The locker room swirled around Marissa, shifting wherever she wasn’t looking. It was an amalgamation of two worlds; the polished white tile of Paragon Stadium on Aegis, and her dirty, dark cell on Augerium. She couldn’t understand how they had come together like this, but she quickly forgot the discrepancy as her mind turned to other matters. She was sitting on a bench which looked like hard, solid wood, but felt as soft as a cushion. Stranger than that, though, she’d somehow come to be here dressed only in her nightgown, which would be a problem if she was supposed to be preparing for a match. Come to think of it, she couldn’t recall how she’d arrived here, either.
“Don’t concern yourself with that right now,” Coach said. Marissa hadn’t noticed him come in, but it felt as if he’d always been standing there.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Marissa said, examining every facet of Coach’s face. She never remembered what he looked like when she woke up, having only an imposing impression of him, so she took her time getting reacquainted with his appearance. There was always a sense of familiarity about the man, and every time she wondered how she could have forgotten him.
Coach folded his hands behind his back and paced the shifting floor in front of Marissa, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “We don’t have time for pleasantries—you have a battle ahead of you quite soon.”
Marissa glanced at the clock on the wall, but it had morphed into a hairy bat-like creature when she hadn’t been looking. That late already? She stood, hoping to find her armour in her locker, but Coach gently pushed her back onto the bench.
“I said you don’t need to concern yourself with that right now,” he said, sternly. “You can’t choose the right tools until you know your enemy.”
“But everyone uses standard equipment on Aegis.” For a horrible instant, Marissa wondered if she had somehow wound up back on Augerium. She frantically looked about the ever-changing locker room for signs of where she was.
“Pull yourself together!” Coach snapped. “You’re in a dream, you foolish girl, so compose yourself and pay attention.”
“Got it, Coach,” Marissa said, feeling relieved. “Just wanted to be sure.”
Coach sat down beside her, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. “Who is your opponent?”
“I forget,” Marissa answered, plainly. “Some big shot from the other side of the Kinship, I think. He’s been on TV the last few weeks, gloating about how humiliating my defeat is going to be. It’s going to be really embarrassing for him when he loses.”
“Bernhard Westri,” Coach answered for her. “Your opponent is Bernhard Westri. Do you recall what he looks like?”
Marissa shrugged. “Like most gladiators—big biceps, small head.”
Coach nodded. “Close enough, I suppose. How do you plan to beat him?”
Marissa considered the question carefully. “Depends what weapons we’re given, but my general strategy is to hit him really hard.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” Coach grumbled.
“Hit him harder,” Marissa answered, grinning. “You know I can.”
Coach nodded reluctantly. “You can, but I think you could do with a battle plan to help the hitting process along.”
Marissa wrinkled her nose. “You know me, Coach—I make it up as I go. The problem with a set plan is that the moment something goes wrong, it’s all going to go to pieces. Trust me—I’ve handled guys like this plenty of times, and if I fail this one time… well, this isn’t Augerium.” Just in case she was wrong about that, she waited for Coach to nod in agreement before she relaxed.
“You walk a fine line between strong-willed and thick-headed, Marissa.” Coach slapped her on the back, nearly pushing her off the bench. “I’m proud. Fine, do it your way. Just don’t humiliate yourself out there.”
Marissa smiled crookedly, lifting herself upright. “Please Coach, it’s been, like, days since I last did that.”
They shared a laugh, Coach’s chuckles deep and booming. Around them, the locker room became more cohesive. The walls ceased their undulations, objects remained in their previous state when Marissa looked away, and overall, it was looking more like the free world of Aegis than Augerium.
“Hey, Coach?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your real name?” She called him Coach because of these talks, but she had never actually caught his name. When they talked, he felt so familiar that it seemed that she must know it.
Coach gave her a measuring look. “Must we bother? You’re not going to remember.”
Marissa shrugged. “Maybe this time will be different.”
Coach sighed deeply, shaking his head to hide whatever he was really feeling. “Very well.” Then he told her, and Marissa was pleased, right until she woke up and had completely forgotten both the name and the face.
She opened her eyes gradually, accepting the light that slipped between the blinds in increments. Traffic reports nattered from the living room, along with the rapid tapping of a stylus on a screen. Marissa rolled out of bed and dragged herself to the bathroom.
