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  “You have command Google, let’s break Kamagiri’s chains and hit the raging seas with a vengeance!” Bruce commanded.

  Seconds later, bolstered by the sling shot effect from the beachhead vine wall and frantic rowing, the ragtag group finally left the beach. Google lowered the motors then put them to full power. His coordinates registered in the screen of the sealed Captain’s quarters, then the electric motors hummed to life. Violent seas fought them back into the near gravitational pull of Kamagiri. The terrified, doubtful look on Google’s usually meek face was accentuated by each jarring blow their poor boat sustained.

  “Distribute your weight!” Bruce commanded as the waves threatened to throw them off like garbage.

  He rushed to the front of the boat to face the waves head-on, hoping at very least his might help break the waves. Alarms could barely be heard from the Captain’s Quarters, Bruce could see the motors were struggling to the breaking point. Hang on, damnit! He willed the motors and his shaking hands that barely held the ship’s rail. Every minute at sea felt like a war without bullets for the increasingly worried sailors. Any inches their struggling ship gained felt like a mile, distance they sea threatened to take away.

  After an arduous fight against the tides, they barely managed to break free of the near-gravitational pull of Kamagiri and into open sea. Baring an expression of psychotic pleasure borne of over-bearing stress, Bruce stands at the head of the ship beaming at the roiling seas ahead.

  “The first part of our trials ahead has been defeated! Rejoice but maintain resolve, for there’s still many struggles to come!” Bruce calls out to his shipmates, laughing to himself while sea water blasts his armoured body.

  The further they traversed a sea of frigid black blades, the further they came to Bruce’s ultimate ambition. The Mots will respect us, they will leave us to our lives, or they will die! He resolved silently, his eyes alight with righteous purpose. Eventually, they made it out far enough the seas began to calm.

  “Everybody still got their stomachs back here?” Bruce asked jokingly.

  “Oh F...” Monster tried to retort but ended up spewing his lunch overboard instead.

  “Guess not. Buck up, Monster! We’ll be there eventually, right Google?” Yelling in order to be heard over the waves and sealed cabin, Bruce watched Google’s expression turn to confusion.

  “What?!” He called from a crack in the semi-open door.

  “How long till we’re off this dump?”

  “Oh a couple hours at this rate.”

  “Great! Anybody who isn’t a pussy best eat up, we could be fighting the second we make land.” Bruce announced, then sat beside Spirit to eat.

  Per Google’s prediction, roughly two hours later, they began to notice sad and abandoned structures from societies past looming ahead. They arrived at the same dock they'd been forced from. Bruce’s vengeful heart skipped a beat with joy when he saw a familiar eye-patch toting Mot patrolling with a few others towards the pier. I suppose it would’ve been more poetic to use Dad’s blade, but this’ll have to do. Bruce swiftly climbed to the slick roof of the Captains’ cabin for added height, affording him a cathartically convenient opportunity to snipe the asshole Mot that smiled as he was sent to hell.

  Pride swelled in his chest when his makeshift arrow flew true thanks to his careful compensation, ultimately burrowing deep into its one good eye. The Mot’s horrified screams of pain were drowned out by the din of powerful war cries. One by one, KamaGiri’s prisoners-turned-warriors leapt from the deck of the ship onto the pier and charged at the remaining shocked Mots. Before the Mots could release their latest batch of prisoners to draw their weapons, they were staggered by multiple arrows from Bruce’s warriors. Savage raced ahead, grabbing an enemy club as she went.

  Grinning like a sated monster, Bruce fired an arrow into Eyepatch’s throat. Gurgles of slow, agonizing death added a grotesque vocalization to compliment the vicious beat Savage clubbed out of the flesh of her enemies. Various prisoners from both races sat on the ground shaking in fear. Birdy smiled understandingly. To Bruce’s surprise she started vocalizing to the beat Savage proudly kept going.

  Some prisoners laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of their ‘musical ensemble’ while others were even more mortified than before. Ending the show with a raised hand, Bruce strode up to the overwhelmed group of potential allies.

