Saints in a Chip

“Jude, take Lucy back to the gas station,” Lazaro said, commanding as his eyes examined the wreckage. Blood was smeared on the windshield, and the vehicle was abandoned, left on the road as if no one had dared return. It was clear something had gone wrong here.

"I'll go check around if there’s anything else," he continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. It carried a finality that made it clear he was taking charge of the situation.

"But you should at least—" Jude began, glancing nervously at Lucy in the backseat. She was too quiet, too still, her wide eyes fixed on the truck.

"No," Lazaro interrupted Jude again. "Take her back. Now."

“No, you're coming with me, and we'll check together,” Jude snapped, cutting him off. But Lazaro wasn’t listening. Before Jude could say another word, Lazaro had already jumped out of the jeep. He slapped the side of the vehicle twice with his palm—thud, thud—a signal Jude knew too well. The discussion was over.

“Go! Could be dangerous for her.”

Jude leaned out the window. “And how are you getting back?”

Lazaro gave a dismissive wave, his figure already disappearing into the trees. “I’ll find my way, don’t worry.”

“Lazaro?” Jude called after him, but the only answer was the sight of Lazaro fading into the trees, swallowed by the forest’s shadow. Jude cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous.” He glanced at Lucy, trying to force calm into his voice. “Alright, princess, I’ll drop you off with Patrick, and then I’ll go help that madman. This whole thing’s nonsense.”

He turned the jeep around, the engine rumbling louder as his frustration simmered. But as he sped back toward the gas station, a flicker of hope sparked.

Jude pulled into the lot. His eyes immediately locked onto a military jeep parked out front, its unmistakable green frame standing out against the store's dusty backdrop. His heart jumped in his chest. Could it be Len? Finally?

But as he parked next to the jeep and walked into the store with Lucy, the air grew heavier. It wasn’t Len who greeted him. Instead, Tom was at the counter, a drink in hand. His presence radiated an unease that wasn’t hard to scrutinise.

Tom sat on a stool, leaning against the counter with a lazy ease that didn’t match the tension in the room. His body language might’ve been casual, but his presence loomed large, a barely contained storm waiting to break. Patrick stood stiffly behind the counter, his discomfort clear in the way his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes flicking nervously around the store as though he were desperate for a way out. The air was pounding, and it didn’t take much for Jude to notice the glaring elephant in the room. He silently thanked fate for Lazaro not being here.

Nothing was as ugly as a lover’s spat, especially when one of them was armed and on edge.

“Jude! Still with us, I see,” Tom said, his words carrying an edge that should have sounded friendly but missed the mark completely. Jude couldn’t quite get a read on him, and that unsettled him more than he’d like to admit.

"Hi," Lucy chimed in faintly, stepping slightly behind Jude. She clearly felt fear, her body language mirroring her own discomfort.

“Tom, right?” Jude asked. “I remember because of the moustache.” He tapped his upper lip playfully

“That’s the name,” Tom replied, picking up a shot glass and downing it in one go. His dark eyes, almost black, lingered on Jude for a moment longer than necessary. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my boyfriend is, would you?” There was something cooking beneath the surface—rage mixed with something more dangerous. It felt like an avalanche waiting to break.

Jude shifted uneasily. “He’s helping a friend.”

Tom’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “So, you’re in on it now? Know who all the friends are? Like Patrick here, huh?”

The question threw Jude off balance. It was awkward in its delivery, and Jude was still unsure what he meant. Tom wasn’t just drunk—he was armed, the rifle slung casually over his shoulder, a silent warning that hung in the air.

“Tom... we found a truck at the edge of the road, wrecked. There was blood but no sign of the driver,” Jude said, his voice steady, though he could feel the tension thickening. “Lazaro went to check the area, and I came back to leave Lucy here and go help him.”

That had been the plan, but with Tom here, things felt off. The gas station no longer felt like a safe place, especially with the way Tom carried himself—drunk, on edge, and armed. Jude’s mind raced, piecing together the details. If Tom was carrying a rifle, it wasn’t just for show. His abilities, whatever they were, probably came with conditions, just like Jude’s need for eye contact and Lazaro’s strange power triggered by physical impact.

Jude had no idea what Tom’s abilities or condition were, but there was only one way to find out. His instinct to keep Lucy safe worried him. He couldn’t afford to misstep and get her hurt.

He shifted his focus to Patrick, his voice calm despite the tension. "Do you have any tequila?"

Patrick didn’t hesitate. He was the kind of man who, once he trusted you, would go to lengths to help. Jude was on that list. Without a word, Patrick reached beneath the counter, pulling out a bottle of tequila. The familiar clink of glasses followed as he quickly prepped the cups with salt and lime.

