The Chains That Break

By

Ken-Zero

Disclaimer: As always, the universes here are not my own. I can only take credit for some original characters and the plot.

--

5

It was the beginning of another day.

Kim reflected briefly on how the past weeks had gone; she'd certainly been busy enough in her cover to have even her believing the false identity. Reports to Colonel Briggins, coded in the form of slightly nervous status updates to Keilyn Pelargic's boss, usually got responses that warned her against spending too much of her time on the "company-paid business trip" slacking off and being a tourist. She knew they meant trying to avoid blowing her cover, but…

Frankly, she didn't want to tell the Colonel that her cover had already been blown. Sort of.

She thought back to her fourth visit to the "slave quarters" inside the Manpower facility. It had been…enlightening, in a couple of ways.

No sooner had she stepped into the place than the door closed behind her again, cutting the guide off. She stepped forward a bit, relaxing only somewhat. It still felt like she was walking into a room of sullen hostility, even if nothing ever happened.

One of the slaves had finally called her on it. "You know, you can stop pretending for a second."

"Huh?"

"The 'innocent office worker' act. It was cute at first, but it's old now."

Kim frowned, confused—or at least presenting confusion to the outside. Inside, she was near panic. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap!

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"Look, every time you walk in, you get all tense and take up a stance. Plus you're always looking for exits. It's a little more than obvious that you're not just some corp flack."

It must have shown that Kim was more than a little surprised—not just at being busted, but that they were being so straightforward with her—because the same man who'd been talking to her snorted.

"Yeah, they 'let' us be a little more straightforward. Something to do with that making it easier for us to try and beat the snot out of the other guy."

Assorted chuckles let Kim know everyone else in the room was paying attention, whether or not they were directly looking at her.

"If you're so sure," she said, trying even now to maintain some semblance of her cover, "why haven't you done anything about it?"

She got another snort. "You think that would change anything?"

"Well…" she blushed. "No, not really…"

"Precisely. So, in spite of that total lack of self-interest, I have to ask…what the hell are you doing in this dump?"

Still not entirely sure that she was safe, Kim had nonetheless managed to concoct some sort of fib that held just enough truth to be believable—something about how she was actually sent to inspect the business types who ran the place, what they were expecting by offering this offshoot line, and so on. She rambled enough that she wasn't even sure she bought it—that, and her history of being a pathologically bad liar—but the man who'd busted her hadn't really pushed for more beyond that. She hadn't really gotten any extra information out of them at that point, not that it mattered to her, personally. Still, figuring it would save her cover with the people she was really there to spy on, she spent the next few visits determining what combat styles each of them knew.

The results were somewhat amazing. Each of them knew several, but the company had clearly designed them to certain ends. Derrik, the one whom she usually spoke to, gravitated toward armed combat, preferring a single weapon, usually bladed. A handful of the others were the same way. Others still used large, two-handed items, ranging from bastard- and greatswords to polearms, quarterstaves, and the like. Some—all of whom were lean and wiry, moving with significant grace—she was told favored a short weapon in each hand, usually paired items.

One, she was told, actually preferred a spear and net. That combination tickled something in her memory, but she couldn't recall what it was for the life of her.

Of the rest, they held "interests" in the various unarmed combat styles humanity had developed over its multi-thousand-year quest of killing each other. Kim even managed to finagle one of them into a discussion about the various styles of kung fu they knew between the two of them.

Still, not once during those visits did she see that Shego woman again, which was something of a disappointment for Kim. As she was the only one Kim had actually seen fight, she kind of wanted to know more. Like why she's green…

She would get her chance two days later.

--

"So how do you make sure they don't…you know…get out?" Kim asked her guide.

After nearly three weeks, she had come and gone enough times that she was recognizable on sight by the greeters, who knew to fetch the guide—Abram, she's learned his name was—when they saw her approaching. Part of that familiarity helped Kim, as it made her considerably less nervous—less absolutely sure that they were going to see right through her, as it were. It also seemed to butter her guide up, and she'd tested just how far she could go in terms of questions as time went on. The more things she asked, the more he seemed to open up, especially when it sounded like she was so genuinely interested.

Abram took the opportunity to gesture at the walls. "There is enough built-in monitoring in this building that, should there ever be the unlikely occurrence of a revolt of any sort, it can be put down quickly and effectively. We have automated defenses lining just about every corridor, and should we ever have the need, we can call in the local police for some extra firepower. We have very little to fear, really, as none of them are even within sight distance of a firearm of any sort. Even all their training would do them little good, especially in the hallways; there is no exit from the arena, and there are only two ways in or out from their quarters—to the arena, and the way you go to…visit."

"You don't think I should?" She made sure to look extra-pathetic, pouting as heavily as she could. It was a trick her mother used to pull on her, and damned if it didn't instantly guilt Kim into doing whatever her mother wanted. She figured, as a fairly desperate corporate secretary type (in effect, if not in fact), if it helped get what her "boss" wanted, it was worth the embarrassment.

Abram, of course, fell victim to the Pout instantly. "Oh, far from it! That old mantra about the customer always being right is an 'old mantra' for a reason, you know!" That he was already leading her to that exact area just made it more amusing to Kim.

