8 POINTS

[attr="class","rileyshorts"]

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mention of Blood, Mention of Murder, Mild Violence

Thunderstorms never once bothered him since his agreement. The harsh pangs of fast-falling rainwater against the tin roof and rumbling crashes of oncoming thunder blocked out the noise in the ring. The roaring cheers of people demanding the spilling blood were blocked out for meagre seconds and while the dance of battle proceeded, a sense of peace managed to fill him. At times, he would fantasize this as mere self-defence, however, his skill level was blatantly beyond the unfortunate accountant. The man was decorated in deep, filth-covered cuts from both the minutes fighting and excruciating captivity. He expected to battle others similar to him, wayward souls, who wronged the wrong people, but he was incorrect.

The realm he entered was where people entered the slaughter. Butcher Field was the final destination for many. A twisted land where people fought under the hopes of survival. They prayed to return to their families, accomplished gruesome actions in desperation for the sweetness of life... But they would never leave. Butcher Field was what its titled stated, a place where creatures were butchered. As they encroached on the final battle to their victorious release, they would be faced with him, the executioner. Trained off agreement of conserving the happiness of his younger sister’s life, Riley Chaeffeur acted as the executioner. The individual prepared and drafted to win. If anything, the entire charade provided to the unfortunate accountant was a false hope. Every detail was pondered, every victory merely another day of fattening until the butcher came.

The accountant naught once stood a chance. An axe held tight in the unktehi’s hand swung back far. Horror stretched across the stranger’s face as his mouth gaped into a loud scream. He was pinned and doomed as injuries claimed energy… The loudest crack of thunder ruptured through the building walls and shook the facility as the axe’s head went down. Suddenly, the shrill screams subsided and were replaced with the loud cheers of the stands. The people of the crowd enjoyed the bloodshed, as though they lived by its code. Alas, his blood-soaked axe and garbs were not used as crowd-pleasers, rather, the executioner turned from his recent kill. The droplets of life liquid rolled down his axe, leaving a trail from the deceased. The strong scents of copper and death clouded his sensitive nose. Yet, he continued on his retreat, entering the preparation without a word or action of glory.

Pounding rain blurred out the sounds of rustling chains and moving metal as the threshold opened its mighty maw. The makeshift drawbridge closed the gaps between the field of barbwire and gateway through the sturdy concrete walls. Butcher Field was a location created in the wildest dreams of blood-craving masterminds and accomplished through the power of abilities. The compound was elaborate, composed of specially designed wards and thick, sturdy walls, nobody who had taken captive escaped the horror show. Every frigid body, stiff-faced and blood-drained, was destroyed within the compound walls. Death was entertainment and permanent entrapment inside hell’s walls. The clatter of the bridge’s lip against the primary fighting ring prompted the executioner’s leave. From behind him the cheers followed him, reminding him of his accomplishments for the evening.

The sounds of liquid being poured together as cleaners prepared to accomplish their duties. Inside was the essentials for battlers, a pathetic shower, lockers and change rooms. The basic amenities for somebody fresh from the battlefield, yet through the weaving halls leaked sounds of laughter. Through the lenses of a modified welding mask, Riley’s eyes locked upon the source. A gaggle of three men sitting at an old table.

“This newbie actually thought that fuckin’ scumbag stood a chance,” the first cackled, leaning back heavy in the wooden chair.

The executioner’s mind drifted from them a moment’s later, a meagre swindling of funds. He viewed it a handful of times before. His first days within the walls of Butcher Field exhibited similar attempts of gaining funds from an unaware new face. However, his lack of interest in the sport of killing resulted in Riley ignoring the bid offers and grabbing hands. Rather than join the discussions of what was considered fair, the unktehi turned to the nearby sink.

“That ain’t fuckin’ fair! You bastards tricked me!” The fooled man snapped.

The accidental eavesdropping prompted Riley’s green hues to roll. The blooded axe was dropped into the metallic sink. His other hand reaching to pull off the obnoxious face-covering he was forced to wear. He pulled the taps, allowing water to surge from the faucet and over the dirtied items. Behind they complained and scuffled, Riley attempting to block out the shouted words between the rattling of the table. When splintering wood reached his ears, the unktehi’s head glanced over his shoulder, shooting the trio a nasty glare.

