Bloodsport 1.1 | Lemuria's Legendary Drone Failure [Adult Themes and Violence]
The bloodsports quickly dwindle the number of suitable outlets for violence. The scientists of Lemuria devise a solution; they fuse their transhumanist technology into their enemies, in order to prolong their lives as they turn outlets for their overlords. Sentis have been modified to have sublime pain tolerance, regrow limbs and regenerate blood so gallons can spill from just one individual. All this, without dying. Sentis now join the Aesir in immortality.
Out of the need to adapt to supernatural levels of suffering the Sentis form an underground culture. In the search for reprieve they make a God of Masochism. Through this new mythos they cope. The Sentis' own scripture, art, and legend emerge as they learn to accept and grow strong in their pain. It's now an Ethos to have their life-essence spilled by their blood-lusting torturers, as if baptising those who once enslaved them as invite into love reborn from hatred.
Pursuing the fine line between sex and violence becomes the highest Lemurian value; through it they seek spiritual transcendence at the expense of their enslaved subjects.
Dayla stands in the center of her room, hands on her hips, breathing a sigh of relief. She can watch the games from the comfort of home. If she goes out to an event like this, she goes glamorously. It’s a pain to stay tucked and in a corset for hours at the arena. Today, she gets to have fun from home, where she can wear ugly pyjamas, staying out of sight.
Looking in the mirror, she puts her raven-black hair in a bun while scanning her body, blushing at how square she looks in sweats and a tee. It reminds her of how the other gals tease; 'why don't you just transition, already?' she remembers their laughter with those words all in good fun. She thinks of how they express themselves so easily, going out however they feel that day, whether man, woman, or a bit androgynous. Dayla envies their confidence, but she's happy; feeling completely woman as she is, no need of extra hormones or operations. She feels her pockets to make sure she has her lipbalm handy; all good, she's ready to start.
Three flat screens hang in the middle of the room, combined they're the size of a wall. Nearby is a desk with three tablets set-up on their stands. Dayla sits at the desk, puts on her headset, and sips her tea. She turns on the screens to see three differing views of the arena. All looks good, she checks in with her team.
“Afternoon, Ladyboys. At your stations?"
“Yup. You’re the only ladyboy on team, Dayla”
"Just how I like it. Since you're curious, I can show you how to find your feminine side. Just reach behind yourself and grab your ass, squeeze and part your cheeks. Now tell me, sweetie, how's it feel to be a woman?”
“Ha-ha! You slut.”
“Can’t blame you for flirting, but, down to business. All Drones deployed and in ground position? Ah, fuck the formalities. Ok, XY, program drone 1 and 2 at the poles, mid-range height. The rest as usual. I got 3 on close-ups; standard origin; six degrees of freedom”
Dayla looks at the screens, seeing the Sentis and Aesir walk out to the center, she sends drone 3 to get shots of the outfits and weapons.
The Sentis are in their usual Masochri robes; navy blue with silver trim and the sigil of their religion; an abstract glyph formed by shapes of DNA and daggers. All Sentis hold a traditional Masochri weapon; double-edged spears with metal shafts.
She has the drone scan the Aesir, goes in for a close-up of Pyrean's metal circlet with its ring of diamond-edged studs. The shine of it contrasting the matte black of his graphene armour. Around Antigony’s waste is a belt adorned with throwing stars. Various accents on Antigony’s leathers suggest she's got more up her sleeve.
Dayla shivers as she sees the heel blades on the Aesirs' boots. The chill leaves as she spots the Orator introducing the Masochri Ritual. Dayla leans forward, on the edge of her seat; she loves the Senti religion.
A tall and muscular Senti stabs his spear into the dirt and kneels; the others copy.
The Masochri begin to chant. Dayla mouths the words:
“Pain both consumes and evades our senses. The searing of flesh, the spilling of blood; we give not of Sacrifice nor our own Desire; suffer we must is the Will of the Aesir. Our reward is Catharsis. Pain is our prison, blood our freedom.”
Dayla guides the drone to get a shot of each Senti as they consume the mixture of each others' blood and bodily fluids; all drink from the same ceremonial goat horn they pass down the line.