"So basically, you don't worry about them going nuts, because it's suicide if they do," Kim surmised, wincing internally. That kinda puts a crimp in anything I could plan…

"You could certainly put it that way, yes. We prefer to believe that they realize it's better they live here than try to outside; they are capable of such violence, you see—well, you've seen the fights—that it would be a shame to endanger the populace with their like."

It took more effort than usual for Kim to hide her disgust with Abram's self-righteous justification for keeping the slaves pent up in a hole in the ground. For God's sake, they don't even see daylight! Ever!

Thankfully, she only had to keep the façade up for about a minute; at that point, they reached the Door (Kim had come to regard it with a capital D after the first week). Abram opened it like he always did, allowing Kim in with a nod, and she forced out a smile for him before stepping past.

She had all of a second's warning before another body came flying through the air straight in her direction; she barely heard the door latch behind her as she threw herself to one side just in time to avoid the crash.

She landed flat on her stomach, breath whooshing out from the impact, but she avoided any contact. She scrambled back to her feet, part of her automatically assessing the scene while she tried to calm herself from the sudden adrenaline rush.

The very center of the room was bare, the furniture pushed out of the way to make a sort of impromptu half-ring. Straightening from a hunched posture was one of the women Kim knew preferred a more defensive style, something like Old Earth's judo.

And rising from a heap where Kim had just vacated was none other than Shego.

Nicola, the other combatant, frowned. "Just stay down," she harrumphed.

"Like hell," Shego returned, getting back into her own stance. She looked quite less than pleased. She stalked over to the half-ring again, got set, and attacked once more.

This time was…different from what Kim saw in the ring those few weeks ago. Nicola was on the defensive, for one, and Shego was downright reckless. As Kim watched, she got thrown again after just a few seconds. Just like before, she got right back up and attacked, only to be thrown a third time, and a fourth. By that point, both combatants were breathing heavily, and Kim could see a handful of discolored spots on Shego's pale green skin that she had to assume were bruises.

Just as she was wondering if the fight was over, Kim saw Shego give herself a shake and then advance on Nicola—not in a charge this time, but methodically. Her expression was set in concentration. As Kim watched, the fight began again, but this time there was no recklessness…and the display rivaled some of the more intense demonstrations she'd seen from her own training. Fists and feet flew furiously, and every so often she heard the dull thud of a strike slipping past a guard and connecting.

And then, with a suddenness that bordered on the comical, the fight was over. Both Shego and Nicola smashed a fist into each other's head, and each one spun away from the force of the blow. The difference was, Nicola appeared to have been completely knocked out…while Shego, dazed, was nevertheless attempting to pull herself up off the floor.

Kim didn't even think. She ran over to Shego's side and dropped to her knees, offering a stable arm or shoulder in silence.

The fighter took the proffered support without speaking, which surprised Kim somewhat. She also noticed that Shego's hands were extremely warm, bordering on the uncomfortable; the sensation only lasted a few seconds, though, because once Shego had gotten her feet back under her, she shoved off of Kim and stood on wobbly legs.

"Thanks," the brunette mumbled.

"You're welcome," Kim smiled, blushing just slightly from the proximity. Internally she was warning herself. Don't get all schoolgirl-giddy, Kim, or they'll think you're bonkers.

"Nice dive back there, Pumpkin" Shego commented, regaining enough of her senses to smirk and assume a casual posture. "They teach you to go down like that at spook school?"

Kim blinked away the mental images that last sentence generated. "Huh?" she asked intelligently.

The greenish woman shook her head, smirk still in place. "Never mind. Clearly I'm not the only one who got rattled in that fight."

Kim blushed again, though she did note that Shego seemed to not even be breathing hard any more. And now that Kim thought about it—and stared when Shego wasn't looking—she could see the bruises from Nicola's blows were far too light-colored for as fresh as they were.

And then Shego was walking away, no trace of a limp or shudder marring her gait.

Kim continued to stare after her. Obviously, if the fighter knew Kim was a spy of any sort, then they all talked about her while she wasn't here; she knew Shego hadn't been present during any of her other visits save the very first. Also obviously, the woman had a sizeable ego in spite of her circumstances; why else tag a complete stranger with a nickname in her first complete spoken sentence?

All of that, along with the woman's remarkable ability to shrug off a no-holds-barred brawl like she'd done, meant Kim had a lot to think about…and a bit more than usual to put into her report.

--

"…and they all seem to be pretty healthy, in all respects," Kim finished, two days later, with another light blush on her cheeks.

It helped, she thought, to sell the illusion of her cover identity if she allowed some of her real emotions to leak through once in a while. And the thought of how just how "healthy" most of the slaves were, was what prompted the genuine blush, cover story or otherwise.

She watched her report again, confirming that she'd put everything in that she could think of, and closed the file, sending it on its way to her "boss's" desk. Then it came to the hardest part of the whole operation: the waiting. She had another couple of days before she could expect a message back at the absolute earliest, which meant her time was her own for the most part. Inspiration struck, and she rooted around in her clothes for appropriate gym wear.