The Onoma Series: Books 1-4

BEAR INTOREDEMPTION

Onoma Series Book 2

Alisa Hope Wagner

Introduction

The World Government’s tactic to form two factions as a means of control has stood firm for many years, but subtle strategies are shaping a resistance that no one can foresee. Efficientists and Colonials may appear like dissimilar social classes, but they are both pawns of a higher agenda, and the infrastructure governing them is dissolving. Former Efficientist turned Colonial, Ruth, finds herself in a new environment, surrounded by family she barely knows. She quickly discovers that she is a critical contributor to the revealing of truth in her fractured world.

CHAPTER ONE

Bear nimbly jogged through the densely wooded forest. Things had changed, and the passage to his last fight felt strange. It didn't alter his focus, though. He would fight. He would win. And he would go home. His last public bout on the fighting circuit was over five years ago, and he was a different man. He once exploited his heritage to please the crowd. He was the Shaman. He used drugs, beat on the drum, sang peyote songs and wore the Mohawk of his original ancestors, the Ka’to Indians. The people loved him, and he consumed the fame until it almost took his life.

He heard a buzz of voices in the distance. Bear stopped and listened, leaning against the long trunk of a pine tree. He looked up to the sky. The sun was almost above him. The bout would start soon. He appreciated the unseasonably warm winter day. The temperature was in the low 70s. He wondered how many people would show up for his last fight. Would they recognize him? He wore the simple leather sarong that he had always worn. It gave him the most mobility, and he was used to its presence. He tied his long black hair in a leather cord down his back. Would they notice the silver that now streaked through his midnight strands? He had chosen Enchanted Rock as the place for his bout because he knew his opponent was tall, young and too cocky for his own good. He had been challenging Bear for over a year now, and Bear finally accepted. The challenged opponent chose the spot for the bout, and Bear would take all the advantages he could get so he could win without injury.

Bear continued his brisk run, allowing the movement to warm up this body. He had parked his truck on the other side of the forest. He didn't want to linger long in the crowd, and they would try to congregate around his vehicle after the fight was over. He didn't understand why God had asked him to do one more fight. He didn't need anything. The winner's booty would be nice but unnecessary. He had arranged for his fighters to take the loot back for him. They wouldn't cross him, and he would give them each a gift for their troubles. He, on the other hand, would slip back into the woods unnoticed. He also didn't want to see the look of shame on the young man's face when he lost. Bear knew what it was like to put all your security in the fighting circuit, and he didn't want to see the young man lose face. Maybe the crowd wouldn't be big, and the young man would easily recover from this loss. The young fighter was supposed to be unbeatable, but Bear knew that he had weaknesses—every fighter did.

The crowd would be angry if Bear won quickly. He wasn't going to put on a show like he used to. When he was younger, he'd allow his opponents to take punches or bring him to the verge of submission, so the crowd would be entertained. He allowed his body to be strained and broken under the hands of his challengers, knowing the entire time he could easily win. But he learned from his father that no one wanted to see an easy win. He thought of his father—a giant man who looked otherworldly with his pale skin, white hair and translucent blue eyes. Bear was thankful he favored his mother—a full-blooded Ka’to Indian—though, at 5’11” he was taller and much stockier than his mother who was small even compared to her siblings. He thought of the day she died when he was still a young man. Before she passed, his father would visit whenever he had a break from the fighting circuit, but he had never been faithful to his mother. He got his mother addicted to the same drugs he was using, bringing her more whenever he came. Bear's childhood was filled with memories of watching his mother slowly die from drugs and a broken heart. His father eventually stopped coming home, until the day Bear came of fighting age.

Bear quickly refocused his thoughts. He needed to keep his mind on his bout. He was almost to the clearing. He was in great shape—probably better shape than he was in his last fight when he was a younger man. He ate better. He slept better. He trained with the other men from the surrounding villages. They came to learn from him, and they would bring goods in exchange for his expertise. Many of them were beginners, but a few of them challenged Bear and kept him alert and sharp. But he wasn't willing to eat punches anymore. No matter how many fights he fought, getting hurt never got easier. He was at a point in his life when he realized winning meant more than merely submitting to your opponent—it meant not getting hurt either.

He saw people standing near the tree line, and he wondered why they weren't already at the base of Enchanted Rock. As he got closer, he turned his jog into a quick march and kept his face expressionless. When he walked into the valley surrounding Enchanted Rock, he had to keep his countenance firm. He had never seen a crowd so large. People were by the tree line because there was nowhere else to stand. Thousands of people had gathered to watch his last fight. They didn't notice him at first, and he had to walk around them. Suddenly, the path gave way before him as people began to whisper and motion to him.