Dayla looks at the right-hand screen for an overhead view.
Pyrean is waving his arm in the air, flipping his middle-finger at the Sentis. He grabs his crotch and rocks his pelvis.
Dayla hears Pyrean's shouting through her speakers but can’t make out his words. She grimaces, knowing how offended the Sentis will be at their ceremony being mocked.
The Masochri drop their spears to the ground. The navy robes look like a wave of night sky as they lunge toward the Aesir. For the first-time in Lemurian history, the Bloodsports are starting with an old-fashioned fist fight.
Dayla sees only a cluster of bodies and dirt on drone 3's visuals. She alters the controls but it's not responding, staying stuck in the scuffle. Dayla sees Sade is the only cleaner close enough to get to the scene quickly. She selects his signal and speaks,
“Sade. Sade? I need you to get in that scuffle and give me a visual on the drone. Sade? ...SADE!?’
She sees him on screen, twirling in a circle while touching his ears in a panic.
“Fuck. That little faggot forgot his earpiece.”
Dayla shouts unintelligible phrases and throws a mug at the wall. Now she’s forced to guess. Moving her hand along the map, she doesn’t see the drone. It’s still not responding to her signals to move higher. Dayla grinds her teeth staring at the screens for signs of a better situation. She can only glimpse enough of the drone to see that it’s still flying, but only moving along the x-direction. Trapped in the mess of wrestling bodies, it’s visible as a sparrow flying through a forest.
“Team B, hear me?”
“Yup”
“Overwrite Drone 3. Lock rotations. Dead Reckoning; -5x +20y 90z”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! It’s not responding.”
“I’ve never had to do this before, Dayla.”
“Me neither. We have to try. It’s gonna get knocked down, crushed by those disgusting Aesir brutes! We can’t lose one, not today!”
"I don’t think it’s gonna—”
“No other choice! Quick, do it!”
“Done”
“Oh fuck.” Dayla’s palm hits her face; hard.
As Antigony swings a left hook, her foe jumps back, hidden by a silver flash obscuring her vision. A hard object bangs into her face. Her head turns from the force, red spit flying from her mouth. Her sinuses fill with pressure, burning tears dripping from her eyes, waves of dull pain throbbing from her nose. She inhales, stuffled by gurgles of fluid; the wetness tickles her Cupid's bow and top lip. She licks it off while instinctively moving her hand up to the damage.
Disoriented, she wobbles on her feet until tackled by a large Senti. At the cue of the fall she manages to get her arm around his neck, attempting to hold herself up —she’s losing her grip.
She refuses to let go. Desperate for a save, her leather hand-wrap scrapes across his face, her bare fingers trailing behind searching for a way. She senses his mouth and fish-hooks him, digging her fingers and nails in the warm hole, stretching his cheek tight off the side of his face. A kick to his knee busts its cap, winning Antigony a combo that takes him down with her. Antigony grasps on the Senti’s belt to secure her position, loosening the velvet robe as they the fall.
Both face-up in the dirt. The Senti's nude body exposed. They lay next to each other like they woke up in bed after a night of drinking.
She jerks her arm across her chest, gaining momentum, jamming her elbow into his forehead. A crack sounds as its blade gets stuck in the skull, releasing a star of blood out from ripped flesh. Antigony grunts, yanking her arm back, jerking the blade out of the bone. She rolls out of reach before he strikes. Still on her back, she forces her weight on her feet to propel herself back on them.
Knees bent, she grabs a star off her belt. She crouches, target in sight. A flick of her wrist and elbow combine with a perfect follow-through, landing the star in his neck. Blood sprays out like a ground sprinkler.
The wounded man coughs, gets up on his knees, the undone robe exposing deep scars all over his chest down to his cock. Sparse dots of fresh blood adorn his body. The neck-wound has clotted into a crater of thick scabs. It looks like he tried to eat the star through his neck. The Senti’s body mostly unbloodied and that won’t do. Antigony is determined to give the audience the crimson show they came for.
