Number 72

Toughest

• A Letter

  When slave number Seventy-two was first brought to my establishment by slave traders, I at first thought it was a joke. Here we had a gnarled, feline creature or unknown race that had both her legs lopped off at the knees, a missing right arm at the shoulder, left eye removed and scars all over her body. What use would I have for such a slave when my patrons expected pleasure or violence? I mean, certainly there are those depraved individuals who would have a twisted need for nothing but a torso with holes; but that is a strong stomach I have not yet come across in all my years in the trade.
  
  When I was told she was a pit fighter, I nearly had them all thrown out; until I was handed a stack of paperwork nearly the height of a man and a crate of rusted metal prosthesis; informed that if she did not prove herself worthwhile I would be given the rest of the slaves they offered for free.
  
  Heh. Fools that had spent too much time under the desert sun. Very well.
  
  I pitted her against three of my guards who saw fit to gamble on duty, a suitable punishment if this really was some fighter to be feared. I now regret this decision, as I am now three men short as the creature cut them all down within mere seconds when her collar was removed. Whomever designed her limbs did so with the greatest knowledge of anatomy and engineering. While simple, the legs could spring her across the fighting pit great distances, supporting her weight with ease and ground into blades sharper than that of a chef. False teeth made of the same rusted metal as her prosthetic arm, both equally as deadly.
  
  Birthname unknown, age unknown, but by the mess of papers from various owners and establishments, I have her around some forty years. Each limb removed and every scar would be a tale of a hard life, a slave since birth; trained for one purpose -- fighting. Even the female pleasure area of her genitals has been surgically removed and cauterized. She was no longer a person, but a creature, and a number. Seventy-two, or as some got to calling her: the Torso.
  
  She shows remarkable resistance to pain, and displays keen intelligence; taking interest in books. While in my stable, she has been well behaved as long as the collar remains around her neck. She has no issues with other slaves and can be placed in general population without fear of outbursts or mayhem.
  
  However, if the collar is removed; she becomes something else entirely. A savage. I have seen this sort of mental control on others, but not to this degree. It's almost as if there are two souls trapped in one broken body, and the collar is the only thing that keeps her in check. It is because of this control device that regrettably I have to sell her once more.
  
  Seventy-two has fetched me a great deal of coin in the pits, but some fool tried to rent her for a purpose other than intended. While I advised against it, his persistence and deep money-purse were too much to resist. It is in my hubris that I found him in a pool of his own blood, torn to shreds and with Seventy-two lapping at his blood like a kitten would take to a bowl of milk. The fool removed her collar; and it took many men and injuries to get her put back into it.
  
  In a trade for a few barrels of wine, I am now shipping her off to The Golden Tether Slave establishment. They seem to always be in need of fighters for their gladiatorial fights; but I do so with this warning: Do not remove her collar unless she is in the arena. After the purchase is made, I hold no responsibility for her actions. Whatever god made this creature is currently living in fear, for when she dies; he will be facing down the most vicious of his creations.