She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known Coach. Her memories of her early childhood were hazy, but it had seemed like he’d always been there, waiting in her dreams to push her forward. He wasn’t there every night; he picked his times, but he always seemed to know the moments he was needed. Coach was ready to talk before every match, both on Augerium or Aegis, always with advice and encouragement. It was the stressful times he showed up for, too, like the great escape; he’d been present for every leg of that taxing journey. Arc’s opinion was that Coach was a figment of her imagination, a way for her subconscious to deal with anxiety, but Marissa wasn’t so sure. Either way, she wouldn’t have been able to get through some of those times without his help.
She cleaned herself up, then did a few stretches. The day was young, and her bout with Westri was hours away. She could fill the time until then with a trip to the gym, maybe answer a few questions from the reporters who always seemed to flock around the stadium before a match, or maybe she’d just stay home and conserve her energy. The biggest perk to living in the Kinship was being able to plan her day as she wanted.
She found Arc at the table in the living room of their small home, stabbing away at his tablet screen with a stylus. As always, he appeared to be completely absorbed in his work, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he input whatever report or speech he was working on. His nearly-black eyes were fixed on the screen, the scar running between them and down across the bridge of his nose adding to the intensity of his stare. He didn’t spare Marissa a glance as she entered.
“Morning, honey,” Marissa said, alerting him to her presence.
Arc paused in his work and turned to her. “Morning. I made coffee, if you’d like some.”
She did. After procuring a hot cup from the kitchen, she returned to the living room and took a seat on the couch. A screen hung from the wall across from her, showing the most recent news from across the Kinship. Pirates had been raiding along the frontier again, and there were rumours they were getting support from the Bythos Empire. Negotiations with the Aquila Alliance to establish stronger trade and relations would soon be underway, though the news of a Rashani acting as mediator had caused some controversy with more nationalistic individuals. Marissa began to tune the news out as it turned to some new fad religion that was gaining traction across the galaxy. Things seemed pretty good, as far as her life was concerned.
Her eyes wandered downwards to the mantelpiece beneath the screen, where her old spear from Augerium rested across the top. Its long shaft ended in a cylinder of hard blue plastic, which connected it to the sharp steel triangle it had for a head. The cylinder was ringed with narrow slits that would release an array of backwards facing hooks when a button at the base was pushed, ensuring that whatever was stuck with the spear stayed stuck. It was a horrible weapon, more suited to fighting large beasts than people, but it had been used for both. All the same, Marissa didn’t mind taking it down some afternoons and spearing a few practice dummies, just to recall the sensation of using it.
“Will you be going out soon?” Arc asked from his place at the table.
“Uh, yeah, in a few,” Marissa answered distractedly, her thoughts pulled from the old world back to the new.
“Any idea when you’ll be back?” Arc continued to work as he spoke, every word punctuated by the tap of his stylus.
“I have a match today,” she replied. She wasn’t sure if he needed reminding, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “Four o’clock. You gonna come watch?”
Arc’s lips pressed together. “I’m busy today. I need to be home to make arrangements.”
“Oh,” Marissa said, weakly trying to hide her disappointment. “Well, are you at least going to watch the broadcast? It’s going to be all over the sports channels, so you can’t really miss it.”
“If I remember.” That was Arc-talk for ‘no’.
The refusal stung, as it always did, but Marissa was hardly surprised. Arc had made it no secret that he disapproved of her choice of work. He didn’t see any difference between the fighting pits of Augerium and the stadiums on Aegis, and acted as if getting paid and not having to worry about losing her head wasn’t a huge change. She understood his aversion to being a gladiator, but she was the one still fighting, not him. They’d argued about it when she’d first started, but now that Marissa Rhapsody had made something of a name for herself, Arc had settled for mere indifference towards her career.
“I’ll make something special tonight,” Arc said, all of a sudden.
Marissa’s ears pricked up at that. “Huh? What’s the occasion?”
Arc gave her a blank look that was far more expressive than a glare. “The negotiations with the Aquila are scheduled for a week from now, and I’m catching a ship tomorrow morning. I thought I might do something nice before I leave.”
“Oh, right—I remember.” Well, at least she remembered now. “Would you remind me how long you’re going to be gone for?”
Arc turned his eyes back to the screen and tapped his chin. “Two to three weeks, depending on travel times and how easily the Aquila can be persuaded. Is that OK with you?”
Three weeks alone; what was she going to do with herself? She had friends, mostly other gladiators, so she would have people to talk to. But at home, at least, she would be lonely. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Good to know.” Arc leaned towards the screen, giving it his full attention, and that was it for their talk.
