Chapter 3: The Selection
Upon re-entering the bright white room we were in before the process, we were met by our master and four others. I was nervous about this. Being passed to a new master was never an easy transition, or so B once told me. I could end up with a master who is kinder than ours, or I could be passed to a master who was far worse.
“My, my!” our master said with a chuckle as he looked us over again, “You little runts really clean up well!”
“Looks aren’t everything, you know?” one of the four others in the room said, “How well can they fight?”
A woman that was as thin as a toothpick with long dark brown hair strode up to us. Her eyes looked as though they belonged to another person. With her heart-shaped face, full lips that were brightened with blood-red lipstick, and her snow-white skin, I reasoned that this woman’s eyes should be a subtle shade of blue, if not a shade of brown. However, the eyes of this woman were a piercing shade of blue that were almost as bright as mine; they were nearly white.
“They fight like little devils, I assure you, Ms. Rose.” Our master said.
“Do they?” Ms. Rose inquired, clicking her tongue, “That’s what you said about the last bunch; the bunch where that pretty, young male Fighter I bought from you—the Fighter I paid five-hundred dollars through the nose for—crawled away into a corner to cry in the middle of a fight! Is that what you mean when you say ‘They fight like little devils’ Mr. Theodore?!”
Her voice was a shriek by the time she’d finished her rant, and Master Theodore’s head had sunk down between his shoulders and into the collar of his white dress shirt.
“They’re only level ones.” His voice was a pathetic whimper, “So they fight like level ones.”
Ms. Rose nodded, “That’s what I thought.”
She started at the furthest end of our line; the furthest she was away from me, anyways. Her crimson high-heels clapped as she looked each of us over. Her ice-colored eyes stared us down until we were writhing in her gaze; all of us silently begging, “Not me! Not me! Not me!”
Ms. Rose took Master Theodore’s riding crop into her hands and propped it under my chin to force me to make eye contact.
“What a pretty face you have.” She said through gritted teeth, as if she didn’t want to say it, “What a pity. It won’t stay that way. But what say you?”
I swallowed a growing, nervous lump that was lodged in my throat. I had never talked to anyone of the upper class, nor had I ever been instructed to. My face, deemed pretty, was going to be mutilated in the fights. Now she wants my opinion about that fact?
“I’m nothing special.” My voice is of a soft and polite nature, and because Ms. Rose is so close to me, it is quiet, “My looks can’t compete with yours, nor do my looks matter as much as yours.”
A toothy grin appeared on Ms. Rose’s face. It was as if what I’d said was the right answer to a very important question, to her.
“I like her!” she boasts, “Even she admits that my beauty is superior to hers. I am the most beautiful in this trade; that little rat over there proves it!” she turned to Master Theodore, “How much are you asking for her?”
“You know the rules, Rose!” a tall gentleman with short, dust-brown hair speaks up, “The Fighter goes to the highest bidding master.”
A disappointed pout settles on Ms. Rose’s face, “Very well, Mr. Yorkshire. You tell me what you see in your favorite Fighter.”
Mr. Yorkshire stepped forward and took the riding crop from her. He is a very thin man with long limbs and boney hands. He has the face that reminds me of a man in a roman paining and his hair is straight and sweeps forward. He looks like a fine, fine gentleman. But if the eyes are the gateways to the soul, then his—ones of an ashy green in color—lead straight into Hell. I can see his ruthlessness and I feel horrifically sorry for whoever he chooses.
“Now, your choice is a fine one.” Mr. Yorkshire says, “But she wouldn’t last ten minutes in a fight. She has no muscle and she shows no aggression. She’s a waste of money if you chose to fight her, if you ask me.”
He looks over the Fighter beside me. He is my height with bleach blonde hair. His eyes are a wet shade of blue and his face has a light pink tone to its paleness. His shoulders are broad and his arms are muscular. He is built like a soldier; as if he’s been training for the ring since he started kicking in the womb.