Jude took a seat, and Lucy, sensing the shift, slipped quietly behind the counter, making herself as invisible as possible. "Mind if I join you?" Jude asked casually, reaching for a glass.

“Suite yourself,” Tom mumbled.

Jude lifted one of the cups, forcing a grin. “Well, Tom, here’s to—”

Tom didn’t even acknowledge him, not a glance or a word. He downed his shot in one quick motion, the glass slamming back onto the counter with a dull thud. His finger jabbed at the empty cup, wordlessly demanding a refill.

Jude winced as he took his own shot, the tequila burning its way down. He’d forgotten just how much he hated the taste, the bitter heat lingering on his tongue. Still, he tried again, raising the second cup as Patrick refilled his glass.

“Will you give me the honour of making a toast with me this time?” Jude asked, a half-smile playing on his lips.

But the moment Tom’s cup was full, he threw it back just as quickly as if it were water, slamming it down again without a word. The tension in the room thickened, and Jude knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

The second try failed. Jude winced as the liquor burned down his throat again, the taste just as terrible as the first time. Tom, unfazed, slid his glass forward, wordlessly asking for another refill.

As Patrick reached to pour, Jude raised his hand, stopping him.

Tom turned his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong? Can’t handle your liquor?” His voice dripped with mockery.

Jude leaned back, forcing a smile. “Nah, I just hate drinking alone,” he replied.

“You’re not drinking alone—I’m right here,” Tom shot back, slamming down another shot, his eyes still not leaving the glass.

Jude turned slightly, angling his body toward Tom, his gaze steady. “When I drink with friends, we toast to stupid things,” he said. “But drinking just to drink? That’s not my thing. It feels... stupid. And sad.”

Tom froze for a split second, Jude’s words clearly hitting a nerve. Jude tried to lock eyes with him, but Tom flinched away, avoiding the connection. Instead, a smirk twisted Tom’s lips, the tension between them winding tighter. He wasn’t going to let Jude in that easily.

With a roll of his eyes, Tom’s voice dripped with contempt. "You think I’m dumb? Do you think I’d fall for your little plan to get me to look you in the eyes? And then what?" His tone turned sharper as he spun fully toward Jude, shoving him hard on the shoulder.

"What the hell would you do? Make me spill everything so you can run back and tell the UGS?" Tom’s breath was heavy, his eyes dark with a mix of anger and suspicion. "You think I’m stupid?" The force behind his words was raw, laced with bitterness, but also something else—fear, perhaps while he shoved Jude’s shoulder.

His voice grew louder, his shoves more forceful, though his movements were clumsy, the alcohol already taking its toll. Each push landed harder, but Jude didn’t budge from his seat, his calm only fuelling Tom’s rising aggression.

"You all think I’m some kind of idiot because I’m kind? That makes me weak?" Tom kept pushing, but there was a desperation in his movements now, his fury blurring with frustration. Jude remained seated, unflinching, watching as Tom’s rage began to unravel right in front of him.

Jude remained silent, letting Tom’s drunken aggression play out, his own patience holding firm. Then, in one smooth motion, Jude turned and grabbed Tom’s wrist mid-shove. The sudden movement startled Tom, freezing him in place as their eyes locked.

“Alcohol slows reflexes,” Jude muttered, his grip steady.

In that instant, as he stared into Tom’s dark, glazed eyes, Jude felt something shift—like he was looking past the surface, deeper than he’d anticipated. What he saw wasn’t just the reflection of his own face but a glimpse into something raw, chaotic, and darker than he’d bargained for.

The roar of the crowd hit like a tidal wave, the sheer volume vibrating through the compressed air; while a man in a black scaled jumpsuit, his long blond hair flowing behind him, strode confidently across the Arena. Every step was calculated, teasing the crowd into a frenzy. The place was packed, not a single seat left unclaimed, and enormous banners waved overhead like sails in the wind. Faces of warriors adorned those banners—figures in black jumpsuits, stern and powerful. From all those faces, two stood out more than the rest: Len and Paris.

Tom sat in the Arena for the first time, the electric energy of the crowd drowning him. He felt overwhelmed by all the new information he was collecting daily. His gaze drifted up to the scoreboard—Humans 5, Friends 6. They were losing, but no one seemed to care. Tom's eyes flicked to the edges of the arena, where several CTV cameras were discreetly positioned, their lenses hooked on the action below. The blinking red lights of the cameras seemed to watch everything, ensuring nothing was missed, not even the smallest detail.

The atmosphere felt more like a festival than a battle, with laughter, cheering, and excitement buzzing. Next to him, Teresa bounced in her seat, her hands waving wildly, fully caught in the moment. She had connected into the SiC the same day as him, a redhead with freckles splashed across her cheeks, a perfect fit for her green shirt and camouflage cargo.