Marissa got herself a bowl of cereal and ate it while half-watching the TV. An ad for the match popped onto the screen, grabbing her attention: an invisible announcer bellowing, “Aegis gladiator Marissa Rhapsody takes on Zen System champion Bernhard Westri at Paragon Stadium! The rising star versus the galaxy famous brawler, today at four! Don’t miss it!” The announcement was accompanied by clips of Westri, a huge man with only a small scattering of hair, disarming opponents in an assortment of competitions. Marissa received a single clip from the previous season, when she’d thrown Darrin Zaet, a man more than twice her size, over her shoulder and a fair distance behind her. More than five years fighting at Paragon, and that was the only accomplishment they thought worth showing? Westri was clearly the favourite to win; at just barely five feet, she must look pretty minuscule next to that bulk of a man. At least she didn’t have a tiny head.
She gathered up her gym bag with everything she’d need for the day before her, then swung by Arc to plant a light kiss on his forehead, which he accepted without resistance. She headed for the door, feeling around her pockets for change she could use for the bus.
“My soul?”
Marissa stopped and turned, smiling. For the first time that day, Arc’s eyes were completely occupied with her. “Yes?”
Arc folded his hands together, brow furrowed. “Don’t kill anyone, and good luck.” He said it without a hint of humour. “Remember, never make the first move.”
Marissa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll remember. But honestly, I prefer to make it so that the first move is the only move.”
Arc replied with a tiny smile. “Be home for dinner tonight, remember.”
Marissa nodded, but her mind was already focused on her date with Westri at four.
* * *
The crowd was chanting by the time Marissa stepped into the arena, hollering from the bleachers encircling the stadium with requests for violence. Where most of Augerium’s fighting pits had been shoddily constructed arenas with uneven dirt floors that often made it difficult to get good footing, Paragon’s arena was level, with the boundaries marked out in white paint. The cameras attached to the structure’s support pillars swivelled at her approach, and suddenly Marissa’s face was bloated to massive proportions on the big screens above the audience. She smiled and waved, both to the crowd around her and the viewers across the Kinship, as her name was hollered by many of the former.
She’d gone with her usual lightweight armour for this match. It was coloured blue, with a white emblem painted across the chest plate displaying the Serpent’s Head constellation: six white stars arranged in an arrow shape. The Serpent’s Head was the constellation between Kinship and Empire territory, and she’d chosen the symbol as a reminder of how far she’d come. The armour covered all her vital areas, combining metallic plates across her torso and limbs with a durable fabric for mobility. The company that had supplied the armour bragged that the lightweight alloy could stop bullets and concentrated laser fire, although she’d thankfully never had to test that claim. It was far better than the armour she’d had in her earlier years, which couldn’t stop a pin.
She held her helmet at her side, wanting to greet her opponent face to face before putting it on. The helmet would cover most of her head, and she’d tied her brown hair back in a ponytail to fit it through the small hole at the back. The face was open, but a long nose-guard reached down to block any direct attacks.
Westri’s arrival was heralded by a crash of drums over the loudspeakers as he emerged from the far doors. His armour was such a mess of advertisements and corporate logos that it was impossible to see the emblem that signified his gladiator identity. He’d already donned his helmet, perhaps to hide the tiny-ness of his head, but his arrogant smirk could be seen from miles away as he casually strode to the centre of the arena, working the crowd into a frenzy with broad sweeps of his arms.
Marissa met him at the centre, and the difference in stature was suddenly very apparent. Westri was more than a head taller than her, and his shadow stretched out to eclipse her entirely. To emphasize the point, the large man hunched forward to look down on her, his smug expression reminding her of countless brutes she’d fought over the years. She offered her hand, hoping to dispel some of Westri’s animosity. The hulking gladiator looked at the offering with a grin that edged on a sneer, then clasped it in his own meaty paw.
“May we both fight to our best,” Marissa said, meeting Westri’s leering eyes without flinching.
“I plan to.” Westri held her hand longer than most fighters did, leaning in close to whisper, “You should have stayed in the Empire, little girl.” Then he released her, strutting back to his place as the sword-bearer approached.
The shock hit Marissa like a punch in the gut, and she fought to hide how much those words had hurt her. He couldn’t know; Westri didn’t seem the type to pay attention to anything outside his own little universe. He couldn’t know what it meant to be a gladiator on Augerium, what she’d suffered through. Ignorance was the only explanation for why he would say such a thing. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d known, unless his heart was rotten.