She bends her knees and jumps to make her arms level with his head, bending her wrist, actuating the knife-thrower under her forearm. A perfect vector, it glides under the stiletto in her hand through the air, hitting the otherside of the Senti’s neck, mirroring its sister wound. The bloody blast casts the blade out with it; Antigony's weapon boomerangs back at her line of sight. Arms stretching back, she lifts her right leg, tucks its heel under her left knee and slides though the dirt. Mud parts around her as she glides toward her foe. Friction slows her down to stop beneath the man with her left knee centered between his feet. She wraps her right leg around his shin, locking it with the left to pull him down.
She fails to deploy the move; he’s falling on her. Instinct brings her dagger blade up above her chest. He lands on it, the stiletto through the center of his neck, out the back of the spine. His head flops, the heavy chin slamming down onto her broken nose. She grunts in pain.
In case he’s still conscious, she bites. Her alloyed teeth dig in his neck, ejecting diamond edges to shred flesh like a shark. The silver-toned alloy so hard skin parts like butter. Her mouth fills with gelatinous chunks; the sign she was looking for. She knows he's down for the count. Antigony struggles to spit, but is forced to swallow the spent plasma. Her palate fills with a fungal musk, her chest burns as it slides down her throat.
Stuck under the Senti's dead weight, Antigony struggles to breathe. Pushing hard as she can, her muscles burn from the strain. She feels herself weakening, grits her teeth, disgusted by the mixed texture of dirt and meat. With her free arm she rips the vial off her necklace, shoots back its contents. The flavour burns her tongue and lips. Her muscles rush with a warm feeling like electricity through her body.
Pushing again only budges the dead weight. As if that’s not bad enough, he reeks of sour cabbage and the pepper-myrrh Masochri incense.
She turns her head to avoid the stench, puking yellow foam into her ponytail. She dry-heaves over her shoulder and spots a robed figure jetting toward her.
The figure gallops, spear jutting out from her chest like its a guiding force. Antigony uses the surge of strength to throw a star sideways, hitting the Senti’s shin, tripping her up. She regains balance by spiking her spear in the dirt; fists tight around the shaft, pushing on it to get back on her feet. Pulling the spear out of the dirt, she stares at Antigone with vicious tenacity.
Pyrean spots the Senti running toward his lover. He sprints before somersaulting toward Antigony’s assailant. Rolling onto his hands, he springs on his arms, flipping upward to land the toes of his boots in the Senti’s face. The strike busts its target, shattering the cheek bones, her skin sagging off from the loss of structure. Pyrean flips back, on his feet, taking the katana from his belt. He swings the blade into the Senti's neck, a clang sounds off her titanium spine. Pyrean winds up to swing again, to see the first slash knocked out his foe. She falls, her face turns unrecognizeable as it bites the dust.
Pyreans sprints to Antigony's aid, grabbing the dead weight and throwing it off her. Extending his hand, he grabs her arm and pulls her up toward him. Smirking, he gazes into her bloodshot eyes, saying
“You owe me a blow-job”
“Ha, mine are worth more than that”
“Yeah, when you don’t use your teeth”
Four Sentis charge toward them.
“Last word, motherfucker!” she teases as they’re called to action. She remembers their microphones. It makes her blush. Pyrean laughs as his back turns to her as he faces his opponents.
Antigony pivots perpindicular to her foe, she leans her body back onto one foot, levelling torso and leg to land a bold kick in the Senti’s stomach. Her other leg follows through with a spinning round-house, tearing a diagonal gash with the heel blade. The circular leg movement releases a fan of blood, splattering all of them. Guts pour from the sliced stomach. Pools of blood are forming in the dirt.
Antigony’s tangled up in intestine that wormed around her ankle, trying to shake it off reminds her of a dive bar’s wrecked bathroom. Antigony hops on one foot and the entrails unravel out the fallen Senti. Shaking her leg of the mucousy rope, it slips off her boot just as the next foe lunges with spear toward her. Antigony grabs the sliding entrail while she dodges the spear. Grip tight, she fights the slippage as the Senti’s weight follows through her strike, allowing Antigony to get behind her. She ropes the entrail around her foe's neck, pulls back while shrugging her shoulders straight up towards her ears. She holds until the futile kicks of her opponent are replaced by dead weight and foul odor. The area fills with the stench of exposed guts and excrement.