  “My name is Bruce Knight. For about five years, I’ve been trapped on a hellish island with one goal: to survive. I’ve succeeded in that purpose and come to you now with another: to free humanity from the tyranny we face, and eliminate all those who’ve failed this species. Will you join me and reclaim your lives, or will you succumb to the very tyrants that would have you die a prisoner?!”

  Sheepishly the group stood, uncertain but nonetheless driven by his charisma or just too afraid to disobey.

  “I was once a slave. I understand how we act makes us seem like the very Mots you fear, but know that we only want the best for humans, and any Mot who sympathizes with our cause. Absolutely no harm will come to you from us!” Spirit exclaimed with a soothing gentleness that oozed sincerity, unlike anything Bruce had ever felt from her before.

  Everyone watched, equally impressed as, one by one, the slaves visibly relaxed while remaining reasonably weary. Given Bruce held little credibility in the viewpoint of a slave, he left their leadership to Spirit. Through violence, interrogation, days of difficult travel, and the occasional nice conversation, the gang made it back to the now-flourishing trade hub that stood between Master’s Mecha and Bruce’s Holdfast.

  “So many Mots with smiles on their faces can only mean one thing...” Bruce seethed.

  “Fresh meat for sale, dogmeat gets you a runt, two hundred bottlecaps or twenty bullets for a female! Fresh bred, virgin, Grown in a cooperative Holdfast!” A Mot trader announced, parading a nude slender redhead around for the group to see, eyeing their Mot allies hopefully.

  Bruce grimaced. They think Monster’s group owns us. Smiling venomously, he noticed Spirit nod when their eyes met, she knew what he wanted. War cries preceded their sudden brutal onslaught of the unsuspecting traders. With one shot, Bruce freed the unfortunate slave who ran behind a trader’s shack to hide.

  In a matter of minutes, most of the Mots had fallen, save for the eager merchant, who now hung inches off the ground, bloodied and terrified, in one of Monster’s meaty fists. After calmly retrieving a what few arrows he could salvage from the bodies, Bruce walked with intimidating rage up to the merchant. Noticing the armour the merchant’s already terrified face started to lose colour.

  “That armour...” He exclaimed, nervously touching scars on his leg with his free hand.

  “You remember me? From before I’m sure... Good, that makes this easier. You are one lucky worthless scumbag. Know why?” Bruce asked intimidatingly.

  The Mot nervously shook his head no, too terrified to speak.

  Smiling cruelly, Bruce elaborated, “You get to live to deliver a message to Bonerend: I’m coming for him and every one of his slaver followers! Nothing will stop us from destroying all those who Fail. This. Species!” Bruce growled with a cold, lethal rage that made the Mot shake.

  “If I do that he’ll kill or float me! Please take my humans instead!” the merchant begged

  Monster hit the merchant in the stomach with his free fist so hard, the wind was knocked out it.

  “Deliver my message and go to your death with whatever corrupt dignity you have left!” Bruce ordered vengefully. On cue, Monster threw the Mot to the ground roughly, clearly disgusted.

  Desperately, the merchant ran away with every ounce of his remaining energy.

  “Thanks, Monster.” Bruce said while smiling at his Mot brother.

  “Anytime.” Monster growled gently. Reflexively, his hand shot to his back to check his quiver then his expression turned to disappointment.

  “Archers, how’re your arrow counts?”

  “Meager but we’ll make due for a
couple more spontaneous kill fests.” Savage trilled happily, excited by the concept.

  “Well, as you all just saw the enemy is unlikely to be understaffed and unprepared so I suggest we take a detour first.”

  “Where to, Mr. Scary?” Spirit enquired jokingly.

  “Home.” Bruce replied, his slight nervousness noticed only by her.

  “All right! Everyone follow me, we’re going to get resupplied and hopefully secure better armaments!”

  They all make the casual journey back to Freedom Holdfast, all the way to a familiar broken building. Quite liberating to be fear of fear. Bruce mused to himself, reflecting on his early days outside the Holdfast. He was even more heartened to find the Holdfast door sealed shut and covered in years of dust.

  “Well we finally made it...” Bruce muttered to himself as he walked up to the hand scanner security system.

