Aron hadn’t known Vivian for long, but two things had become undeniably clear through her actions. First, she was a brilliant strategist; if she was making a move, it was usually the most efficient path to victory. Second, she had firmly chosen her side. She wasn’t just a neutral observer anymore, she wanted the Billion Bloodline to win, and she was willing to use every high-tech resource at her disposal to make that happen.
High above, a sleek drone that had once belonged to the Fortis group hovered, its rotors humming with a high-pitched whine. Vivian must have been monitoring the security feeds, spotting the grueling stalemate in the gym and realizing that Aron was fading.
Whatever was in that package was more than just supplies; it was Aron’s second wind.
Skull, however, wasn’t about to play the role of the bystander. He glanced from the drone to Aron, his eyes widening with realization. "If you think I’m just going to stand here and let you get your hands on that, you’re crazy!" Skull barked. Despite his battered state, he lunged forward, sprinting toward the drop zone with a desperate burst of speed.
Seeing the head start, Aron knew he couldn’t beat him in a footrace with his ribs in their current state. He scanned the floor, his eyes landing on a lighter iron dumbbell near his feet. He snatched it up and, with a grunt of exertion, hurled it with every ounce of strength he had left.
As he followed through with the throw, his side buckled. A sharp, stabbing sensation flared through his torso, feeling as if a shard of bone had pierced even deeper into his lung. He gasped, but the aim was true. The iron weight whistled through the air and clipped the back of Skull’s legs. The impact was enough to upend the man’s balance, sending him tumbling face-first onto the rubber mats.
Aron didn’t wait. He ignored the fire in his side and ran past the struggling Skull, reaching the package just as it hit the floor. He tore it open, his fingers finding familiar grips. The moment his hands closed around them, a sense of calm washed over him. He pulled them out, and with a sharp flick of his wrists, the twin batons extended with a metallic clack . A faint blue electrical pulse crackled at the tips, illuminating the dim gym.
"Crapping hell," Skull spat, pushing himself up off the ground. He stared at the glowing weapons, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You have those things again. This fight is going to hurt... I really should just give up, shouldn’t I?"
He wiped a smear of blood from his eye, his gaze turning grim. "Well, if I were up against anyone else, I probably would. But we both know how this ends. For people like us, there’s only one outcome for the loser: death."
High up in the fortified control room, Vivian watched the feed through a dozen different camera angles. She had been tracking the most troublesome hotspots in the facility, and she knew that while Aron was a superior fighter, Skull was an endurance monster, a "nightmare" that wouldn’t stop until he was physically broken.
She knew these batons well. They were top-of-the-line models designed by the Fortis group, a project Max himself had overseen. Knowing the batons were Aron’s signature, and that his line of work often led to them being destroyed, she had kept a surplus ready for just such an emergency.
Getting them to him had been the challenge. Even a small drone created a significant amount of acoustic noise that could attract unwanted attention in a crowded fight. She had waited for the perfect window, and to her relief, the Billion Bloodline’s forces had provided it. She watched as the Rangers and Max’s closest allies systematically dismantled the Gilt Rat members, pushing the front line forward and clearing the immediate area. It was proof that she had made the right choice in allies; this was a group that overcame the odds through sheer will.
Now, it was time for Aron to prove his worth. He took a deep, agonizing breath and held it tight, using the tension to brace his injured ribs as he charged.
Skull threw a desperate punch, but Aron whacked the arm away with a precise, sparking strike. The second punch met the same fate. Before Skull could recover, Aron thrusted the baton forward, burying the tip into the man’s chest. A massive electrical discharge surged through Skull’s body, his muscles seizing and his eyes rolling back from the shock.
Aron didn’t let up. He became a blur of motion, the batons humming as they struck. He whacked Skull across the temple, then the neck, before thrusting a baton upward toward his throat. As Skull’s body leaned forward under the assault, Aron swung with a brutal overhead arc, catching him across the face and keeping him upright just long enough for the next hit.
Hit after hit rained down. Aron poured all of his frustration, his pain, and his loyalty into the strikes. By the time he finished, Skull was essentially unrecognizable; the swelling was already turning his face into a mask of bruised flesh.
Finally, Aron let out a long, ragged gasp of air. He stopped, his chest heaving. At the same time, Skull’s legs finally gave out, and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Aron stood there for a moment, huffing and panting, before his strength failed and he dropped to one knee. The pain in his side was immense, but the threat was silenced.
"You asked before... what rank I was," Aron whispered, looking down at the unconscious man. "I was one of the first brought into that camp. That’s probably why we never met; you likely came in much later, or your number was too high to notice back then."
He gripped his batons, the electrical hum fading into the silence of the gym. "I’m a bit sloppy compared to the days of the past... and there might be newer members out there now who are better than I am. But during my time? When I was in that camp... I was Rank 1."