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Authors: Steve Liszka
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unlike most of the other heavyweights he was quick and limber, moving more like a middleweight. If he was pumped full of the steroids the guards handed out to the fighters, it certainly didn’t show. His opponent was smaller but younger than Warchild, with his whole upper body, shaven head included, covered in scrawling prison tattoos.
When the fight started The Beast came out trying to knock Warchild’s head off but he easily dodged the younger man’s wild hay-makers. Taylor thought he saw the bigger man smile as he leant back to avoid a right hook that only connected with air. After allowing the challenger a few more clumsy attacks, Warchild finally countered with one of his own, landing a perfect five-punch combination. The last two were unnecessary as his opponent looked to be out on his feet before they had even landed. The fight had lasted less than two minutes. With the other prisoners chanting Warchild’s name, Taylor was surprised to see the victor walk back towards the guards and not stomp all over his unconscious victim as would have certainly happened if their roles had been reversed.
When the phone rang in the morning Taylor was still lying on the couch with the bottle of whisky held tightly in his grasp. A small stain lay on his carpet where the remains of the bottle’s contents had spilt out. Usually when he woke up with a hangover he would force himself through a gruelling circuit of press-ups, sit-ups and pulls-ups, followed by a short but intense run through his neighbourhood. On this occasion he could barely get dressed.
Chapter 7
By the time Taylor reached the glass fronted headquarters of SecForce, his head was feeling marginally clearer. Waiting outside Captain Mason’s office, he made sure to sit underneath the air-conditioning unit, gasping as the cold air made contact with the sweat on his back.
On the wall next to his office, there was a copy of the famous picture of Mason that had dominated the newsbites a few years before. It showed a large group of angry demonstrators pushing towards him. One was holding a tatty banner aloft which read ‘Free market = Slave Labour’, whilst his companions armed themselves with metal pipes or planks of wood.
Mason could be seen standing firm in front of them; his left arm outstretched with his palm up, halting the crowd’s progress. His right arm was drawn back behind him, waiting to unleash the club he was brandishing on the next person who pushed too far. At his feet, lay the unconscious or possibly dead form of a man he had already dealt the club to. Blood streamed from a deep gash on the fallen man’s head, pooling around Mason’s feet.
The picture had been taken not long after Triage was put into place, the hostiles being a small factory worker’s union. They were demonstrating after they had all been sacked when their place of work was converted into one of the first production centres. From that time on, the owners would be using immigrants and prisoners to make the goods the factory produced, and much to their approval, payment to their new employees would no longer be a necessity.
Whilst he waited, Taylor watched as a long parade of men in white overalls walked down the corridor clutching large, heavy-looking boxes. They were heading towards the stairs that led to the top floor of the building. As he idly thought about what they may have been doing, Mason’s pretty young secretary announced that her boss was ready to see him.
Mason always made him wait a suitably long time before their meetings commenced. Taylor was sure it was just to hammer home the point that he was the more important of the two. The man was something of a rarity; a senior officer who had come up through the ranks, rather than most of the new blood who had moved in from corporate management positions. Despite being one of the men so to speak, he was still an arrogant bastard who couldn’t resist a photo
When the fight started The Beast came out trying to knock Warchild’s head off but he easily dodged the younger man’s wild hay-makers. Taylor thought he saw the bigger man smile as he leant back to avoid a right hook that only connected with air. After allowing the challenger a few more clumsy attacks, Warchild finally countered with one of his own, landing a perfect five-punch combination. The last two were unnecessary as his opponent looked to be out on his feet before they had even landed. The fight had lasted less than two minutes. With the other prisoners chanting Warchild’s name, Taylor was surprised to see the victor walk back towards the guards and not stomp all over his unconscious victim as would have certainly happened if their roles had been reversed.
When the phone rang in the morning Taylor was still lying on the couch with the bottle of whisky held tightly in his grasp. A small stain lay on his carpet where the remains of the bottle’s contents had spilt out. Usually when he woke up with a hangover he would force himself through a gruelling circuit of press-ups, sit-ups and pulls-ups, followed by a short but intense run through his neighbourhood. On this occasion he could barely get dressed.
Chapter 7
By the time Taylor reached the glass fronted headquarters of SecForce, his head was feeling marginally clearer. Waiting outside Captain Mason’s office, he made sure to sit underneath the air-conditioning unit, gasping as the cold air made contact with the sweat on his back.
On the wall next to his office, there was a copy of the famous picture of Mason that had dominated the newsbites a few years before. It showed a large group of angry demonstrators pushing towards him. One was holding a tatty banner aloft which read ‘Free market = Slave Labour’, whilst his companions armed themselves with metal pipes or planks of wood.
Mason could be seen standing firm in front of them; his left arm outstretched with his palm up, halting the crowd’s progress. His right arm was drawn back behind him, waiting to unleash the club he was brandishing on the next person who pushed too far. At his feet, lay the unconscious or possibly dead form of a man he had already dealt the club to. Blood streamed from a deep gash on the fallen man’s head, pooling around Mason’s feet.
The picture had been taken not long after Triage was put into place, the hostiles being a small factory worker’s union. They were demonstrating after they had all been sacked when their place of work was converted into one of the first production centres. From that time on, the owners would be using immigrants and prisoners to make the goods the factory produced, and much to their approval, payment to their new employees would no longer be a necessity.
Whilst he waited, Taylor watched as a long parade of men in white overalls walked down the corridor clutching large, heavy-looking boxes. They were heading towards the stairs that led to the top floor of the building. As he idly thought about what they may have been doing, Mason’s pretty young secretary announced that her boss was ready to see him.
Mason always made him wait a suitably long time before their meetings commenced. Taylor was sure it was just to hammer home the point that he was the more important of the two. The man was something of a rarity; a senior officer who had come up through the ranks, rather than most of the new blood who had moved in from corporate management positions. Despite being one of the men so to speak, he was still an arrogant bastard who couldn’t resist a photo
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