Chapitre 112: 32. Winner Takes It All.
Saving the world is not as wonderful and heroic as the name suggests. Not for me, at least. It's a constant battle, a never-ending fight where death never comes to me. It's a cycle of killing, one club after another, with no mercy, no empathy, and no hope of survival for anyone who steps into that cage with me.
In that moment, they cease to be humans or individuals; they become mere targets of being maimed, killed, and destroyed. I have long accepted this dark side of me as a necessary part of my survival. It's the side that shows the world who I truly am.
I wonder if my passion for saving innocents, my obsession with fleas, is some sort of counterbalance to the killings I commit. But in that cage, I have no thoughts, no doubts. I cannot ponder whether my next victim is evil or kind, forced into this cage or simply ignorant of my capabilities. They will all meet the same fate, some faster than others, as I unleash my inner beast that revels in playing with its prey.
After France, my tour continued to Belgium, Holland, and Luxembourg. Each country had four fight clubs, keeping me busy. But my "fans" were not there to support me. I had been on the road for six weeks, or rather, five weeks, as I corrected myself.
The next destinations were England, Ireland, Scotland, and Denmark, before finally reaching Germany. Every country had its fight clubs, and there was plenty of work to be done. I had to do sabotage, killings, street fights, mysteries, and other little things. A lot of these were targeted to hinder Sark or some other bastard. The only little comfort I had was the knowledge those of my victims were deeply hidden for me to interrogate someday after this grueling and long world-saving job was once again done.
I tried to handle everything on my own, for the sake of Damien and Sark. I didn't want to put my people in danger. I did not need on top of this another gig on Lake Lanier. I didn't want to give my enemies any more targets. They were always lurking in the fight clubs, plotting and preparing to capture me.
Damien shared a lot about my world-saving endeavors with Sark, but Sark had no interest in sabotaging my work. He wanted to capture me, to witness more of my telekinesis and abilities. I refused to be a mere show pony for him. Instead, I focused on my opponents, blocking out their taunts and distractions.
A couple of weeks later, the morning sun streamed through the curtains as Damon leaned towards Mariella.
"Darling," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of nervousness and anticipation. "I have a little confession to make."
Mariella turned her gaze towards Damon, her eyes filled with curiosity. The room was filled with a faint scent of fresh flowers, mingling with the soft sound of birds chirping outside.
Damon continued, "Did you know Mimi has been on the European gig for six weeks now, alone, because Adam and Charles are with also wolves?"
Mariella's brows furrowed, a hint of concern flickering across her face. Something about this confession sparked a fire within her, causing her to act. She could feel a surge of energy in the air as if the secret room in her mind room itself was pulsating with magic. There was a spell waiting for her, and that had been a key phrase for her.
Unbeknownst to Damon, Mariella had secretly established a business in relationship therapy and counseling. Then she had confessed it to him after a few days. She had gathered a group of skilled witches from the magic house to assist her. However, her current mission was not related to her business. She needed to perform a spell to fix Magnum and Dresden. Only then could they join her in helping Mimi. The fact that she had been kept in the dark about this information irked her.
Her irritation was clear in the furrowed frown between her brows and the tight-lipped expression as she huffed in exasperation. Damon watched in amazement as Mariella gracefully rose from the bed, her movements filled with purpose. She cleansed herself with an invisible energy, her words carrying a sense of urgency.
"That was some kind of key phrase," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with frustration. "I need to go to the magic house and perform a spell to save Dresden and Magnum. It's infuriating not knowing that I have to deal with this kind of situation."
Damon nodded, his surprise clear in his eyes. He remained silent, understanding that now was not the time to ask questions.
With a calm and friendly tone, he said, "You go ahead, and I'll go make us some breakfast."
Mariella paused for a moment, a mixture of determination and affection shining in her eyes.
She walked over to Damon, planting a kiss on his lips before speaking softly, "We'll go and help Mimi, but not just yet. We have to get Dresden and Magnum in order first. They're coming with us."
Reluctantly, Damon released his wife's hand and made his way toward the bathroom, yearning for the soothing sensation of water and soap on his skin, a refreshing change from relying solely on energy. As he dressed himself, he couldn't help but wonder where his beloved pair of jeans had disappeared.
With a sigh, he recollected Mimi's penchant for pilfering his jeans and altering them to fit her own figure. Once again, she had claimed and modified one of his favorites. Annoyed, Damon contemplated the necessity of adding locks to his wardrobe, cursing the kleptomaniac tendencies that plagued his wife.
The thought of Mimi's overflowing collection of clothes and jeans, juxtaposed against his own limited selection, further irked Damon. He had grown lazy when it came to restocking his wardrobe, a fact that now frustrated him. Yet, amidst his frustration, the impending wedding between him, Mimi, and Mariella brought a sense of relief. Mariella had managed to secure an extension on their marriage, ensuring a stress-free wedding planning process.
Pulling on a pair of jeans, Damon skipped the step of wearing underwear, a habit he had formed over time. He ventured into the kitchen, his mind preoccupied with breakfast preparations, momentarily forgetting to consider Mimi's condition or the challenges she might be facing. The sizzling sounds of eggs, bacon, and hash browns filled the air as he fried them diligently. It was then that he stumbled upon a batch of sausages that Mimi had already prepared, prompting him to add those to the meal as well.
Adam and Charles soon joined him in the kitchen, and Damon seamlessly transitioned into octopus mode, expertly serving food to the hungry men gathered at the table. The wolves, possessing magical cups, ensured that there was an endless supply of meat, allowing everyone to enjoy a satisfying meal.
Lost in his culinary duties, Damon barely noticed when Mariella quietly returned to the kitchen. Only upon seeing his wife happily devouring her turkey bacon and eggs did he break into a genuine laugh.
