Cage Fight
(Markus PoV)
I need another fix, another fight, to sate my rage.
Ever since I can remember, Iâve been locked into a fierce battle with my anger. It builds as easily as a twister in the mid-west, wild and untameable, cutting off all my other senses in its relentless pursuit of domination. The void that now lives within is proof of the utter devastation it can wreak, yet it has taught me all I need to know about how to satisfy its constant craving.
The bright, overhead lights reflect from the chrome of the faucet as I rinse out my mouth guard, tapping it twice on the edge of the sink to release the excess drops. The referee blows his whistle and I nod my head. Fitting the guard, I pound my fists on my chest before pushing them into the gloves and stepping into the ring.
Inhale. Feel the pressure in my chest increase, push the energy out into my waiting body. Exhale. Feel the canvas taut beneath my bare feet. Inhale. Open my eyes but see only my opponent. Open my ears but hear only the beating of my heart. Open my fists but feel only the bindings in my gloves. Exhale. Release. Like a cobra poised to strike; efficient, fast and lethal.
Circling my opponent as I bounce on the soles of my feet, my wrists and shoulders twitch in anticipation, neither of us is willing to make the first move. Telegraphing my right leg, I feign a kick to his ribs, he doesn't fall for it but equally doesn't predict the uppercut I send into his jaw with my left arm. There's no recovery time as I swiftly follow through with a fast jab to his nose, dropping to the floor to sweep his legs out. He blocks the sweep and raises his right knee in an attempt to connect with my chin. That's a 7/10 for tenacity, but he's going to need to try much harder. Blocking the inbound knee, I grab his lower leg with both hands and flip him, springing up from the ground to land astride his now prone form. This is too easy, I'm not ready for this to be over, and I tell him by securing his right arm and shoulder before positioning to his side and tucking my hips. He reaches out and grabs my ankle - good, he's not ready for it to be over either.
Pinning his arm between my legs I flip him over, but release my hold on his far arm just enough - hopefully he takes the hint. He breaks my crucifix hold, as predicted, and we both bounce back to our feet. He's pissed and rightly so, I did just play him. We trade a few blows, but he doesn't land one anywhere except where I let him. Occasionally, I telegraph my moves or leave a flank open.
This is why I'm here. My void feeds on this primal control; it revels in the strategy of the fight and demands the rush of endorphins from the inevitability of victory. When Iâm here, in the ring, my rage is in control and itâs trained me well. From a very young age, its determination to consume me has required that I learn to fight - to hold it back, to harness its power and to channel its desire. Being in the ring is our compromise, a gentlemanâs agreement - my rage is granted its freedom, my void is sated, and I gain a few days of calm before the surge once again swells.
Dodging the incoming jab, itâs now painfully obvious that my opponent is tiring. He is favouring his right side, kicks are sloppy, he's bleeding heavily from a couple of lacerations to his forehead and that looks like a broken nose. I'm not a sadist, I've taken what I need from this fixture, and my opponent can now be released. Striking out with my left leg, I connect to his right shoulder with enough power to drop him to the floor and disable the whole arm. He rocks back up, making it as far as on to his knees before I've closed the distance and slid my legs around his waist. Gripping him tightly, his beaten face clearly conveys his moment of realisation - of the inevitability of what is to come. Reaching over, I secure him before applying pressure in a reverse armbar.
Inhale. Feel the energy in my body; push it back into my chest. Exhale. Feel the now sweaty and bloody canvas press into my back and hip. Inhale. Open my eyes and see the steady stream of body heat rising from my opponent's bruised back. Exhale. Revitalise. Like a silverback gorilla standing proud over his troop.
âââââ
Shutting off the alarm on my nightstand before it gives out its first sound, I swing my feet onto the cool of the hardwood floor and stretch my back until it releases with a satisfying series of cracks. A brief, cold shower eases the last of the soreness in my muscles and I step out only minutes later, securing a towel around my waist. Using a second one to dry my upper body and hair, before gently patting dry my beard. Standing at the vanity unit, I reach for the hair dryer and begin to direct my dark hair back and away from my face before smoothing down my beard - my pride and joy. Padding from the bathroom to the closet, I dress for the day. Owing to my impressive height and physique all of my suits are tailor-made and most are in shades of grey, I like grey - it matches my eyes. Usually, I pair my suits with brown leather shoes and a Breitling watch. Checking myself over one final time, I turn on my heel and stride out of my penthouse ready for the day.
Parking my car in the reserved bay, I spin the keys around my finger and catch the fob to press the lock button, before dropping them in my bag and taking the elevator from the basement lot to my top-floor office. As usual, my PA, Daniel, greets me as I step foot in the office and hands me a fresh, double espresso from the little, independent coffee shop I like across the road.
âMorning, Mr Embla.â
He is oddly flustered this morning; shuffling the tablet in his hands and tapping on the screen. Taking a moment to observe him, I notice his tie is slightly off and his hair looks like he has been running his fingers through it. Interesting.
Daniel follows me into my office but keeps his distance as I fire up my computer and switch on my monitors. Sipping on my coffee whilst my start-up profile loads, I continue to pick up little alerts about him. He hasn't prattled off his usual monologue about the weather, his commute, the queue in the coffee shop, or Veronica on the front desk but, most noteworthy, is the absence of any mention of my pending meeting with Charleston Logistics.
This is a big contract that my company has been working to secure for months. We don't need them, per se, for what we do, but it would significantly increase the profile of our public-facing departments. They, however, do need us. My intel tells me this is a business-critical deal for them, a case of diversifying or die. So why is Daniel off his game?
"Daniel?" I ask.
"Hmmm, Mr Embla, Sir?" he responds cautiously.
"I need Ms Folkvang this morning," I state calmly, with a small nod of my head toward the office door, indicating he should leave through it to find her. He takes a moment to register my request before scurrying off. Entering the small key into my desk drawer, I open it. Not very high-tech, I know, but I don't keep anything of value in it - except for a small, innocuous-looking, black plastic cube. Connecting the cable from my computer to the base of it, I enter a series of commands into a .exe file, and finish my coffee as I wait. Moments later, it produces what I need - the reason for Daniel's erratic behaviour. Letting out a long breath, I lean back in my chair.
A knock at the office door breaks my train of thought and Daniel reappears:
"Um, Ms Folkvang as requested, Mr Embla, Sir."
"Thank you, that's all for now," I state, standing to move towards the door. Daniel returns to his desk in the lobby outside my office and I can sense Hilda Folkvang's eyes on me even before she comes into sight from the corridor that separates our offices. Hilda sees everything, it's one of the reasons I asked her to be my COO. Turning to her, I motion my arm towards my office and lock the door when we're both securely inside.
There's a small moment of comfortable silence between us in which we both observe each other. Hilda is older than me, maybe mid-40s to my 31 years, but it's hard to be certain as she has that ageless quality about her. She could be anywhere from her late 30s to her early 50s and, honestly, she looks good for her age. She keeps herself well, she's healthy and fit, her shoulder-length, dark hair is glossy and she regularly dresses in a form of fitted fashion fatigues with long-sleeved blouses. I'm pretty sure it's all she owns as I don't remember ever seeing her in anything else and I've known her for over ten years. We met when she was my professor in college. Despite being enrolled in the business school, I had space for electives and Hilda ran a course on ancient weaponry. At the end of my second year, she approached me with a proposal for a collaboration on a project, and that project led us to where we are today.
To the public, Embla Enterprises specialise in high-end technology items like security cameras, biometric keys, and anti-viral software â however, this isn't the core of our company. Only Hilda and I have full visibility on our government-only departments that fulfil various contracts to supply military strategy and armaments: this is where I shine.
"Are you going to tell me why you sent that weasel to collect me so early?"
Raising my head to look into her eyes, she takes a sharp inhale, then slowly releases her breath:
"Ah" is all she says.
Tapping my monitors for her to look over what I found earlier, I walk across my office to my east-facing, panoramic window wall. There's something about this view, especially in the morning as the sky rolls through its colour options before settling on one for the day, that's calming. The sound of Hilda's palm as it connects with my desk pulls my concentration.
"Fuck! The whole fucking contract?!" she hisses. I don't turn to face her, she can be a firebrand and an audience tends to make her worse. A moment passes before I hear her ask:
"You seem very calm, so I take that to mean you already have a strategy?"
Before turning to her, I catch my reflection in the window and, sure enough, there it is. That spark in my eyes, that fire that burns brightly behind them. Hilda knows this look all too well, she refers to it as an omen; a sign of things to come. I know it only as a symptom, a physical manifestation of my rage, a sign that it is on the rise. Making a simple, small nod of my head at Hilda, I observe the smirk that plays about her lips. She is a smart woman and wastes no further time in exiting my office to begin her task.
I'm not a sadist, I take no pleasure from the destruction of others, but I will always protect what's mine. Daniel has crossed the line and he's about to feel my wrath.