She adapted faster than him, her instincts sharp and her mind absorbing everything with ease. She learned at a speed that left Tom in awe, effortlessly navigating the complexities of Nirvana. She was already level 21, while he was only 12. It was as if the world had been designed for her. She seemed to blend into the system perfectly and knew how to play the rules. Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before she took on the mantle—he wouldn’t be surprised if she became the next Saint.

But at that moment, Tom's eyes were locked on the man pacing around the Arena, every movement designed to rile up the crowd. The man teased them, drawing out their dopamine for the next fight. The cheers only grew louder, but Tom’s focus stayed only on that man. He seemed he couldn't get enough. That was Lazaro.

“What’s wrong with you?” Teresa’s voice cut through the noise as she slapped his shoulder playfully. “Come on, have fun!”

“We’re fighting against…” Tom hesitated, searching for the right word but coming up short.

Teresa leaned in closer, her smile teasing, though the proximity made Tom shift uncomfortably. “Boy, what part of ‘setting up a show’ don’t you get?” she said, her breath warm on his cheek.

“It’s just...” Tom trailed off, still unable to shake the unease of the world.

“You’ll get used to it,” Teresa said, her voice breezy as she followed Tom’s line of sight to the man commanding the Arena’s attention. Her smile shifted to something more knowing. “Don’t even think about it, darling. That guy, Lazaro, is one of Len’s right hand. You really don’t want to get on her bad side.”

“I was just looking,” Tom muttered.

“He’s old, you know,” Teresa added, leaning back with a smirk. “Really, really old.”

Tom glanced back at the figure in the black jumpsuit, his brow furrowing slightly. “Doesn’t look old to me. And that jumpsuit isn’t exactly... modest,” he muttered, suppressing a smirk. His eyes drifted, not missing how the tight suit accentuated the man’s physique, especially around the buttocks.

Suddenly, the crowd's roar faltered, the electric energy snapping into a tense quiet. All eyes turned toward the arena floor. A massively scaled hound slinked out, its body rippling beneath its thick armour, smoke curling from beneath its scales like a living shadow. Its glowing eyes locked onto the man at the centre, fixating on him with a predator's stillness.

A voice boomed across the Arena, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Ladies and gentlemen! The fight you’ve all been waiting for! Saint Lazaro... against Saint Patrick!”

Teresa’s excited bouncing stopped, her voice dropping to a mutter. "Oh, fuck."

Tom glanced at her, confused. "What’s wrong?"

“Nobody can beat Patrick… dammit," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the Arena.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Weren’t you the one saying it’s all for show?"

“It’s still sports, Tom! I still have a team to support!”

In the Arena, the human moved with ease, circling the beast like a predator sizing up its prey. There was no fear in his steps, no anger in his gaze—just calm calculation. It was clear, even from a distance, that this was more of a dance than a fight. But still, there will be a winner, and there will be a loser.

The hound grew restless, its massive paws scraping the ground as it darted forward and back, its body coiled with impatience. It leapt toward him, then shifted at the last moment, testing Lazaro's reactions.

The hound circled faster, its every move daring Lazaro to slip, almost taunting him with the possibility of knocking him off balance. With each leap, the beast seemed to gauge the perfect moment to strike. But Lazaro was unbothered. In a playful gesture, he casually tucked his hair behind his ear, a mocking grin spreading across his face. “Envious much?”

That was all it took.

The hound lunged, but before its claws could graze him, Lazaro first met its muzzle with brutal precision. The impact echoed through the Arena as the beast was sent flying across the sand, crashing into the far wall. Before the hound could scramble to its feet, Lazaro was already sprinting towards it, a blur of speed. At the last second, the hound darted away, bolting to the other side as if trying to reset the game.

It had become a match of endurance—a relentless game of tag, where the humans were winning. Now, it was only a matter of who would tire first.

Lazaro came to a sudden halt, planting himself firmly in the centre of the Arena. His chest rose and fell, but his posture remained steady. The hound, pacing with hesitation now, studied him from a distance, uncertain. Should it charge? Wait for Lazaro to tire, for his strength to ebb?

Before it could decide, the air shifted. The smoke beneath the hound’s scales began to thicken, swirling into a dark, impenetrable fog that spread across the arena floor. The crowd’s murmurs faded into the distance as the dense smoke swallowed everything. Shapes and figures dissolved into shadows, and Lazaro disappeared entirely into the cloud.

A sharp thud echoed through the smoke, followed by a sickening crack—the unmistakable sound of bone giving way. Another growl ripped through the air, fiercer this time, but quickly cut short. The suspense in the Arena was palpable, the audience straining to catch any glimpse through the thick veil of smoke. Then, just as the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath, the booming voice of the announcer broke through the stillness, “And the winner is…”

“Jude, stop! You’re hurting him!”