  Trying his father’s door codes that had been drilled into him by his mother resulted in nothing but error messages. Frustrated by the embarrassment he felt upon noticing judgmental looks of his followers, Bruce slapped his hand on the scanner. A green laser flowed up and down the screen then shocked the hell out of him with a simple message: ‘Welcome, Mr. Prime Minister.’ Stepping away while suppressing his already obvious surprise, Bruce watched the vault-like door hiss its way open. “Alright then... let’s go!” Bruce exclaimed, leading the quiet but visibly nervous army he’d amassed into what once contained his entire understanding of existence.

  Spirit wisely pulled a lever so the door sealed behind them, on one hand to cover their rear, and to silence the familiar blaring alarm. A loud march of purposeful boots preceded a familiar naturally glaring expression with an unfamiliar amount of grey hair.

  “Sergeant Hanzo!” Bruce called out nervously. Upon seeing him Sergeant Hanzo broke into a somewhat terrifying uncharacteristic grin.

  “Bruce Knight! The prodigal son has come home... that or an impersonator has taken his identity, the kid I knew probably would be the first to die out there...” Hanzo joked awkwardly.

  “Unfortunately for you, I survived, ya grumpy old bastard!” Bruce joked with practiced teen angst. Hanzo laughed.

  “Care to explain the whole Mr. Prime Minister joke? I assume you’re responsible for that?” Bruce enquired seriously. “Come with me.” Hanzo said with equal seriousness.

  Curious, Bruce and his friends followed along. They all arrived in a glorified cafeteria that was gradually filling both with people he once knew and many children he didn’t. To his shock, many began clapping and cheering.

  “What the hell?” Bruce whispered under his breath.

  In response Hanzo projected the images he’d took after Bruce and Jonathan’s first deathmatch with the Mots.

  “I explained to them the truth that Jonathan foolishly denied them...and also, of course, how you immediately opposed those enslaving us in the name of ‘Rangers.’ In short, your efforts spared most in this room from soon meeting the same fate. Ultimately, a vote was held after which your father’s last willed wish came true: you were elected the next Prime Minister of Canada. I took the scans I took from you before you left to facilitate your clearances in advance, despite how presumptuous that was. Ultimately it’s my honour to finally say: congratulations Sir.” Hanzo informed him with clear, genuine pride.

  Chapter 8 – Clear and Unwanted Authority

  “What. The. Hell.” Bruce muttered shocked.

  “That’s what I was gonna say about you marching in with a bunch of Mots.” A familiar judgmental voice retorted.

  Smiling, Monster sat cross-legged at the other end of the cafeteria, his Mot team followed suit.

  “You needn’t worry, sir. We’re pro-humanity.” Monster informed him with gentle politeness, trying to suppress the natural growl in his voice.

  “Hello Damian.” Bruce said casually.

  “Bruce. Just wanted to apologize for bullying ya so much before. That said, that’s a hell of an entourage you got there... Mind explaining how that came to be?” Damian asked.

  “Well you know me, went outside, got in some fights. Didn’t win 'em all. Got deported to a death island where I met most of those you see here. Got trained by a Captain from a Russian anti-terrorist Special Forces unit. Which is mildly ironic given we’re now anti-slavery terrorists... but I guess it works out. Short version: lots of bad times that made us all strong enough to survive and now we’re all here cuz I declared war on ‘King’ Bonerend and need supplies, if they can be spared...” Bruce concluded casually.

  Most in attendance looked at him with shock and horror while Sergeant Hanzo looked utterly unsurprised, like a frequently disappointed parent.

  “Of course you’d become a warrior and try to save the whole world... just like your father.” Hanzo muttered exasperated. Bruce grimaced openly at the comparison.

  “Jesus golden Knight... did ya give us the very hope that got ya elected just to leave us doomed?” Damian enquired frustrated.

  “Fuck no. For one, I never meant to be a symbol of ‘hope’. Hope is for the weak. And I’d never allow this place to fall. Besides, Sergeant Hanzo can attest the door would keep 'em out no matter how pissed they are.” Bruce retorted.

  “So, what, you wanna make us ‘Rangers’ so we can go die while being whipped by your Mot pets?!” A thin woman speculated.