A mild cough shook Marissa from her daze. The sword-bearer was standing beside her, holding a box containing two silvery swords. Per tradition, the home fighter had the right of first choice for weapons. Marissa muttered an apology and selected one of the blades, then held it above her head for the crowd to see. A cheer erupted from all around the stadium. She slipped her fingers into the grip around the hilt, then nodded to the sword-bearer, who took the other sword to Westri.
Marissa met her opponent’s gaze across the ten-foot space between them, and saw that smirk again. He knew. How could he not? Marissa had never hidden her past when asked about it, and Arc had built a political career out of his own. If Westri knew she had once lived in the Empire, then he must have heard at least some of what she’d gone through. He knew, but had said it anyway. Should have stayed in the Empire; should have stayed a slave.
Rage built within her, filling her up like a container until it seemed to clog her ears and muffle the roar of the crowd. Where did a pampered baby like Westri get such arrogance? He had never lived the life of a real gladiator, never had to kill for the amusement of high-and-mighty lords, just to earn the right to live. He’d never known the humiliation of sleeping in a filthy cell every night, eating the scraps and tasteless mush that was offered, or suffered the anxiety of knowing the next day might be the last. Westri wouldn’t have lasted a week.
She almost didn’t hear the starting bell. Arc’s advice had been for naught, as Westri came charging at her before she could even consider making the first move. His sword came swinging straight down on her, and she stepped aside, nearly tripping over herself. She gritted her teeth and tried to focus. She was getting careless; the strict safety measures on this planet meant she wasn’t constantly fighting for her life, and it was difficult to deny that it was affecting her performance. But her dignity was at stake now, and she was not going to let Westri’s taunting go unpunished.
Westri stabbed in her direction. Marissa caught the sword with her own blade and pushed it aside with a flourish, and the crowd whooped in response. Westri growled, then continued on the offensive, striking at her again and again but landing only a couple of weak blows on her arm guards.
Marissa had learned a long time ago that constantly attacking was a mistake. There was no time to catch a breath; such attacks came continuously, one after the other, which meant the attacker was less focused and increased the odds of making a mistake. Case in point: Westri misjudged a stab, missing Marissa and extending his arm far out in front of him. Marissa ducked low and wrapped her arms around his wrist. She tugged sharply and Westri dropped his sword with an exclamation of pain.
One point for her. Gladiator fights lacked many of the strict rules of conventional sports, and win conditions varied widely from match to match, especially in a non-tournament bout like this. On Augerium, it had usually been to the death, but the Kinship was far less barbaric. The armour was better, meaning blades wouldn’t cause serious injury, and the victor was usually decided by a certain number of disarms or until one fighter was incapacitated. Unfortunately, after the shock of Westri’s taunt, Marissa couldn’t remember the number they’d agreed on. She released Westri, who pushed past her to retrieve his sword.
“Was it best out of three, or three disarms total?” Marissa asked.
Most of Westri’s face was hidden behind his helmet, but she could tell he was furious. “Three disarms, you stupid bitch!”
The bell rang and the next round went by in a blur. Marissa had heard Westri’s words, then his sword was coming at her, and she knocked it out of his hand with a single swing.
“Right, sorry, I forget sometimes,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Guess that’s two-zero, huh?”
“Looks like you’ve got the brains of an Imperial, too—no room to fit anything,” Westri snarled, moving to retrieve his sword.
That was it. “Hold it!” Marissa had only meant to speak normally, but the force of her voice brought Westri to a halt and stunned the tumultuous spectators into silence. All eyes were on her.
She dropped her sword and kicked it aside. “You’re a brawler, aren’t you? That’s what I hear, at least. Since you obviously know nothing about wielding a sword, why don’t we settle this with our fists?”
The sword-bearer, acting as a referee from the sidelines, raised his voice to object, but Westri lifted a hand to quiet him. “Sure, we can do that,” he said, his voice filled with glee. “First to surrender loses?”
“How else would we do it?” Marissa asked, blankly.
The ref hollered at them impotently to keep to the rules, then ran off to find the stadium’s managers. Marissa didn’t let it worry her; this would’ve been a serious rule infringement if they were in a tournament match, but there was nothing really at stake here except their reputations. The managers were smart, and they wouldn’t interfere if they thought it would make a good show for the crowd, who were already screaming enthusiastically. They were not particular as to the kind of violence they watched, so bending the rules wasn’t a big deal. Cries of “Rhapsody!” reached Marissa’s ears, and she readied herself to give them something to remember. She removed the armour on her arms and her helmet, wanting to let Westri have a chance by giving him something soft to hit.