Mr. Yorkshire smiles at him, “Now him, he looks like a winner to me. He’s very well bred.” He leaned into the boy’s face, “But what say you?”
A scowl appeared on this boy and he wrinkled his nose, “I’m not goin’ to kiss up to ya, if that’s what ya want.”
Mr. Yorkshire began smoking a cigar, “Are you telling me to back off?”
“I’m tellin’ ya t’ back off ‘fore I make ya!”
“Can you at least ask nicely?”
“The ring’s got no time for nicely!”
“Just once.”
The boy inhaled sharply through his nose and clenched his fists, “Would ya please get out of my goddam face?”
Mr. Yorkshire took a step back, “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I hoped I’d never meet this boy in the ring. He looked as though he could bite Mr. Yorkshire’s head clean off of his shoulders. Of course, as infuriating he had become, I probably would have given him a good punch to that face, myself. But a move like that was what brought Fighters into the unforgiving world of infamy, and my name that would be forever placed by my new master would be looked upon with sour looks. I’d be on the bottom of this sick food chain forever.
There was a third man standing with Master Theodore and Ms. Rose—a Negro—but he didn’t say much of anything. His wise-looking black eyes scanned us, but I knew he was also looking at me. I caught his name once; Mr. Freeman. The fourth man that had come here seemed to be so lost in his thoughts he was forgotten by the others; of course, from where I was standing, I couldn’t make out his appearance.
The room was silent for a while before Mr. Theodore clapped his hands together to start the sale. Now we were going to find out who our new masters were going to be, and I was terrified.
“Since we’ve spoken so much of the black-haired female there,” he said, “We shall start with her. Let’s start small. Fifty dollars?”
“Fifty, here!” Ms. Rose said loudly as she raised her hand.
“One-hundred!” Mr. Freeman spoke up.
“Two-hundred!”
“Two-fifty!”
They went on like this for quite a while. The price on my head went from two-fifty to three-hundred, and then from three-hundred to five-hundred, seven-hundred, eight-hundred, one-thousand, one-thousand-five-hundred, and then to two-thousand dollars. Ms. Rose seemed to have claimed me when a new voice—one that didn’t belong to Ms. Rose, Mr. Yorkshire, Mr. Freeman, or Master Theodore—spoke up from the back of the room.
“Ten-thousand dollars!”
All heads turned to the fourth man, who had been completely forgotten about in the back of the room, with their mouths hanging open. The man was tall—a few inches taller than me. His hair was jet-black and messy, yet it hadn’t been touched with the slightest drop of gel or grease. He wore a black suit and tie with a red dress shirt underneath. His skin was pale and he had the face suited for modeling. He had grey eyes, a sturdy nose, and a pert little mouth. Unlike the other masters, he worse no jewelry. The rings masters received from winning fights usually lined each finger until there was no more room for them. But this man didn’t even have one. Some master had chains with dog tags and some had ear piercings, but this man only had a suit, a tie, and his good looks.
“What did you say, Mr. Markson?” Master Theodore asked.
“Ten. Thousand. Dollars.” Mr. Markson replied slowly with a smirk on his face.
Mr. Yorkshire scoffed, “A respectable man like you—a man from District Five—would risk that kind of money on a Fighter; a Fighter that’s as good as dead? Are you sure?”
Mr. Markson slowly made his way towards the brown-haired gentleman.
“If you know me, Mr. Yorkshire, you’d know I’d never make a bet I know I can’t win.” He pushed his way past him and approached me, “Besides, I can see how much strength this Fighter has, and I say I’d be willing to pay ten-thousand dollars for her.”
Everyone was silent for a while before Master Theodore merely shrugged, “Is there anyone willing to ask more than ten-thousand for the black-haired female?”
Mr. Freeman took a step back and Ms. Rose bowed her head in defeat.
“Sold!” Master Theodore shouted as he pointed a fat, sweaty finger at Mr. Markson.
A fat stack of money exchanged hands and B was the one who passed my leash to my new master.
Master Markson.
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