. Then they headed out to a practice mat where Val proceeded through a quick version of her usual stretching routine. “Anything legal in any of the recognized martial arts—karate, jiu jitsu, judo, taekwondo, kickboxing—is legal in MMA,” Maya said. “Most fights last five rounds, but today you’re competing in a scrimmage fight, so it’s only three. Each round lasts three minutes and a scoring panel decides the winner based on who lands the best hits, knockdowns, and so on. You can earn up to ten points per round, and you’ll probably get at least seven, even in a bad round. Scores, as I said, are usually pretty close.”
“So there are no automatics, like knockouts or pins or that sort of thing?”
“Oh, sure,” Maya said. “If you knock out your opponent with a legal hit or combination, the fight’s over. If you pin them, same thing. That’s rare, though, because ‘excessive grappling’ is a foul. That poster over there lists all the fouls.” She pointed to a six-foot tall sign hanging on the wall near the fighting ring.
Val scanned the list.
Fouls
Grabbing fence
Holding opponent’s attire/gloves
Head-butting
Biting
Spitting
Pulling hair
Fish-hooking
Eye gouging
Attacking groin or throat
Attacking any cut or orifice
Fighting after the bell
Timidity
“Attacking an orifice?” Val asked, horrified. “Like, mouths and butts and…”
“Nose holes, you name it,” Maya said with a grin. “Also, any open cuts. You’d be amazed at what people try.”
Maya talked her through some basic strategies while Val stretched. “Go with your strengths, and pace yourself. It’s amazing how long three minutes is when somebody’s throwing punches at you or sits on your head.”
“And timidity?”
“Excessively avoiding contact,” Maya said. “Like what some boxers do, playing rope-a-dope. You’re here to fight, not flee.”
A bell rang, all too soon, and the few stragglers in the performance arena vacated to the practice side of the facility. Moments later, the divider wall rolled shut.
“Listen up, people,” Tank called out to the group. He stood on a padded box in the center of the practice area, arms outstretched and patting the air for quiet. “Show starts in ten minutes. Get your fighting unis on and check the run outside your locker for your match opponent and time slot. Queue up here when you’re on deck.” He pointed to a door in the center panel of the sliding wall. “We’ll go from lowest to highest weight class. There are more men than women, so we’ll plug the gals in as we can, one gal-fight for every two or three men’s bouts. Are you ready?”
“Ready!” a few men shouted back.
“What?” Tank said. “I couldn’t hear you. I said, are you ready to kick some friggin’ ass?”
The entire group erupted into a deafening cheer of “Hell ya!” and “Boo-ya!” which repeated for over a minute, getting louder until the very end.
The enthusiastic chants startled Val. “It sounds like a military boot camp in here,” she muttered to Maya.
“There’s way too much testosterone in this room,” Maya said. “That’s one reason I’m glad you made it. We need more gals around to keep these guys in check. Believe it or not, they’re worse when there are fewer women.”
The man in the IncelNation shirt raised his hand. “Aren’t you fighting today, coach?”
Tank shook his head and his gaze seemed to settle over the heads of the group. “They need me to, ah, help manage the arena. We had some no-shows. All right, everyone, hustle!”
A few male fighters behind Val grumbled complaints in a low voice. “He’s afraid of getting his ass kicked,” muttered a husky guy about Tank’s size.
“Pfft,” a smaller guy said. “He’d grind you to a pulp out there.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” the first man said, and they moved out of Val’s earshot.
Val and Maya followed a few other women across the gym to the locker room. The familiar-looking tall, black-haired woman led the way. “Is she a regular here?” Val asked in a low voice.
“She started a few months before me,” Maya said, also keeping her voice down. “She’s good. A friend of Stevie Ray, I think.”
Val spotted Stevie across the room, and he did, in fact, appear to have locked his gaze on the dark-haired woman. Val noticed Tank also ogling the woman, and a look of anger crossing Stevie’s face. Jealousy?
After the woman entered the lockers, Stevie turned toward Val, expressionless. Val nodded at him in acknowledgment. He glanced away in a hurry. Moments later, he and Tank seemed to get into some sort of argument again.
“What’s going on between those two?” Val asked once they entered the locker room.
“No idea,” Maya said. “Tank’s a good guy, but sometimes gets in kind of a mood and picks on someone. This time, it’s Stevie, I guess.”
Val changed into her match uniform and spotted the black-haired woman down the aisle again. She approached her and extended her hand. “We’re both wearing blue, so I guess we’re not opponents today,” Val said. “Have we…met somewhere?”
The woman made no move to accept the handshake. “I don’t think so,” she said in a lilting, Valley-Girl type of accent. She closed her locker and slipped past Val, saying, “Sorry, I gotta piss. Lots of luck today, biotch.”
Val watched her go and realized her voice also sounded familiar. “What’s with her calling me a bitch?” she asked Maya.
“She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Maya said. “It’s just what fighters call each other. We tend not to socialize before a fight, except with our seconds. We don’t want friendships getting in the way in the ring.”
“I see.” Except they wouldn’t be opponents, so…
“Is she a regular?” Val asked.
“I think so,” Maya said. “She fights in the Light class—one above yours. Ask Stevie. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time. You’ll be one of the first fights. I don’t think we have any Rooster or SuperFeathers fighting.”
“What the hell are—”
“Weight classes below yours,” Maya said. “You’re in the Featherweight class, 118 to 129 pounds. Bad news, I think your opponent’s on the higher end of that range.”
