Chapter 11: When You Find Out the Oven Is on Fire

“Hmmm,” Bransen commented as he looked in the bathroom mirror. He was checking his genitals. His scrotum was bigger now, larger than golf balls. He was left shaking his head before he slipped on his shorts.

“At this rate,” he said to himself. “I’ll need to wear a jockstrap over my jockstrap.”

It had been three days. A small bruise rested on Bransen’s shoulder. Occasionally, he would flex his left arm to work out the pain that resided there. A sealed scar mark rested near his stomach. The slash left a tan brown line that went from his hip past his belly button. Bransen lightly flexed his muscles, admiring his physique before leaving the bathroom.

The hotel room was in slight disarray. Girsha’lar and Nir’vina hadn’t helped when they came in the day before. However, the man knew that the Itrean hotel staff would take care of the cleaning and rearranging of furniture.

“Last day on New Atrea,” Bransen said to himself. “Then it’s off to Gui’ii’Lo Trelda, the hive of the Yutilian underworld.”

The very thought of going to the planet wasn’t that appealing to him. Of the five main T’rintar worlds, Gui’ii’Lo Trelda was the oldest, a central trade hub for goods, but also a place where the crime rate was the highest. However, he didn’t have long to think about it before a call ring echoed in the living room. It broke the man from his thoughts.

“Hmm ... probably just Girsha’lar or Nir’vina trying to call me,” Bransen said. He walked up to his couch, sat down, and activated his augmented arm. He patched in the call to the display.

The main screen depicted a man, a human that Bransen hadn’t seen before. A slight distortion filled the screen and cleared, indicating that it was a call made from the UWAN and Itrean networks. The person was around the same age as Bransen, having a pale complexion and red hair. He wore a white and blue tuxedo and sat behind a wooden desk. Behind him was a series of awards and placards that resided on the wall in his room. The man’s demeanor was calm and relaxed.

“Are you Bransen?” the man asked.

“Yes, and you?” Bransen replied.

“Hello, Bransen. My name is Doctor Gunter. I work in the rehabilitation program for the T’rintar clan POWs on Earth. I’ve heard word about your dealings with Girsha’lar and Nir’vina. Would you feel comfortable answering a few questions?”

Doctor Gunter ... Bransen didn’t know this man, but a prior passing statement by Girsha’lar indicated something about this individual. The former cook could see that he was a man of importance by his attire alone. He was most likely a Martian, where most of the UWA elite resided. The way he spoke also seemed to carry some weight to it. Bransen’s response was simple as he placed his arms on the top of the couch.

“I apologize that I don’t have a shirt on, Doctor,” Bransen told him. “I’m preparing to head out to the arena.”

Gunter smiled a little bit. “Your reputation proceeds you, Chef Bransen. I’m aware of your history and what you’re doing.”

“In that case, Doc, ask away, but let’s make it quick.”

“I have a feeling you wouldn’t mind this being longer than you think, especially with what I have to offer and assuming everything is true.”

“Alright...”

“I’m assuming that you, Girsha’lar, and Nir’vina have an intimate relationship. Is this true?”

Bransen seemed discouraged from answering. He didn’t know if he was in trouble. He knew that he was in a hazy region when it came to alien and human laws regarding prisoners and sleeping with them. He didn’t really know how to answer it, but the doctor could see it.

“Don’t worry,” Gunter explained. “I assure you that I won’t hold anything accountable in what you say, nor will Girsha’lar or Nir’vina face any consequences. I just want you to be perfectly honest with what I have to ask.”

The former chef relented. “Yes, but what is the purpose of that question?”

Gunter leaned forward on his desk as his hands were clasped together. “Have the two ever made accusations in their desire to destroy T’rintar or UWA property? Or sought desire to bring harm to humans or T’rintar citizens? And I’m not talking about their current job in the tournament, as I know they are fighting other T’rintar and UWA citizens.”

It was a simple question, not intended to be elaborated. Bransen was honest.

“I know what you’re talking about,” he told him. “I don’t see them as potential terrorists. If anything, I think Girsha’lar regrets her actions. She just hides it to the best she can. I think they’re harmless.”

