3. Priscilla

Gears whirred and steam burst from the brass automaton in the ring. The thing was in every way hideous, a common manufacturing bot made to withstand the intense heat of the factory furnace room, it clearly had had a number of hasty modifications bolted onto its frame to make it shipshape for the ring. Bigger fists, extra padding, scraps and modifications made from jerry rigged garbage designed to be removed before the beginning of the next work day.

The hulking monstrosity stood nearly a head taller than most other workers in the packed warehouse. Its opponent in the ring tonight however, was entirely unlike the other workers. A thick, hairy man, bruised and battered from the previous day’s fights, he stood nearly at eye level with the bot. The massive Irishman’s body was covered in makeshift armor, his fists sported two iron gloves, built to deal no small amount of damage. A battered helmet protected his head, scars criss crossed it from where it had been shattered and re-soldered time and again.

Priscilla flinched and ducked her head as the bell sounded, immediately the workers all around her burst into a roar of shouts and taunting, bets being hastily finalized as the two opponents smashed into each other. She wove her way through the crowd, pushing through the dense collection of surly workmen. It was difficult enough to get past them with how skinny she was, but with the fight in full swing, no one was willing to pay much mind to the little sixteen year old Indian girl trying to squeeze past them.

Across the room she could see Arabella, alone atop one of the makeshift stands, her eyes excitedly fixed on the fight. The girl had defiantly short blonde hair, cut just at her jaw line. Her legs were bare, hidden only beneath the short skirt of her school’s uniform, a tight vest hugged her thin waist, a black neck tie hung loose about her white collared shirt. There amongst the sweat and grit covered workers, she stuck out like a sore thumb.

I’ll just get her, and bring her home. Just get her and leave. It sounded wonderfully simple in her mind.

As a mechanic, Priscilla was no stranger to grime or grease, but the crowd around her was nothing like those that worked in the House of Halfacre. The men there were familiar, organized, they kept a certain degree of order even when covered head to toe in soot and machine oil. They wore friendly faces, and called her name when she passed them by. These men leered at her, or shouted at her as she tried to move past them. Drunk on gin and the excitement of the night, one or two of the men purposefully stood in her way, taking the opportunity to enjoy her floundering efforts to push past them.

She was distinctly aware of her position compared to that of Arabella’s. Despite the crowdedness of the warehouse, the little blonde English girl sat in a comfortable pocket of space, those around her giving her at least half an arm’s length of space. Everything about her screamed wealth, from the pride with which she held herself, to her rich school uniform, to her pale white skin and light blue eyes. The men here seemed almost afraid of her.

By contrast, they looked at Priscilla how she imagined sharks might look at a hunk of meat. Her clothing seemed so plain in comparison to Bella’s, her tight blue denim pants blemished by old grease stains, the brown low cut bodice she wore would have been interesting, if her modest breasts had had more to offer. Her boots made her clumsy in the crowded environment, and she carried none of the confidence of her more beautiful friend. Still, the men chose her to pester, and everyone in the room knew why, seemingly except for Arabella.

“Move it! Fucking curry whore.”

“Uhm sorry, sir...” Priscilla barely managed an audible response, unable to look any of them in the eyes as she passed through the crowd with great effort.

Sliding her thin body between two of the men, she was forced to press herself against the chest of a large, sweaty White man. Priscilla jumped as she felt his monstrous hand grope her through her tight work pants, pulling her up against his huge belly, her chest collecting sweat from his pungent tank top.

“Watch where you’re going there, little missy.”

Her breath caught in her chest, and she adjusted her glasses, trying to look anywhere but up at him. “I-I’m just ... get through...” She finally managed, barely getting the words out.

The man took his liberties with her body, knowing fully well that he could, spreading her cheeks apart with his thick intrusive fingers, enjoying the feeling of her body pressed up against his. She wanted to hit him and run away, but Priscilla knew that would only invite more assaults. She had to allow him his pleasure.

The world offered little protection for girls like her. Every man in the room knew it. If they had found a little dark skinned girl like her alone ... if ever she simply disappeared, they all knew there would be no one of any real import coming to look for her.

Breathing hard, she forced herself to calm the panic rising up in her. The claustrophobia of the crowd, all the people around her, the sheer volume of the men’s shouts and the crash of the arena, not to mention the hand feeling up her body, it all overwhelmed her with confusion. Wide eyed and overstimulated, Priscilla wriggled against the man in front of her, something hard pressing into her belly from just beneath his trousers.

Finding purchase, she managed to extricate herself from his grasp, her ears filled with the men’s laughter, though still not daring to look up from the floor.

“Where are you going, girl?!”

“I think she liked you!”

“-put some meat in that pudding, bet she tastes like kedgeree.”

Priscilla could feel her face flush, tears threatening to overwhelm her, but as she finally reached Arabella she straightened up, forcing her nerves to calm and brushing out wrinkles in her top.

“Bella ... what on God’s good earth are you doing here?!” She had to strain her naturally quiet voice above the din of the crowd. “Do you have any idea the trouble we’d be in if your grandfather knew we’d come here?!”

Arabella seemed to only just now notice her. She gasped, a wide smile erupting on her face, a sight that almost stopped Priscilla’s heart. “Scilly!”

“Don’t call me that, you know-”

“What are you doing here?!”

Priscilla couldn’t help but smile. “I just asked YOU- never mind, I’m here to look out for you, to make sure you don’t get hurt!” She looked all about the crowded warehouse. “Why do you always find the most worrying establishments to run around?”

Arabella took Priscilla’s arm in hers. “Oh settle down! I know you love running after me, watch the- oh YES! KNEE! KNEE!”

Priscilla steadied her shaking hands and watched as the Irishman in the ring pinned the bot, delivering a series of devastating straight knee kicks into its midsection. The spiked metal plating covering his upper thigh and knee smashed into the bots rudimentary armor, penetrating deep into its internal workings with the sound of shredding metal.

The bot broke free, roaring out a garbled series of noises from its mouth piece. Eyes burning with fury, it slammed a metal fist into the man’s side plating, its frustration palpable as it began a series of brutal attacks focused on the man’s already battered helmet.

Priscilla clutched her fingers together to stop them from shaking. “Bella ... I-I’d really rather be home right now...” Arabella either didn’t hear her over the din of the crowd, or simply wasn’t paying attention. Her words seemed lost in the air as the fight increased in intensity.

With a thunderous slam the rapidly deteriorating bot delivered one last blow to the man’s head, smashing a battered fist into his helmet. The great big Irishman fell over himself, reeling from the impact. His shattered helmet fell to the floor in pieces. Barely conscious, he managed to tap out just before collapsing completely. The crowd roared in triumph and fury as his opponent stomped to the edge of the ring, slamming its two metal fists together above its head, all the while leaking oil from its side.