“Can you shut the hell up already?! Or at least take your petty fight somewhere else!” He snapped at them, his green eyes returning to the sink.

The expressions worn between the pair of swindlers in response were unnoticed, however, one with particular confidence strode alongside him. The scuff of his boots prompted Riley’s eyes to stare at him through his peripherals. In the background, the pair squabbled as the larger of the two attempted to grab the scammed man’s arms. Abruptly, a hand smacked into the back of the unktehi’s head as the skinnier of the pair smacked him. Perhaps the man beside him was idiotic or thought himself capable of “asserting dominance”, but Riley chalked his action up to being stupid. A low, crocodilian growl rumbled from Riley’s throat as his gaze shifted into daggers at the moronic gambler.

“Do that again and I’ll bite your god damn hand off! Now fuck off already!” He snapped once again.

In emphasis, his elbow jutted back hard into the man’s hip. The arrogant skinny man recoiled as the breath was drawn from his lips. Choice words riddled the man’s lips, however, Riley merely ignored the pride-minded moron. Nonetheless, the man appeared done with the executioner, for the time being, opting to murmur to his associate before dragging the unhappy, conned newbie away. The man’s insistence of release and shuffling feet rang through the hallway, but the muffled from the rainfall and rumbling thunder. With the ruckus ceased, a long exhale drew from Riley’s lips. The water leaving the spout contorted as his attention returned, the man’s water manipulating capabilities exhibited in the action. Water drew thoroughly over the axe and mask, rinsing away in colours of clouded red. Any grotesque qualities left from the brutal killing escaped with the water currents. In the meantime, the cleaners had flooded into the arena to scrub everything down, buckets of bleach mixed water waiting outside.

As he turned the faucet off, his eyes wandered to them. For a few moments, he watched them drag away the corpse of the recent victim into the adjacent drawbridge... where all the captives were. His gaze drew way, head shaking as he acknowledged his actions. He hated every second spent inside Butcher Field, and in recent times, everything weighed heavier upon his shoulders. The recent disappearance of his mother churned inside the turmoil of his mind, however, not from attachment. Whatever happened to his father’s primary supporter hardly mattered, alas, the circumstance of which it occurred lingered inside his mind. It summoned inquiries of trust and ponderings on his father’s underlying motives. Effectively, Riley’s mother disappeared and was replaced with a woman considered conventionally attractive, a tier up physically to his mother.

William Chaeffeur, in short, was never a trustworthy man. A career criminal, everything he accomplished was in the pursuit of money and power. He planned for his children to join, and when both resisted, attempted to force his control over the less problematic of his children. They could have escaped... Maybe runaway and move into a small apartment or something... Yet, their parents would always be hunting, primarily their twisted father... In the heat of everything a deal was struck, a promise of becoming complicit in his father’s actions all in exchange for his sister’s freedom... The actions of his father’s betrayal to his mother threw the centuries-old deal into disarray. The unktehi could no longer be certain his father was trustworthy, the skilled manipulator dropping mentions of Anastasia to buy Riley’s obedience. It brought forth endlessly wondering on Anastasia’s well-being and whereabouts or if his father finally gained the gull to break his promises...

His green eyes proceeded in their gaze until finally resting at the sitting table. Astonish flashed amidst the emerald hues as his fixation drew upon three small devices. In their hurry to punish the insolence of the swindled man, the trio left their phones behind. The unktehi’s eyes were locked upon the flip phones, his gaze drawn back and forth. There were methods of escape and one presented itself atop the wooden surface of an old table. The risks existed as reminders of cruel, medieval torture methods flitted through Riley’s mind. A single slip up meant the executioner’s axe would be drawn across his neck. The thunder rumbled as the rain pinged hard against the roof and walls. The uproar around him would muffle his voice and other opportunities were scarce. His fingers burned as he stood for what felt like minutes, contemplating his choices... If his father manipulated Anastasia, what was left for him here? If he haunted her life and made her miserable, what was worth being here? Where were the cons in the risk? Success meant a prison sentence for his father and chances of his name being brought up were slim.