“Well,” the doctor tapped his desk. “I’ll take that as a no for a lot of the questions I was about to ask. The T’rintar clan had over 600 different terrorist organizations, extremist religious, communist, and anarchist groups listed. I was supposed to ask each question if you felt they were going to affiliate themselves with. I had to simplify that. Thank you.”

“The time I was with them, they made no mention of joining a group. They only wished to see their families back in Shal’rein clan space.”

“Hmmm...,” Gunter nodded his head. “Understandable. That is one thing I can’t promise to any of them till this war comes to an end.”

“I surmised as much. It’s my turn to ask you questions. Why the tournament?”

“You assume that I sent them there?”

“Did you?”

“It wasn’t my first choice. The T’rintar clan were mostly responsible for providing a list of ‘parole activities,’ points that would get them released sooner than living out a life sentence on Earth. Girsha’lar and Nir’vina choose to go to the tournament.”

Bransen shook his head a little bit. “It seems a little ... barbaric to send criminals and prisoners where they can get killed in fights.”

“I can’t speak for the T’rintar clan, but it almost appears that way. My goal, Bransen, is to offer solutions and move forward. Rest assured that the POW rehabilitation program is ever-changing, improving to find better solutions for the influx of Itreans taken by the T’rintar clan.”

“I see. Were you the one responsible for telling Girsha’lar and Nir’vina’s guards to ... ease up in their restrictions?”

“Yes, but there is more to that. My suggestions are routed to the T’rintar clan committee to reach their final decision. They felt inclined to agree that Girsha’lar and Nir’vina should be offered more freedom.”

Bransen could see that the answer to that question was more complicated than it seemed. There was certainly something that Gunter was holding back in telling him. It was that, or simplify the answer to the best that he could.

“So,” Gunter continued. “This leaves me with other questions to ask of you. Have you declared a mateship with Girsha’lar and Nir’vina?”

Bransen nodded his head. “Yes. I suppose that is another question that the T’rintar clan wanted to ask me?”

“Yes. So, I can safely assume that you’re making regular visits to them and that you wish to spend your life with them?”

The former chef was left in a conundrum when it came to answering that question. Everything about Itrean society seemed absolute. Nevertheless, he did his best in responding to it.

“If you ask me in the short time I’ve been with them that I love them, then yes,” Bransen answered. “But, our lives are trapped in this tournament. I want to go home, but I want us to be together when we do it. It’s ... so fast, but I know the Itreans take marriage to an absolute simplicity and an ‘in-your-face’ mentality to it. I live with my decisions and know that I have feelings for them.”

Gunter shifted back in his seat. “And you believe that they would stay with you for the rest of your life?”

“My feelings say yes to that statement.”

The doctor nodded his head in approval. He seemed satisfied with those answers.

“I might have an offer for you,” Gunter said. “One that could make things easy for all of you. It would be something that would get them out of that tournament and give them their freedom.”

Bransen’s brow peaked. “What is it?”

The doctor locked his fingers together. “There is the T’rintar Adult Film Projects. These are the recorded films that are broadcasted to the Aksren and Shal’rein clans. I can have you, Girsha’lar, and Nir’vina enrolled in it and submit the recordings to the T’rintar clan.”

“The adult film? ... Oh ... that.”

Bransen knew what he meant. The very flood of images ran through his head.

“Without trying to sound unprofessional,” Gunter explained. “Some would call this ‘Porn Propaganda,’ although I still agree that the idea is something that the Itreans need to visually see so they can believe that it’s true.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Bransen took a deep breath. “So ... you would ask me, Girsha’lar, and Nir’vina to ... have a baby on a recording?”

Gunter nodded. “The T’rintar clan is in full accordance with this idea. They offer reward packages and incentives to human/Itrean couples in hopes of producing children, preferably sons, and be documented so it can be transmitted to the enemy. Even if humanity offers the cure, Zilik’s Disease still needs to be wiped out. In so many words, we don’t offer the complete cure, just a vaccine for the next generation of Itreans.”

“I know. I could have a son among an Itrean that I marry.” Bransen sighed. The very thought of all of it seemed somewhat ludicrous. Literally, humanity was being offered to become pornstars in hopes of convincing the enemy to end the conflict that’s existed for eons. Of course, such an idea must have been utterly complex, something left for the politicians and rulers to decide on what was right. However, there was a noble goal in this action. It was as Saburo told him. Regardless, Bransen put his hand to his head as he thought about it.

