He holds open the door, and Chelsea slides her feet into her flip-flops and follows him back. She’s suddenly aware of her ratty shorts, the rusty dots flecking her shirt, the black blood caked under her fingernails that she couldn’t scrub out in the drugstore bathroom. But she got this far, goddammit, so she holds her head up and walks through the metal door.
The meeting room beyond is achingly boring, the kind of place the city government built using the architect and construction company with the lowest bid. The walls are a dirty tan, the carpet is dark green, and there’s an odor that suggests that farm animals spend a few hours nearby each year. There’s a long, definitely-not-wood conference table down the middle with a ragtag bunch of chairs around it. Two of these seats are filled, and Harlan sits at the head of the table, facing her, a stack of papers and a pen in front of him. He takes off his sunglasses, showing a glimpse of bright-blue eyes lined in black, and slips on a pair of reading glasses. When he puts his head down, she can see tiny glints of silver peeking out from the bleached blond in his hair.
“You can sit,” he says, looking up briefly over his glasses like an ogre accountant.
Chelsea sits, and as he reads through her pathetic application, she fields the stares of the other two people, smiling blandly and knowing that if they’re in here with Harlan, they’re somehow important.
On Harlan’s right is a short man so packed with muscle that he reminds Chelsea of the springs on a trampoline. He has warm brown skin, dark eyes, and ink-black hair shaved down. He looks like the guys David used to watch on MMA, and he eyes her critically as if looking for flaws—of which she has many, for anyone looking at her outsides just now. To Harlan’s left is an older woman with steel-gray hair streaked with purple in a braid over her shoulder. She is svelte and shredded but graceful with a tough look about her, like a ballet instructor who got bored and turned to rock climbing and marathons. She’s wearing a stylishly droopy altered sweatshirt emblazoned with a black logo, vfr. Underneath that, it reads, WE FIGHT BECAUSE WE HAVE TO.
A weird trill goes up Chelsea’s spine. She can’t tell if it’s excitement or fear or disgust, or maybe all of the above.
When Jeanie pitched her this idea, it was like the kids from Stand by Me going to see a dead body. It probably wasn’t real, and if it was, they probably wouldn’t find it, and if they did, it probably would be very disappointing. But here she is, talking to a famous professional wrestler about joining the Violence Fighting Ring, which is real enough to have a logo, merchandise, and two tricked-out tour buses parked out front.
Harlan looks up from her application, but he doesn’t look disappointed by it. “Chris, Sienna, this is Chelsea Martin. I’m pulling rank on this one. If you want a job, you’re hired,” he says.
That is not what Chelsea was expecting.
“Just like that? You don’t even know me. Don’t you want to ask me what my biggest flaw is?”
Everyone at the table laughs.
“Your biggest flaw is that you have the Violence,” the woman—Sienna—says, but not unkindly. Chelsea clenches her jaw. She won’t let herself think about how the little speckles of blood on her shirt stick to her skin.
“Or else you wouldn’t be here,” Harlan agrees. “You’d be living your sweet, Nerfy life at home with your husband and your two-point-five kids and your picket fence and your purebred dog.”
Chelsea winces at the uncanny reality of that description, but they don’t seem to notice.
“But something went wrong,” he continues with practiced showmanship. “Judging by the pale stripe of skin on your left ring finger and the way you flinched when I approached you, I’m guessing it involved running like hell from that old life.” He grins and throws his arms wide. “And now you’re here. If you found us, I take it you know what we’re doing?”
“A little. The Violence Fighting Ring. So we fight?”
“You pretend to fight. You act. Put on a show. Bread and circuses. Big costumes, dramatic rivalries, spitting into that microphone about how you’re gonna get the belt. Chris here will teach you the ropes of pro wrestling and Sienna will cover wardrobe and feed. Arlene out there will help with acting. We’re doing what the WWC used to do and can no longer do. We’re doing it underground. We’ll travel, put on shows, and leave town before they can shut us down. Now, I think you’d do real good on the mat, if you remember any of this high school acting.” He flicks her application. “But if not, we can find a place for you.” He leans in, looking serious. “You say you’re a homemaker, and I respect the hell out of that. My mom stayed home and raised three boys, and there was no harder job. So you might end up in the kitchens or bleaching the mats or writing for the website, if being in the spotlight doesn’t suit. The pay won’t come until we go live, but then you’ll be paid according to our profits. Until then, we take care of everything you need. That work for you?”
Chelsea’s head is nodding before her mouth can catch up. “I can do that. But what about the real Violence? All those people, packed together in the stands…”
She trails off as the image of Jeanie’s dented Yeti cup flashes in her mind, and Harlan nods in an understanding way. “Seems real dumb, doesn’t it? But people are dumb, and they’re getting restless. Two pandemics in five years is making them desperate for something new. We reckon most of our revenue will come from online subscriptions, and for anyone who needs a thrill enough to come out and see us in person, we’ll have ironclad hold-harmless agreements and plenty of security in place.”
“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”
After all, it can’t be any more dangerous than working at a grocery store or hotel, and she’d rather have Harlan and Chris and Sienna keeping her safe than the junior manager of a shoe store.
“And you’re okay to travel? We won’t put down roots or carry much with us, but you’ll have a bed and food and doctoring. And if you storm up, we’ll keep you from hurting anybody, and that’s a promise. The goal is to get everybody vaccinated as soon as we can afford it.”
Vaccination. These days, that’s the magic word. Chelsea will do anything to be safe again, to know she can hug her girls without worrying about killing them. She doesn’t even hesitate.
“Sounds good.”
He stands and walks over to her, hand out, grinning his thousand-watt grin. “Then welcome to the VFR, Ms. Martin.”
But Chelsea doesn’t stand and take his hand. She cocks her head and glances at the other two people. Chris is watching her with a smirk; Sienna looks preternaturally calm and like she’s seen everything there is to be seen and can no longer be surprised.
“Why?”
Harlan drops his hand like he’s never heard the word before. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why would you take me on? You already know I killed someone today, on the way here. They’re looking for me.”