Piece Simul ✔

Chapter 12-Tiptree-Thunderdome

It was Tiptree's fifth fight of the day. And the fifth win.

She backed up, sweat running into her eyes. The latest opponent lay at her feet, head bent at an impossible angle. Tiptree's sword dripped with a viscous purple fluid, a constant of the alien's blood.

You're the alien, she reminded herself.

A week had passed since she had landed. Considering she had been cleared for a day at most, she had definitely overstayed her welcome. Without a beacon, or tech of any kind, the rescue crew would be lost.

Tiptree had figured out fairly quickly why the probe had found nothing. The alien-cloaking technology had hidden their very existence. They used it on everything: buildings, transportation, even sewing it into their clothes. The bastards had even cloaked her ship.

Captain Forster had promised an easy assignment, aka a neutral planet. Only, there wasn't anything neutral about it.

Even the plants were carnivorous, from what she had see. Tree branches were drawn to the scent of anything passing by, stretching lazily to wrap around prey, dragging items back to be consumed among the fibrous roots. Tiptree made it a point to avoid even the flowers, not that she had time to pick any daises. Life was all about the arena.

One more down, a million more to go, she thought, watching as the latest carcass was dragged out of the arena.

"Any more?" she called out, but the coordinator didn't understand her.

They had taken her translator away, along with everything else. One good thing about being constantly misunderstood was that she had the freedom to say whatever she wanted. Real life dictated what she could say, but not here. Sometimes, she informed her opponent on the joys of

The coordinator's smooth face never changed expression, even when dropping a new opponent into the arena cage with Tiptree.

A smattering of attendees trickled in every day, but they never cheered. In fact, they never made any noise at all. They merely stood and stared as Tiptree clashed swords with other slaves. The silence had been unnerving at first. Each cry, bout of heavy breath, or crunch of gravel had been deafening, more so because her plasticine opponents were just as mute as the spectators.

Which was odd, because the first native she had met had been quite friendly, but then again, he'd sold her into slavery.

Tiptree had watched plenty of ancient films, and in all of them, gladiator-types fought until they could bargain for their freedom. She was confident her gladiator-story would work out in similar fashion.

If only they'd say something, anything, she thought, dragging her sword behind her. Her muscles were ready to snap as she trudged to the cot in the corner of the cage.

Her ship, which she knew to be close by, had never felt farther away. She pictured the life stretching before her, fight after fight, until she was too old and tired, and finally, cut down.

In all the sparring simulations with the bot back on the ship, she never could've imagined using her training like this. Though now, she was grateful for all the hours spent learning defensive and offensive tactics. Without them, she would've been dead already.

Tiptree had lost count of how many creatures she had killed. She hated to dwell on it. As long as she kept thinking about them as creatures, or aliens, she could almost sleep at night.

It's me or them.

In the muted echo of the cold cage, that seemed more and more like an excuse. The old-Tiptree would never have resorted to violence. After the first fight, she had shed a piece of her old life, and had slipped into something new.

She huddled under a non-existent blanket, knee throbbing. She rubbed it, but these days, the pain was constant. The crash had jostled her, but she hadn't broken any bones. It wasn't until the arena that her body began to revolt. The second match she'd fought, she noticed a shooting pain in her knee. Then an awful tingling crept through her shoulders. Usually by Match Three of the day, it took every ounce of control to avoid a complete collapse. With all the gladiator matches, she had zero time to heal.

Sniffling, she straightened her leg, grimaced, bent it, and grimaced again.

"We gonna have to carry you on a stretcher, or can you walk?"

Tiptree hadn't heard a human voice in a week, and was sure the whisper was a figment of her under-wrought imagination. She sat up, dimly aware of her throbbing leg.

"Psst. Earth to Tiptree. Over."

This time, the whisper was more like a quiet plea, enough for her to recognize it.

"Samuel?" she whispered, unsure of which direction he might be hiding in.

"And Russ," came another stage whisper, the origin as yet unknown.

Tiptree smiled, a sigh wrenching from her. "I can hear you, but I can't see you."

"That's 'cause we're cloaked," Samuel's baritone vibrated as he spoke into her ear.

Tiptree gasped, settling quickly after receiving a questioning stare from the coordinator.

"This alien tech is pretty handy," Russ said, her disembodied voice floating over the air.

Glancing around, Tiptree got to her feet, trying her best to appear natural.

Vibrations tickled her arm, and she realized someone was fastening a device to her, though she couldn't see what it was. Moments later, her hands and feet faded from view. Tiptree ran her hands over the rest of her body, pleased at her overall transparent status.

She was further pleased when a second unknown device pressed against her leg, bringing with it a calming warmth radiating around her knee. In seconds, the pain had subsided to a numbing sensation, then dissipated completely.

"What was that?" Tiptree murmured, rubbing her leg and marveling at how brand-spanking new it felt.

"A specialist patch, compliments of the Institute budget. Won't fix you forever. Now, let's go find the ship," Russ said.