“I can promise you,” Gunter explained. “That you’re not the only one to consider this. I’ve already passed this information to Doctor Abril so that it can be passed down to Girsha’lar and Nir’vina.”

“She was in contact with you?”

“Doctor Abril, yes. She also already had informed me of their decision unless you wish to speak to them, yourself?”

“What did they think?”

“They are interested in doing it, but I need your feedback on this as well.”

“Ummm...,” Bransen put his hand to his mouth as he seemed to really think about it.

“One thing that I can promise to all participants is that the T’rintar clan are true to their word. Do this, and they will be released as T’rintar citizens. The T’rintar clan would also offer incentives to you in return. From everything that I’ve seen, many couples are given nice homes, plenty of money to raise their children, and everything is covered. All you have to do is be recorded, impregnating them and them giving birth. It’s easy as that.”

Bransen still seemed to think about it. “It’s a nice idea. Just didn’t imagine it happening to me.”

“A little camera shy, Chef Bransen?” Gunter had a faint hint of a smile on his face.

“Being camera shy? I’m used to being on live broadcasts all the time. Just ... imagining how the public would feel seeing one of their favorite chefs suddenly in some adult film.”

Gunter seemed to get a little chuckle out of it. “I’ll be fair. I do enjoy your shows, Bransen. I think you would be perfectly fine doing this. You would have nothing but to gain from it too.”

For a brief moment, Bransen felt as if Gunter was his coach. The inflection and personality seemed to shine through his face. The former chef was thinking hard about this. However, the dream he had not long ago still seemed to carry much weight in the decision-making process. Finally, Bransen held his hands out, carrying a stalwart grin on his face.

“If they don’t have an issue having kids on broadcast, then what am I to argue? You made this pretty easy for me, Doc.”

“You agree to this proposal?” Gunter asked, making sure.

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

“Good. I will go ahead and pass this information to the T’rintar committee so they can consider it. I imagine that they won’t have that many disagreements over this. In the meantime, I will pass the next set of instructions to Doctor Abril. She will need a DNA sample from you so that the Itreans can synthesize the gene therapy that will allow you to become a father. Think you can do that?”

“If it’s as easy as an injection, then I can’t argue with it.”

“Alright,” Gunter tapped his hand on his desk. “Sounds like a plan. Keep in mind that this will still take a few days to even a week to process. The T’rintar will contact you with further instructions. In the meantime, I think you, Girsha’lar, and Nir’vina can start making preparations to leave New Atrea, start a new life together. And maybe ... you can get your show back while you’re at it.”

Bransen nodded his head. A sense of joy filled him as he considered it more and more. It was a rushed decision, but it was a good one, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bransen said with a smile.

“If only all my cases were this easy,” Gunter shrugged. “Take care of yourself, Chef Bransen. Still looking forward to a recipe for that Martian Ching Po Leung Herb Soup that you revived.”

“I’ll make sure to send it to you when this is all settled.”

Bransen had a proud face as Gunter went ahead and closed the channel. The display went dark as the man relaxed on his couch. He had to evaluate everything that he said. It was a constructive conversation, something he knew would carry positive results. The only thing that he needed to do was carry forth with the day. Even if this was good news, the events weren’t finalized yet. There was still a fight that was scheduled for today. It wasn’t over, but if he could finish up New Atrea, he could at least call it a success on his part.

He got off the couch. His next stop was the arena to make his announcements. Afterward, he needed to talk with Girsha’lar and Nir’vina and see Abril. There was still a lot he needed to do...

“I was ... thinking about a good place,” Bransen said. Both Girsha’lar and Nir’vina walked beside him as they reached the arena stage.

“Any place is better than this,” Girsha’lar commented.

“A place with lots of sand,” Nir’vina added.

“It will have a lot of sand and a lot of water,” Bransen said.

“He doesn’t want to live in a desert, Nir’vina,” Girsha’lar told her. “Just because you were born in one doesn’t mean that he could survive on Givern.”

“Shame ... lots of sand to blow up,” Nir’vina replied.

“You can still do that with water.”

“Hmmm ... good enough.”

Bransen could feel his nerves pile up. He didn’t know why, but this match felt like it was going to be cursed. It was all going too well. But, Girsha’lar interrupted his thoughts with a pat on the back.

