Mikhail burst into the fighters’ preparation hall, the electrified scimitar in one hand and his blaster in the other. All around, men and a handful of women — most of them naked or nearly so — turned to look at him.
“Nobody move,” Mikhail said, covering the room with his blaster, “I don’t want to hurt any of you, but I will, if you leave me no choice.”
In response, a man stepped forward. Older, white hair, big nose. Thankfully, he was wearing clothes. His arms were crossed over his chest.
“What do you want then, boy?”
“I don’t want anything of you. Just point me to the Arena and I’ll be gone.”
The old man did not budge. He didn’t seem overly impressed by Mikhail’s weapons either.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, boy, but you can’t just barge in here. There is a proper pro