She throws the spent body to the ground. Alert, aroused from the smell of blood, she looks around for more fun. She spots Pyrean wielding katana, locked in struggle with a spear. Nearby, a herculean sized Senti sluggishly stands up, running to aid his brother's attack on the Aesir. Pyrean's katana pushing on the upper end of the spear, the Senti counters and sweeps the bottom blade across Pyrean's leg, tearing flesh from shin to thigh. The move unblocks the katana, allowing Pyrean to bring the katan downward, gashing the chest, flaps of muscle flying from the body. Katana thrusting through the sternum, he pulls to strike again, but the blade is jammed in the Senti's internal mix of bone and metal. The large Senti rushes Pyrean, who turns the katana-body at his assailant, using it as a shield. Unable to let go lest his opponent gain an advantage, Pyrean is handicapped by the impaled body.
Using his free hand, he pounds his assailant, the force of the metal-enforced knuckles breaking the nose, leveling it with the plane of the face, the sound of snapping cartilage caving into the nasal cavity. Pyrean’s brows raise as his foe's not flinching a bit, remarkably holding his ground despite the heaving blows. Pyrean's never been so frustrated;
“Fucking...thing...fucking —GOLEM-MOTHERFUCKER!”
Hearing her lover scream ‘motherfucker’, Antigony knows he’s in a jam. She throws the stiletto toward him, it three-sixties through the air, at the chiming sound of the blade meeting his metal palm, he closes his fist to grasp it. He flips the dagger, holding the handle in reverse-grip. Thumb on the pommel, he drags the blade across his enemies chest, his hand soaked in warm blood. His forearm blocks a strike as he raises the dagger above his eyes. He pulls it down, stabbing outward into the Senti's neck, dragging clumps of flesh down to his hips. He carries through with a left hook, slashing forward and back across golem-motherfucker’s throat. A fan of blood sprays; the pressure of it stings Pyrean, the metallic tang fills his palate. All he can see is light mucked by blurry crimson. He drops the dagger to wipe his eyes. Exhausted, still holding the dead weight on his sword, he feels the hot breath of his resilient and slow-moving foe;
“—the fuck!? Near-Die already!”
Using the katana-impaled body as a shield, Pyrean’s free hand jabs two fingers into an eye, it just moves around in the socket as the Senti moans in pleasure from pain —and still doesn't budge. Pyrean retracts his fingers. The unharmed eyeball rolls back in place. He goes for a fiercer jab, but is challenged by the same result; the eye moves in the socket bouncing around like a rubber ball at the whim of his fingers;
“Fuck, that’s new. Since when does anybody have strong eyes?” he mutters.
Exhausted, he loses his hold on the katana. As the limp body falls he knees it toward his foe so they share its weight as an obstacle between them.
He catches one refreshing breath before the Senti's right hand wraps around his throat. The unnatural strength denting the graphene armour around Pyrean’s vitals. Pyrean bends his knees and rotates his hips, positioning himself to do damage. He puts one hand on the elbow cap, while one grasps the forearm from the inside. He pushes and pulls in a single motion. At the deadened thump from the torqued socket and the crackling of bones breaking, the joint turns to putty. Reflexes open the grip, releasing Pyrean's neck while the arm flops down, rendered useless.
The Senti jumps, turning one-eighty to shoulder check Pyrean. Thrown backward, Pyrean regroups by rocking on his back leg, leaning inward to counter the motion. The momentum propels him forward and he headbutts that golem-motherfucker. The diamond stud of his metal circlet pierces the temple vein, shooting a pyramid of blood. Pyrean uses all his strength to shove the impaled body into his bloodied opponent, the weight of its fall forcing the katana through his liver and knocking him down. Pyrean casually steps to the fallen. He lifts his right leg, slamming his heel down on the face. It caves in from the impulse. Stepping back, he slips and falls on his ass. Feeling a slap on the back of his head, he turns around to see Antigony say: "Nice guys finish last."
This is my 'Danger Space'