Nobody would be aware he called and spilling his name? It meant law enforcement would receive a witness, one who was effectively under duress and trapped because of a deal to protect his little sister. Either they spilled his name and the police received more or they allowed him to run. Though should they ever escape prison... may the gods have mercy on his “traitorous” soul. Contemplation ceased as his hand quickly snagged the device and pocketed it. With the device of the dragged away man taken, another argument would merely arrive. He would assume the scammers took it... though if he returned to the table before them? Well, there would some revenge. Phone hidden in the depths of his pocket, Riley pushed through the doors to the showering area without a thought to undress. For all they knew, he wanted to thoroughly clean himself or desired some privacy. Once inside, he lifted the handle of the shower high, creating more background noise as he pressed against the back of the shower.

His fingers burned at the thought of dialling the numbers. The weighted breathing of his breath as pressure heaved against him. He had everything he needed inside his locker. The people inside Butcher Field could not be trusted, thus he brought it around and locked it away. Everything he required was prepared and the young man knew basic skills in hunting. With a thick swallow, his fingers dialled the numbers.



Only seconds after the answer, Riley slammed the flip phone closed. If for a second the police doubted his story... if he entered where they were to be contained... his father would kill him. He had ten minutes to grab his stuff and leave and another five to ditch Butcher Field and head into the woodlands. Hastily, Riley manipulated the water close, using it to pull the blood from his clothing and hair alongside the grime. In a quick swoop, he sent it towards the drain before pushing the faucet off. From his clothes and hair, he gathered the water, drying himself with his manipulation to avoid suspicion. In a march he escaped the showering area, fetching the key from his pocket and fiddling with the lock. His fingers near shook as Riley forced them calm, praying nobody heard the call to emergency services. His heart thudded loud in his ears as his eyes scanned his surroundings, checking for anything suspicious.

As the locker door creaked open, Riley’s black backpack was revealed within, safe and unharmed. Quickly, he grabbed it, pulling the old strap over his shoulder before hurrying out of the room. Each step contained an added haste as he returned to the arena’s main hall. His eyes flitted and his ears listened as he checked for the face of the individual he snatched the phone from. Not a soul was in sight beyond the distracted cleaners... The situation was ideal. From the table, he grabbed the remaining phones, his eyes flitting wildly. Outside the arena doors were three buckets, the contents a mixture of cleaning product and water, evident by the strong, nearly suffocating scent. The devices in his hands were cast in, each silent as he forced the waves still and calm. Another survey was conducted as his mind mapped the compound, remembering the turns at graffitied walls to old wooden doors; the familiar ones he busted through sick from his first kill.

On a heel he turned, hands balling into fists as they entered his pockets. Pressure fell over his shoulders as the fear settled inside him. His breaths turned deep as he kept his head down, purposefully keeping his steps timed to avoid alerting anybody. People passed him, some intentionally nudging him as a sign of silent superiority. Butcher Field was always a dog-eat-dog world. Nobody survived or maintained a quality of life without pushing, shoving and killing their way to the top of the chain. His eyes scanned everything, their faces moving in blurs around him as every fibre of his being screamed for escape. The opportunity arrived and not another chance would. His heart drummed in his ears, insisting on the notion of running while common sense argued about drawing suspicion... God, did he want to run. Everything hinged on timing, on slithering out before law enforcement arrived and using the chaos to mask his absence. His march continued as he hooked right, leaving the main path. His eyes caught the battered door, splintered and mistreated through the years. He forced his legs calm as he approached the door, pushing it open and hastily slamming it behind him.

Around him, the world was awake with whirling winds and high-speed rain. A full-blown storm chilling him to his core. The unktehi blinked but refused to linger. His legs pushed him forward towards the barbed, chainlink fence. In seconds, the rain droplets gathered into a small blade of water coming down across the metal. One cut, then another for room, Riley opened the fence and squeezed through. The links caught against his clothes, however, the young man pushed through to the other side. In the blinding rain and thick trees, Riley began to sprint, activating his enhanced speed to weave through the branches and fallen logs. Behind him was Butcher Field, growing more distant as impending officers drew closer. The rain would cover his tracks, he was certain the velocity would wash away prints, and when far enough he would be home free. Thus, he ran, feeling the rhythm of his feet thudding rapidly against the ground, the sensation of cold rain across his skin all while the world reminded him that a reaper followed him and there would be a death wish on his head. If anything, he was a dead man walking.

YOU GOT ME