“This is your last match,” Girsha’lar told him. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“Be easy on him,” Nir’vina told him. “He’s just happy to be done with this.”

“Not completely,” Bransen replied. “Told a lot of news. It’s good news, but I just wish I had a chance to think about it.”

“You wish to change your mind on this?” Girsha’lar asked.

“No. That wasn’t what I meant. It’s just a lot for me to process.”

“I told you. Humans talk and talk till you make your brains hurt.”

They reached the stage edge. The sound of drumming feet could be heard through the arena. Distant drums would bang and reverberate outward. Doctor Abril had already sat down on her seat, ready to respond. The day had already been busy as it was. The gray Shal’rein grabbed Bransen’s side and turned him to face her. She had a stoic look to her, standing over him and looking down upon him. She showed a gentle smile.

“I know what you did for us,” Girsha’lar said. “You could have said no, but ... I expected you to turn it down.”

“You know that I’m not that sort of individual. I couldn’t say no to that.”

“You were willing to go to great lengths to free us. I keep making the mistake to underestimate you. A lesser mate would be afraid to have children with a Shal’rein. Your courage is good or foolish.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Shal’rein children ... bite a lot. I would keep that mechanical arm when they go through their ... teeth phase.”

“Oh.”

“But,” Nir’vina asked him as she messaged his shoulders briefly. “Would he handle being away from us for a couple of weeks?”

“If I’m getting a house for us to live in, moving preparations, and all that? Yeah, I’m going to need some time to get this done. Just because they’re going to free you doesn’t mean that they’re ready to put a roof over your head.”

“See, Girsha’lar? He’s being a good mate. No need to feel lonely without him. We will see him again.”

Girsha’lar let go of Bransen and crossed her arms. The man knew that the next couple of weeks would be chaotic at best, but there was genuine potential for everything to settle down for them. He had to seek it out. The decision would require him to be separated from them until they were freed. Tomorrow would be his last day on New Atrea as Girsha’lar and Nir’vina would be shipped to Gui’ii’Lo Trelda. After that, it was just a matter of him getting through this last fight and believing that the T’rintar were going to live up to their part in releasing the Shal’rein.

“Phew...,” Bransen sighed as he looked at the stage. “Last fight...”

“You can do it, Bransen!” Abril cheered for him.

“You will win,” Girsha’lar told him. “Just wish I knew who you were fighting.”

“Saburo always had a way of knowing most of the fighters that were coming out of that door,” Bransen commented. “Wish he was here to see this or at least get some of his advice.”

Bransen reached up to the stage floor. He felt his shorts be pressed as Girsha’lar’s hand went to his ass. With a simple heave, she lifted the man up to the stage. It didn’t take long before Bransen could see the audience. The cheering for him was louder than ever before, a sign that his popularity had increased in an alien world. There was a genuine sense that he was saying goodbye to this tournament.

The man looked at his augmented arm. He flexed his fingers, seeing the damaged artificial tissue. Even with the best repairs, his arm was showing signs of wear. A part of him debated about getting his real arm back after this was done, but he wouldn’t have much of a chance to think about it.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Announcer Hudson called out. “Boys and Girls. Ivon and Non-Ivon alike! Welcome to the final battle. Today we got an exciting fight for you. I’ve been given word that Bransen will be retiring from the Gelta Tournament after this fight. He will not be going to the next planet and will be returning home. It seems he has a new flame in his life, or in this case, flames that will also be leaving with him in due time. Everyone give an applause to Bransen, Girsha’lar, and Nir’vina for their valiant efforts in the arena.”

A few individuals were clapping their hands, primarily the human crowd. Then, Bransen looked over to Girsha’lar and Nir’vina. For the first time, there was genuine recognition of their actions. Even if it was small, there was just enough of that energy that it made Girsha’lar and Nir’vina smile.

“Ehmm,” Hudson said. “Guess I have to remind myself that I’m on an alien planet, and traditions vary from place to place. I can tell you, though, that this has been a wild ride, folks. Being able to see all these wonderful fights has been an extension of the UWAF’s finest champion at work. Bransen will go down in history for being the first human to fight in the T’rintar tournament. I applaud Chef Bransen for making it this far for pushing the boundaries and showing humanity that we can fight too. Bransen, show us your might! This is your last fight here! Make us proud!”