Charles, having already consumed a substantial amount of food, instinctively assumed the role of a protector, placing various dishes in front of Mariella and urging her to eat. Though slightly disconcerting, Mariella agreed under Charles' stern gaze, choosing to behave herself as a show of obedience.
Continuing my world-saving mission, my rage burned brightly, evident in my intense demeanor as the fight clubs demanded. Every move I made, every act of sabotage, had to be executed with utmost caution. It wasn't uncommon to glimpse either Sark or Damien observing me, their eyes studying my every move. But I remained unfazed, refusing to let it affect me.
I briefly considered assigning Murdock or Dexter to keep an eye on Damien, but I knew it wouldn't make a difference if he had contingency plans in place. It was as if he anticipated my every move, waiting for me to eliminate his current vessel.
I had no idea who his next body would be, but one thing was certain - Damien had a network of malevolent wizards, witches, and even demons. If I were to confront him head-on, the repercussions would be severe. The same applied to Sark; I couldn't risk leading him to potential targets. I had to shoulder the majority, if not all, of the burden myself.
Proudly, I resisted the primal urge to chase after Sark and embark on a relentless pursuit. The European gig and the task of saving the world took precedence. I pondered whether or not to inform my pack, unsure if they were aware but unable, or unwilling, to intervene.
However, time was of the essence, and my thoughts shifted as I focused on my current task - blocking the exhaust pipes of the cars at the Nigerian consulate in England with petrol-soaked toilet paper.
As I meticulously carried out my plan, the scent of gasoline permeated the air, mingling with the anticipation of imminent explosions. The deafening sound of bangs and the sight of fiery eruptions would surely attract attention, prompting investigations into potential acts of terrorism. Those affiliated with Sark would be forced into hiding, abandoning their allegiance for fear of arrest and scrutiny.
Ireland and Scotland proved no less challenging. Both countries boasted formidable fight clubs, leaving little time for respite. However, my rage fueled me, growing with each battle within the club.
Damien circled the cage, incessantly talking, further stoking the flames of my fury. I couldn't decide whether to thank him for providing me with fuel or to simply end his life on the spot. Both options seemed tempting, feasible even, given the circumstances.
Oh, he had something to say. It just fueled my rage even more, igniting a fire within me. I could feel the heat building, intensifying. The weight of my opponent's impending destruction was no burden at all. The Flea's reputation demanded nothing less, and I knew that after this mission, there would be a long overdue respite.
A chance to mend and embrace the tranquility of a peaceful pack life. But for now, I postponed my visit to the Atlanta house and the bank vaults. Denmark had left its mark, its cruel grip inflicting wounds that refused to heal. Thankfully, I possessed a comprehensive first aid kit and a well-stocked medbay.
Colin, a godsend, had supplied me with an array of supplies, each vital in this brutal landscape. With my skilled hands, I tended to my injuries, cursing the four days spent in Denmark. Some wounds had become infected, causing fever, pain, and a throbbing ache. As I pressed on them, pus seeped out, the wounds angry and inflamed.
The timing couldn't be worse, complications arising just before facing the German dick clubs, a staggering 17 of them. Damien and Sark would be there, giving fuckers all the supplies and weapons, so I would have to endure the relentless assault of drugs and metal when I was killing them.
It wouldn't be easy or enjoyable, but the world needed saving, and my own suffering was inconsequential as long as the job was done. After conquering those clubs, Switzerland and Austria awaited, their clubs almost as treacherous, numbering 10 in total, five per country.
And then there was Italy, a battleground where it would take a grueling month to bring the mafia to its knees. Busy times lay ahead, with no room for weakness or feebleness. I had no choice but to unleash my rage, letting it consume all vulnerabilities, and confront those clubs when the time came.
Damon and Mariella fucked now and then because otherwise, nothing came of either of them. Damon could not focus on anything and the same was surprising with Damon number two. Even though he had tortured Mimi or her chakras, he seemed almost to be in pain if he had time to think about what she was going through.
It was like the spell of Mariella, the ultimate infatuation was lifted from his mind and he remembered life with the Mimi. The spell was painfully slow; it took a month before Dresden and Magnum woke up. But they woke up and the mood soon shifted around the pack from lustful fucking to readiness to go and help a member of the pack to save the world.
Damon knew Mimi was in Germany, and Charles told him how bad the clubs were there. Yes, Damon had some idea about that. He remembered them; he had been there a few times. But it took them a couple of days before they could leave.
The pack eagerly arrived at the house in Berlin, their first stop before heading to the club. They meticulously prepared the medbay, knowing it would likely be needed. Damon, anxious to assess Mimi's condition and fighting ability, checked on her. Adam, Charles, and number two stood ready to step in if necessary. Once everything was in order, they made their way to the club.
Mimi had already conquered four out of the seventeen clubs she needed to face. This fifth one would be a significant challenge. Mariella, though familiar with her own clubs, had never witnessed Mimi's fights. Her clubs were tough, but nothing compared to the dangerous and brutal matches Mimi faced. Mimosa had described them as intermediate or easy, but what Mimi was up against now was on a whole different level.
Upon arriving at the club, they were met with a grand old warehouse. Damon swung open the door, and they entered. Inside, the lighting was dim, casting a mysterious atmosphere. They followed a corridor that led to another door. Stepping through, they realized the entire warehouse had been enchanted to create this unique setting.
Mariella was looking everywhere. She smelled so many scents, smells, and stinks. She felt her heart racing, and only the calmness of Damon and the presence of Charles kept her steady. Soon she knew she would witness something that she had never seen, and this time she was not sure if it was a good thing at all.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone