What the hell was going on? I won this fight! He shouldn’t be standing! Hell, he shouldn’t even be breathing!
“You are no longer my brother, Gavil,” Creed growled softly enough to be heard only by his intended recipient.
Stunned silence was all Gavil could give in retort but it didn’t really matter, Creed was on him with the speed and determination of a panther on its prey.
The crowd seemed to have lost their thirst for blood as they sat in shocked silence watching the bloody figure of a meta delivering strike after furious strike.
Within seconds, Gavil was face down in the dirt, screaming as his arms were yanked impossibly back and behind him. Creed stood holding the helpless appendages and placed his foot strategically on his brother’s head. One stomp and Gavil’s neck would snap like a twig.
“Finish him!” boomed a voice over the loud speaker. It was Commander Oldham. He ran the Facility with an iron fist. His word was law.
A hushed rumble radiated from the awestruck metahumans watching the drama unfold.
Creed didn’t move.
“Creed Young, you know the rules. ‘Kill, or be killed!’ Finish him, now!”
With one quick motion, Creed let go of Gavil’s arms and stepped away.
“No, sir!” His voice had no hint of fear or pain. Instead, there was strength and absolution. “I will not kill him, and he cannot kill me.”
The anxious audience waited to see what would happen next. This had never happened. Never had someone refused to finalize victory.
“Guards, escort the Young brothers to detention immediately! They will be dealt with there.” Commander Oldham’s voice was full of anger. The spectators were very sure this was the last they would see of the two fighters.
Friendships were few and far between in the Facility, but Creed had a loyal following and many more who admired him from a distance. It was these metas who stood in the crowd and started clapping a slow and synchronized clap. Others joined in, until nearly the entire arena boomed in unison.
Six armed meta guards entered the arena. Two of them dragged Gavil’s limp, beaten body away, and the other four surrounded Creed motioning him to move. Creed glanced up at the crowd’s obvious display of support and allowed a quick smile. No matter what, he knew he’d done the right thing.
2 Consequences
He fully expected to be killed for his disobedience.
But he wasn’t.
Instead, he was taken to the Facility’s surgeons who tended to his injuries; the most serious was the damage to his kidney.
He vaguely remembered lying on the operating table and hearing the weapon clink into a metallic specimen bowl after the surgeon removed it from his kidney. He remembered wondering why they were bothering fixing him up if they were just going to kill him anyway.
Even as he lay in recovery, staring at the sterile white curtain surrounding his bed, he wondered about his fate. Not that he was scared. Not at all. Instead, he felt numb and distant. This was all feeling like it was happening to someone else and he was just standing in the back of the room aware of the events, but unaffected by them.
He remembered wondering if they had a medic taking care of Gavil, too. And if so, was he in a room nearby?
Or, and this thought made him want to vomit, had Gavil been killed? An anguished ball of emotion churned in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Had they just killed Gavil? Was he completely alone in the world now? Having a brother who hated him was better than not having a brother at all, wasn’t it?
Halfway through the second day in recovery, the flimsy white curtain encircling his bed was yanked back sharply. The sudden movement jolted Creed from his disconnected daze. Commander Oldham himself stood there staring with unconcealed hatred creasing his leathery face. He was there to deliver a message, he said.
The Director of the Facility, Dr. Kenneth Williams, was visiting from the Americas. He witnessed the match and wanted to have words with Creed. He was ordered to report to the Director’s office at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. A car and an escort would retrieve him for the meeting.
Creed tried to ask about Gavil’s condition, but Commander Oldham, obviously disgusted to be in his presence, turned and walked out of the room as soon as he finished his message.
The next morning, at oh-seven-forty-five, Creed was dressed and waiting for his escort. Thankfully, the three days of recovery and his rapid metahuman healing had afforded him the ability to walk, though gingerly. He would be damned to show up to this meeting in a wheelchair.
There was an abrupt knock at his hospital room door. He remembered looking up just in time to see the door swinging open, and that’s when he saw her.
“Creed Young?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Farrow Schone, Dr. Williams’ personal assistant. I’ve been ordered to escort you to headquarters for your meeting.”
“I won’t need that,” he said defiantly motioning toward the wheelchair she was pushing.