“Who is my opponent?” Val hustled to keep up with Maya, already heading toward the exit. She caught up with Maya at the match list posted on the wall outside the lockers. Kalie Walker, 128 lbs.
“Which one is she?” Val asked.
Maya nodded toward an athletic Black woman with her hair in cornrows working out nearby with a seven-foot-tall freestanding punching bag. Kalie’s muscular arms and legs contrasted with her thin torso and angular, bony face. The woman stopped punching and glared at them for a moment. Then she pointed at Val with a cruel smile and mouthed, “I’m gonna kick your white ass.” She demonstrated her intent with a vicious kick that nearly knocked the heavy punching bag to the ground.
Val found it difficult to swallow at that moment. And to breathe.
The first fight was scheduled for 4:00 p.m. An emcee with a booming amplified voice, reminiscent of a TV-wrestling announcer, riled up the raucous crowd. The audience seemed most delighted when he boasted of five women’s bouts as opposed to over a dozen for the men. Gil ought to be among the crowd—he’d promised to get off work early.
“I thought there were only eight weight classes,” Val said to Maya.
“Ten for the men, and middleweight classes are doubled up,” Maya said. “Lots of guys weigh in at that 180- to 200-pound range.”
Val noticed Stevie Ray stretching on a nearby mat. She recalled that he’d be in the men’s Featherweight class, 155 pounds maximum, the bout scheduled right before hers. Stevie smiled at her, and she responded with a curt nod. Good luck, she mouthed. He gave her a wry smile and a thumbs-up, then resumed his warm-up.
The emcee announced the first fight and a video monitor on the wall sprang to life. A door opened and the contestants ran down a welcome ramp into the ring. The stiff black netting closed behind them. The emcee reviewed the fouls, a bell rang, and the crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch. The two men closed in, throwing kicks, punches, and hard elbows to whatever body surface they found unprotected.
“Sloppy work,” said a man waiting behind Val. “No defense,” said another. “Come on, throw a decent punch!” complained a third. After that, the crowd noise got too loud for her to hear their commentary. Fine with her.
As Maya predicted, the ref allowed pretty much any fighting technique. The fighter in red favored karate-style punches and jabs, the other more of a kickboxing technique. The bout ended with both men bleeding from their noses and ready to collapse, and the fighter in red raised his hand in victory.
The second men’s fight featured two fast, wiry men, both with military-style haircuts, one Asian, one Latino. Theirs resembled a street brawl more than a martial arts competition, with lots of unintelligible screaming, punches to the throat and groin, head butts, and fighting after the bell. Each fighter drew multiple fouls and warnings, verging on disqualification.
When the ref declared the Asian man the winner after five rounds, Val shook her head in wonder. “How do they even choose a winner in a fight like that?”
“Points and fouls,” Maya said. “Like I said, penalties can be decisive.”
The third fight was Stevie Ray’s against a red-haired kid who looked like he belonged in high school. The young guy even adopted the ring name of “Baby Face” and grinned at the crowd pre-fight like a kid in a candy store.
“Carrot Top’s gonna get pureed in this matchup,” someone said, laughing.
“Baby Face gone shit his diaper,” someone else added to more laughter.
To Val’s surprise, Stevie, who always adopted an aggressive style at the dojo, came out in a defensive posture, waiting for his opponent to attack first. She wondered if he’d adopted a more traditional jiu jitsu style for this bout.
If so, it was a mistake. Baby Face seemed to sense Stevie Ray’s reticence and landed a barrage of kicks and jabs to Stevie’s midsection, partially deflected by Stevie’s arms. More blows landed on the side of Stevie’s head, a few blocked by his red gloves. A roundhouse kick took Stevie to the mat, and the redhead jumped on top, straddling him and pounding him with punches to the mouth.
Val glanced at the timer on the lower right of the screen. Less than half of the first round had elapsed. At this rate, Stevie would spend round two in the hospital.
Somehow he escaped, circling the ring and landing a few haymakers of his own, slowing Baby Face’s attack. At the end of the round, Stevie Ray mimed his trademark air guitar riff for the crowd, who roared their approval.
“He’s a showman,” Val said.
Maya scoffed. “He’s pathetic. I hope Baby Face kills him.”
It appeared she’d get her wish in the second round, which saw Stevie again open in a weak defensive posture. Baby Face took full advantage, forcing Stevie to back into the net and endure a series of blows to his ribcage. This time when Stevie went down, Baby Face kept him there, showering punishment on his opponent until the bell rang.
The same pattern repeated in the third and fourth rounds. Stevie reprised his air guitar mime after each round, but the crowd’s approval turned to derisive jeers. Val was surprised that Stevie could even stand to begin the final round, and astonished when he opened with a flurry of vicious kicks and punches to Baby Face’s body. He earned a knockdown, and seemed ready to pounce atop his opponent to finish him, but he held off, allowing the man back onto his feet. The two engaged in wrestling-style holds for the remainder of the round, a dull conclusion to an otherwise exciting battle.
Nobody was surprised when the ref lifted Baby Face’s hand in victory. Behind Val, money changed hands to pay off bets on the redhead’s underdog win. Val paid them no mind. Instead, she studied Stevie’s face on the monitor. She saw not the pain or humiliation of loss, but what struck her as resentment.
Val had no time to dwell on that impression, however, as the emcee uttered the words that filled her heart with dread.
“And now, for the first fight between the laaaadieeees!”