The drumming picked up more and more as Bransen gave a defiant smile. He lifted his gloved hands up in the air. His bare chest gave a glare of light as the overhead lights reflected off of it. In respect, the man could hear the beating sounds of Girsha’lar and Nir’vina banging their fists on the floor following the drumbeat.

Bransen looked over to the Ko’pak. She had been sitting on her seat, remaining neutral as usual. However, it didn’t take long before she lifted her gloved hand into the air. She snapped her fingers, and the drumming stopped. Why the sudden change of actions? The audience seemed to react accordingly. He had never seen this before. Was it because this was his last fight?

He had no answer. All was quiet. Even Girsha’lar and Nir’vina had stopped what they were doing. The man looked around and felt confused. Hudson was looking at the Kop’ak and remaining silent. A sense of apprehension filled the air.

Thump ... Bransen heard a hefty stomp. The silence was so intense that he swore his ears picked something up.

Thump ... The former chef began to look at the doorway of the arena. He knew that he had heard it this time. It was deep and powerful as if something large was coming.

Thump! ... Bransen’s eyes were glued to the door. He could see an oversized silhouette coming in. The silken door unfurled.

THUMP! ... The footsteps were growing loud. It was on purpose, almost as if it was choreographed to be that way.

“What the...,” Bransen said to himself as he saw the thing walk past the door. It was massive, beyond anything that any Itrean was capable of being. Whomever his opponent was, she was so large that she had to duck her head in to get inside. The audience’s heads were glued to the monstrosity that came in. If anything, she was almost too massive for her own good.

No ... it was a he. Bransen’s gut instinct told him what it was, and his heart sank. His eyes went wide. This was going to be his opponent. This was an apex predator, a titan of the Itreans. His eyes scanned it all. He had brown scaley skin, a long protruding snout, long digitigrade legs, and an enormous tail but no visible ears. A slight bulge could be seen beneath his shorts, indicating that he was a male, but there was another reason as well. On top of his head was a small batch of red and white feathers. He wore simple tan and green shorts, green gloves, and a red scarf over his bare chest. This was an anthro T-Rex, measuring well past 12 feet in height.

“Fuck...,” Bransen said in absolute shock. His mouth was agape. As the Itrean walked, his talon feet would thump against the ground, almost shaking the nearby audience members.

“Shit ... an Alara’jal,” Girsha’lar said in surprise.

The stories were true. Bransen remembered when it hit the news. A small group of surviving Alara’jal, the mightiest of the Itrean species, had survived extermination. They were safely evacuated and brought to Earth. Even Zilik’s Disease couldn’t target them. However, one of them had made his way to the tournament for reasons unknown. The man was left powerless and completely overwhelmed as he was closing in on the arena stage.

“OH MY!” Hudson called out. “Looks like one of the new contenders for the Gelta tournament is none other than an Alara’jal! Nata’jaga, who now lives on Earth, has had a flawless series of victories since he arrived. I would be fair to say that this is completely unfair for Bransen to take on. I tell you, he must be the size of a bus, hell he probably eats busses for dinner.”

“Ergh...,” Girsha’lar commented. “I don’t know...”

“Hmm...,” Nir’vina added. “One stomp and you would pop more than a grenade.”

“How the hell?” Bransen asked. He had his arms up in disbelief. Nata’jaga, if the name was correct, probably had a clear reason for why he was winning every fight. He was simply a behemoth.

With a simple punch to the stage, the floor shook. Bransen watched as the Alara’jal climbed the arena stage as if it were a simple step. This had to be the Itrean that Saburo was warning Bransen about. The unbeatable colossus was there, standing over Bransen like a building.

Nata’jaga was composed. His tone and inflections showed a tiny amount of viciousness, but he didn’t have to do much else. He placed his hands on his hips and clearly looked down at his pathetic adversary like he did with everyone he had fought so far.

“This is unfair,” Bransen said to himself. He turned his head to Girsha’lar. Even she was shrugging her shoulders. Nata’jaga took almost a quarter of the arena from his sheer mass alone. Bransen turned his head to look at the Kop’ak. She was indifferent. Why would she care?

“Human...,” Nata’jaga said in his very deep voice.