  Uproarious agreement spawned open and aggressive racism fed by nothing more than imagination.

  “They want to sell us”

  “They want to use us as sex toys.”

  “They wanna make us fight to the death for their entertainment!”

  “I won’t be some freak’s disposable labour force!”

  “Hold on!..... ENOUGH!” Bruce roared, securing a brief shocked silence.

  “Frankly, you’re not wrong for the most part, as many of my friends can attest, in detail... but again you have nothing to fear! We’ve come to resupply and feed the slaves we’ve freed. After that, I and my warrior family will disappear. Hell, we may not even come back, so you’ve got nothing to fuss about and can go on living your sheltered lives all ya want. I’m not here to ruin what you’ve got, my father did enough of that... I watched my friend Dave die because of it. You remember the fat kid you all bullied? He saved my life.” Abruptly cut off by Spirit grasping his shoulder, his frustration came out in a whisper.

  “What!?”

  “They don’t need a lecture. Tell them on your authority to bring you to the weapons room and offer that some of your warriors will stay to train those who want a real-world life!” Spirit demanded calmly.

  Irritated, Bruce read her expression long enough to know she was dead serious, then turned back to the gossiping Holdfast dwellers. “Sergeant Hanzo, please show me to the Administration Security vault, someone see these poor slaves are tended like family, and know this: Sergeants Birdy, Hollywood 1-3 and two of Monster’s men have politely volunteered to remain and train anyone in Spetsnaz Alpha Group skills so that those strong enough can sire humanity’s success in the real world without fear!” A pointed look from Bruce drew acceptance nods from his ‘volunteers’. Nodding his thanks, he ignored Birdy’s frustrated look.

  “You sure you wanna leave one of your best behind?” She challenged pointedly.

  “I’m suggesting you remain because they need the best to have any hope out there and you know it. Besides, if I left Savage instead, all I’d find when I returned was an army of belligerent psychos and dead passed off recruits. That helps no one.” Bruce whispered with a hint of a joking tone seeping through his frustration. Birdy smiled, satisfied with his explanation. A quick glance proved to Bruce Sergeant Hanzo had a good command of the place like always, people were already facilitating homes for their freed slaves.

  “You’re leaving Mots here, are you insane?!” A woman called out.

  “No, this way both sides will have to realize racism is foolish.” Ignoring a sudden wave of protest, he left the politics to his Sergeants appointed for training.
r />   Their Mot allies remained still, silent and submissive until people began to notice they were peaceful. The occasional racist remark met only indifferent silence. Meanwhile, Bruce followed Sergeant Hanzo to the vault through multiple layers of security while flanked by the rest of his team. Soon, the group stepped into the stale, dimly lit vault with a modest supply of guns, ammo, and, most exciting to the group, multiple types of bows and other hunting gear. Like a kid at Christmas, Spirit came alive.

  She quickly sized Bruce up, who still held his weakening sinewy vine-blackwood bow. Like a seasoned shopper, she pulled out a menacing, yet simplistic, jet-black take-down recurve bow, as it most suited what he was used to, and a proper jet-black quiver with seventy-five professional-grade, far more menacing arrows with good weightiness for killing big game. After Spirit taught him to properly string it, he acquainted himself with its related equipment. He took a while to adjust to its draw weight, finding its original fifty pound draw weight too weak. Feels pretty close to the original bow, which doesn’t do shit to Mots.

  With help from Spirit he adjusted it to seventy pounds, which was still is nothing compared to what Reva had him haul around. Spirit was over-joyed to find equipment she'd been raised to use, selecting a compound with a sight to go with her arrows. Given their friends weren’t from hunting Holdfasts, Spirit proudly set about outfitting them with proper bows. Professionally produced arrow nocking points made the job of prepping for a shot almost too easy versus his years of practice trying to balance makeshift arrows on sinewy uneven vines.

  “Like it?” Spirit asked like a mom hopeful she got the right gift.

  It’s light compared to vine-pulley lifting trees with my draw arm. Bruce thought, remembering the training ground he’s spent months building. In response, he rapidly nocked an arrow and near-instantly pinned a thick target fast to the concrete wall. The metal arrow burrowed in deep and came out clean.