Westri made a show of cracking his knuckles, but kept his open-faced helmet on. If he had seemed smug and confident before, he now appeared absolutely convinced of his victory. This was his fighting style of expertise, no doubt about it.
They circled each other, each taking stock of their opponent in light of the new medium of combat. Westri was a big man, his bare arms thick with muscles, and he could probably put quite a bit of strength into a punch. He almost seemed to strut, more focused on working up the crowd with waves and thunderous roars than on Marissa. He probably thought he’d just had a lucky break, and that he could trounce her in a fistfight. Maybe he was right.
But Marissa had another weapon, one she spent most of her bouts trying to hold back. Only today her anger was like a pressure inside her skull, pushing for a way out so that it could scald Westri with its burning wrath. A showboating gladiator was nothing new—Marissa had done it herself plenty of times—but this tiny-headed tool had touched a nerve, one that she’d thought was buried far deeper. She couldn’t let him get away with that.
The crowd was relentless, urging both combatants to make a move. The rage within her was almost impossible to resist, pushing her to lash out, but Marissa knew she had to restrain herself like she always did, at least for the moment. She pictured Arc, who had lived nearly the same life as her, and had become ever calm and cool-headed, but still strong. Patience, he said to her, never make the first move. She came to a stop, eyes fixed in a hateful glare on Westri.
The brute came to a stop as well, tilting his head like some dumb animals did. “Well, are you going to come at me, or just stand there and piss yourself?”
She couldn’t hold out against her own anger. It was like trying to stop a tidal wave, only the rushing current was herself; a primal will that had kept a little girl alive when she should have died long ago. She lunged towards Westri with a snarl.
Westri raised a fist to bring down on her head, but Marissa jabbed him in the side he’d exposed, digging her knuckles into the fabric between the plates of armour. He winced back, clutching at his side and swearing. He swung out with his fist, but it lacked whatever force he’d meant to put into it, and Marissa swatted it away as she might an insect. Next, her fist found its way to Westri’s chest plate, hitting the mess of advertisements with unrestrained force. The armour buckled from the impact, knocking the wind from Westri. Marissa pulled her fist away from the indentation, her knuckles not even scratched, and a shocked murmur spread through the crowd.
Westri stood half-bent and dazed, and Marissa wasted no time in pressing her advantage. She grabbed hold of his shoulder, digging her fingers in hard, then yanked him down. Westri went to his knees with a startled gasp and a pitiful attempt to pull free. She struck the side of his head to keep him still, leaving a crack in his helmet. A second blow brought a pained whimper and more desperate struggling. The crowd had erupted into an uproar once more, although it was hard to tell if they were excited or terrified.
The ref returned and came running, his voice a dull buzzing in Marissa’s ears. He wanted her to stop, she guessed, but she wasn’t finished with Westri just yet. She took aim at his face, just long enough to give him a fright, then delivered the final blow. As her fist slammed into Westri’s helmet, there was a snapping sound that only Marissa’s keen hearing could pick out, quickly muffled by the gladiator’s howl of fear. His helmet fell away from his head in pieces, smashed beyond repair.
She released Westri, but the other gladiator remained on his knees, trembling as he ran his hands over his now exposed head. He met her eyes, arrogance replaced with a pathetic, pleading look.
“M-mercy,” he said, whining out the word.
The rage spilled from Marissa in an instant, leaving her wavering on her feet. Her hands fell limply to her sides, the fight gone out of them. She looked at Westri again and felt a twinge of satisfaction, but also guilt.
The ref conferred with his phone before nervously approaching Marissa and taking her hand. He lifted it above their heads, declaring her the winner. Despite their confusion, the crowd never turned down a chance to cheer, and Marissa’s name roared across the arena.
A troop of medics came to help the dazed Westri to his feet and led him out of the arena. Marissa watched him go, and before he disappeared through the locker room doors, he turned a look of misery and fear in her direction. He would be fine physically, but his ego might have taken some lasting scars.
There was another stab of guilt. She didn’t doubt that she deserved her victory, but she could have achieved it in a more restrained way. She hadn’t meant to get so angry, hadn’t meant to break anything. If she hadn’t got a hold on herself when she did, Westri might have needed a stretcher. For once, she was glad Arc didn’t watch her matches; he would not have approved.
She didn’t know where her strength, which seemed so out of proportion to her small size, came from, only that it was hardest to control in the heat of battle, especially when she got angry. It exceeded the strength of any human fighter she’d ever faced, and had made her a curiosity among slave holders in earlier years. She didn’t have many occasions to talk about it, and even Arc shied away from the topic, so it was sort of a secret, although people must have noticed when she slipped up like today.
The difficulty in fighting on Aegis had nothing to do with winning. She was certain she could beat any gladiator the Kinship could throw at her. The real challenge, and the subject of many of her nightmares, was trying not to kill anyone.
* * *
The showers at Paragon Stadium were always good for cooling Marissa’s head. Once she’d slipped past the mob of eager interviewers that had broken through security, she hid in the locker room and disrobed. With the turn of a knob, cold water doused her body and washed away her worries for a short while. It was soothing, allowing her to empty her mind and put it all back in neatly.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood beneath the downpour, but at some point, she decided that was enough and turned the water off. She returned to her locker, drying herself off as she went. She dropped the towel on the bench beside her as she opened her locker to retrieve her everyday clothes.
Footsteps came from the other side of the room, then stopped not too far behind her. “Y’know, as far as gladiators go, you’ve got the finest ass among them.”
Marissa glanced over her shoulder to see Matt Rexis, a grin spreading across his stubbly face. His presence was not unexpected, as gladiator arenas rarely had gendered locker rooms. It was a tradition Marissa had never understood, and back on Augerium she’d just assumed it arose out of indifference towards the fighters. Aegis, which was far more mindful of its people’s rights and comfort, had no such excuse.
Then again, it wasn’t all bad. Marissa discreetly eyed the tight muscles of Rexis’s stomach, working her way down to the towel that hung so low on his hips as to give a hint of his grooming habits. From this perspective, the pros and cons seemed to balance out.
She turned back to her locker and unhurriedly reached for something to put on. “Speaking of asses, is yours still sore from that whooping I gave you last week?”
Matt laughed. “You got lucky, babe. Next time we’re in the ring together, I’ll give you the best fight you’ve ever had.”
“Mhm,” Marissa replied, unfolding her clothes. She’d actually held back more than usual in their match, expecting Matt to pull some kind of trick. But after ten minutes of evading his blows, she’d realized with some disappointment that he was a pretty mediocre fighter. She’d taken one of his hits and feigned being winded to avoid humiliating him completely, then quickly disarmed him. It seemed to have just inflated his ego further.
Matt’s hands suddenly fell on her bare shoulders, the warmth of his body pressing against her back. “Of course, we could have a little wrestling match right now, if you want.”
Marissa looked up at him with a smirk. Matt inspired absolutely no fear in her. Disregarding the fact that she could easily floor him if he tried anything really untoward, he was mostly harmless. “I’m good, thanks.”
Matt met her eye for a moment, and something there told Marissa he was thinking of the match she’d just won. He stepped back, seating himself on the bench as Marissa dressed herself. “Great job today. You really kicked the shit out of Westri.”
“He’s the best gladiator in the Zen System, or so I was told,” said Marissa. “I didn’t want to hold anything back.”
“That’s what I guessed,” said Matt, but a touch of concern had crept into his voice. “He say something to you? You looked pretty angry.”
“It’s not important,” Marissa said, pulling a shirt over her head.
“Guess not. Did Scars make an appearance today?”
Marissa turned to face Matt again, giving him a stern look. “He only has the one scar, and you know it. No, he has important work to do—he’s part of that stuff with the Aquila.”
Matt shook his head. “I just don’t understand how a man can marry a woman so amazing and then just ignore her. Your ass alone should have him following you everywhere.”
Marissa didn’t entirely disagree, but she was driven to defend her husband. “Arc lived the same life I did, and we deal with that past in our own ways. I can’t blame him if he never wants to see another arena ever again.”
“I guess.” Matt nodded slowly. “Did you two ever fight?”
“Did you want something, or did you just come to ogle me?” Marissa snapped.
Matt held up his hands in surrender. “The others will be finishing their training soon. I wanted to ask if you’d like to have a few drinks to celebrate your win. I know Arlen and Zurn are down for it.”
Marissa relaxed and let herself smile. No need to get so angry. “Zurn? I thought Phal couldn’t drink alcohol.”
Matt grinned once more. “Gotta have a designated driver. You in?”
A drink sounded good. Hanging out with her friends sounded better. “I’m in.”
* * *
The lights were dimmed when Marissa returned home late that night. Was it a romantic gesture, a power shortage, or a burglary in progress? Marissa closed the door behind her and dropped her bag in the hall. “Arc? You home?”
No answer. He’d probably gone to bed early, as he did on busy days. Nothing to worry about. Her stomach growled; she’d quenched her thirst at the bar, but she hadn’t thought to get dinner. She removed her jacket and tiptoed into the kitchen.
Arc was waiting for her at the kitchen table, arms loosely folded in a gesture Marissa had grown to dread. His tablet glowed by his elbow, and Arc’s head was tilted to read it even as Marissa came into the room.
“You’ve been drinking,” Arc said, suddenly. Disapproval was thick in his voice, and it scraped against Marissa’s nerves, bristling her temper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, mimicking his arm fold without any of the conviction.
Arc gave her a sidelong glance. “I can smell your breath from here.”
Marissa narrowed her eyes, turning her nose up a little. “You got me. So what? I don’t get drunk, so what’s the problem?” That was not strictly true; she could get drunk, but the amount of beer it would take was more than she would’ve been comfortable buying in a week. It was another oddity of her life, like her strength or her keen senses. While her friends had gotten thoroughly drunk (save Zurn, whose preferred method of inebriation was a fungus unique to the Phal home planet), Marissa had only achieved a light buzz that night.
“No problem, just an observation,” said Arc, quietly. He swiped a finger across his tablet and then very deliberately leaned closer to look at it. “I take it you won.”
“I did,” Marissa answered, approaching the table. “What’s bugging you?”
Arc sighed. “Dinner’s in the microwave, but it won’t taste as good as it was fresh. I thought about baking a cake as well, but when you didn’t come home, I decided not to waste the effort.”
Marissa’s heart sank. Dinner. Right, she’d said she would be there. Arc’s cold mood suddenly made much more sense.
“I’m sorry,” she said, struggling for an explanation. “The fight was more hectic than I expected, and then I started thinking about other things, and I completely forgot.”
Arc shrugged his shoulders, still thick with muscle after all these years. “Whatever you say. I just thought I’d make this last night together special.”
Marissa was on the verge of kicking herself. Once tomorrow rolled around, Arc would be gone for weeks. How could she have let something so important slip her mind? She tried to apologize again, but Arc took his tablet and left the kitchen without a word.
Defeated, Marissa sulkily peeked into the microwave. Dinner had been chicken, seasoned with honey and garlic. Half a bottle of red wine, Arc’s drink of choice, stood on the counter. Still fairly sober, Marissa poured herself a glass while she reheated the food, then took both into the living room.
Instead of going to bed, Arc had returned to his desk, tapping away at his tablet again. Marissa passed him with a wary glance on her way to the couch, then set her plate on the coffee table and dug in. She thought about watching something on TV, but that seemed a bad move with Arc’s brooding presence behind her. Worse, she might accidentally tune into a discussion on her savaging of Westri, which would not improve his mood. She finished the meal in silence, washing it down with wine. Reheated food was a shadow of its original self, but Arc’s cooking held up pretty well. She told him so, but he just grunted and kept pretending to work. A doubt took root in her mind, and she began to wonder whether this was worse than she’d thought.
“Honey?”
“Yes?” Arc replied, curtly.
“Are we still one?”
Arc put his stylus down abruptly, then leaned back in his chair. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, until Arc finally rose and came to sit beside her. He wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders, and leaned his head against Marissa’s.
“Always and forever, my soul,” he said, almost whispering.
Relieved, Marissa snuggled up against him, lifting a hand to toy with his hair. “I’m sorry about forgetting.”
“And I’m sorry for leaving,” Arc said. “I don’t know how I’m going to last without you.”
“I’m always with you,” Marissa said, kissing his cheek. “One soul means always being together.”
Arc nodded, smiling, his anger dissipated. “We’ve still got a few hours left. What do you think we should do?”
Marissa giggled, rolling her eyes. “Well, I’ve got a few ideas, but I thought you’d need to rest up for tomorrow.”
“I’ll manage,” Arc said with a wry grin. He cupped her chin in his hands, and Marissa let him lift her head so they could kiss. Within a few short minutes it was as if they couldn’t remember fighting at all.