“Nata’jaga,” Bransen said.

“Call me, Jaga.” He made two clicks in his voice.

“The Masher...,” Girsha’lar said with a smile. “Good name, but I would have stood with Nata’jaga.”

“Bransen, Nata’jaga,” the Kop’ak called out to them. “The fight is ready. Are you ready to fight?” She then spoke the same words in the Itrean language.

Jaga did a quick nod of his head. He took his arms and slammed his fists together. Even the simple move caused a wake of air to blow into Bransen’s face. The man was just left in surprise. He was scared, but this was just insanity. How was he supposed to beat him? Bransen held his arms up as he looked at the Kop’ak.

“How!?” Bransen asked. “Is this a joke?”

“Are you ready?” the Kop’ak asked. Her patience seemed to dwindle.

“Eh ... this is unfair!” He practically snapped at her.

“Answer or forfeit!” The judge slammed her gloved hand to her table.

“You must answer her,” Nir’vina said. “Honestly, I would prefer you to give up rather than be a dead mate.”

Time was ticking. Bransen had felt nervous before, but he also felt ingrained by this. Fear turned into anger and determination. His final match wouldn’t even be fair at all. He expected his last fight to at least has some meaning to it. Should he just give up and walk away? The logical course of action was to forfeit. Jaga was simply too strong. His arms were almost as thick as Bransen’s torso. Giving up would at least guarantee his survival. He already had two women with whom he would spend the rest of his life. He couldn’t enjoy that if he were dead.

But it was wrong to quit. His heart demanded that he try. It wasn’t just there to save face, but the very reason why he was fighting in the UWAF. It was the reason why he fought in this alien tournament. How would the people back at home react to this? They wouldn’t fight an Alara’jal, so why should he? But, he knew the public. The first and last fights were the most remembered, just like the first and last episodes of his cooking show. Everyone would remember him for quitting. How would Girsha’lar and Nir’vina think of him after this?

Bransen’s thoughts went to his ex-wife. His mind began to show Jaga as everything he was standing against, even if he were a towering giant. He was the symbol of the screaming press, the social justice UWAN feeders that thought they were right, the horrible wife, and all his haters. His augmented hand closed into a fist as he gave an angry look at the Kop’ak.

“If you can beat me,” Girsha’lar said. “You can beat him.” The determination on her face said it all.

It was the final thing that he needed to hear. “I’m ready!” he told the Kop’ak.

“I hope Bransen’s life insurance policy is up to date, folks,” the announcer said. “He’s agreed to fight in this ... rather uneven fight.”

The Kop’ak rested back upon her chair. It was all that she needed to hear. The laser emitters on the fence activated. She slowly lifted up her gloved hand. Bransen turned his attention to the towering Itrean. The Alara’jal flexed his hands into fists. The sound of popping knuckles echoed through the entire chamber. Bransen got into his combat stance. His left palm was stretched outward, and his right arm was close to his hip. He stretched his legs lightly, anticipating the fact that he would need to jump or move out of the way as fast as possible.

Suddenly, the flash erupted. Two heavy sets of drums banged, and all went silent. The fight had begun.

“And we’re off,” the announcer said. “It almost looks like the two are just looking at each other.”

“Bransen...,” Jaga said. “You should give up.” The Alara’jal struggled to speak in English. He was so large that his vocal cords made it sound like he was breathing hard. He could barely get four words out before he took another breath.

“Perhaps I should tell you to surrender,” Bransen told him.

“Yeah!” Girsha’lar reacted as she triumphantly held her arm up.

The Alara’jal slowly showed his large array of teeth. “Small human ... small Itreans.”

Jaga lifted his forward foot and slammed it into the stage floor.

BAAMM! The amount of force was so much that it shook the surrounding environment. Even Bransen’s stance was shaken like support beams in an earthquake.

Suddenly, Jaga charged at Bransen. He was so huge that it took a couple of seconds for him to close in on the man. Then, the Alara’jal leaped into the air and was ready to deliver a pile driver straight down upon Bransen. The former chef had only one action: jump out of the way.

Bransen could only see sheer mass closing down where he was originally at. Jaga was so enormous and so powerful that a single strike would have crushed him in one blow. If anything, he would have been reduced to a pile of mush. The man practically fumbled as Jaga’s fist struck the floor.