"It's the Shaman!" someone shouted. "Where's your Mohawk?"

"Sing Shaman!" one man yelled.

"Where is your drum?" another yelled.

Bear didn't answer the questions, and he didn't look to his left or to his right. He stared straight to where the red flag of the fighting circuit stood. He noticed the winner's booty spilling out around the fighting line. It looked to be more than double his biggest earning. Bear hoped his men had brought more than one vehicle. Each bystander at the fight had to bring something for the winner, but many times several people would pitch in to bring larger items. He saw containers of preserved food, car batteries, hand-sewn clothes and linens, vats of alcohol, carvings of wood and other treasures hidden in boxes and burlap bags. He even saw a few paintings, and from a distance he could see the signature Mohawk of the Shaman. The crowd would be severely disappointed if they came to see the fighter he once was. That man was gone.

Bear came to the base of the mountain and began the trek up. He could already see his opponent waiting for him at the top. He was called the Bald Eagle, and Bear noticed that the man had embraced his title. His shaved head was stained white, his chest red and his legs blue. Bear couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. Each fighter exploited some sort of theme, and this young man had chosen Old America. Didn't he know that Old American had toppled in on itself? Bear only hoped that the stain the man used to dye his skin wouldn't rub off on him. He was going to be nice and win by submission, but now he contemplated a knockout, so he wouldn't get color on his leather sarong.

Bear made it to the fighting line and noticed that his young opponent's knees were locked. Bad choice for a tall man standing on an incline. Maybe he would pass out before the bout began. Bear walked adjacent to the man's corner where another referee stood.

"Interesting place for a fight. Do you remember me? I refereed the fight when you tore Watchman's shoulder and took him out of the fighting circuit for good," the referee said.

Bear said nothing and opened his mouth, waiting for the referee to check him for illegal paraphernalia. The referee paused for a moment and got the hint. Bear didn't want to talk. The referee grabbed Bear's jaw and looked into his mouth. Bear lifted his tongue, and the referee nodded and stepped back. Bear opened both his hands palms up and the referee grabbed them and inched his way up Bear's arms to the sides of his ribs. When the referee stepped back again, Bear lifted the front of his sarong, exposing his undergarment and the muscular lines of his quadriceps. Then he turned, lifting the back of his sarong so that his angular hamstrings were barred.

The referee nodded, "He's clean."

Bear went back to his corner. He noticed some people close to the fighting line had small video cameras. Some of his fights had made their way into the LPSs of Efficientists. His fights were labeled as documentaries, which made them more acceptable in the Efficientists' world, but he knew the entertainment value of his fights were what drew people in. Bear had visited a few of the Efficientists' parties, and they paraded him around like a trophy they owned. They never cared about his heritage or about Colonials. They wanted to see a raw fight from the safety of their homes. The Efficientists were one group of people he didn't mind disappointing today. They could stick their cameras into someone else's life.

Suddenly, large generators kicked on, and the announcer stood in the middle of the fight line with a microphone. Bear noticed there were more speakers than what was normal for a fight. Bear didn't listen to the man's words as they echoed against the granite mountainside and across the surrounding fields. He recognized the announcer. He had emceed many of his earlier fights. He was good at getting the crowd pumped up for a fight, and the applause sounded like thunder. Bear kept his eyes on his opponent. He had been standing rigid for too long. Bear noticed that he started swaying from his left foot to his right foot, trying to get the blood circulating back up his large frame. He looked a lot like his own father minus 50 pounds of extra bulk. He definitely looked intimidating, but his posture revealed that his balance was poor—most tall fighters lacked stability.

Finally, the announcer asked the fighters to join him. Bear made his way to the middle of the fighting line, keeping his eyes on his opponent's face. Bald Eagle made a show of sneering down on him, which was normal for the taller fighters. Bear kept his chin up and gave no expression. The man took out his black mouth guard, obviously made from the rubber of a tire. He spat out an insult, but Bear didn't listen. He never let the words of his opponents enter his mind.

"Where is your mouthguard," the announcer asked Bear.

"I won't be needing one," Bear said without removing his gaze.

"Fine, fighters to your corners!" he yelled into the microphone and the crowd erupted.

Bear walked back to his corner. He still didn't know how he would take out his opponent—whether he would finish him standing or on the ground. He'd let the man's first mistake dictate his termination. The announcer gave a few more words, but Bear no longer noticed. His eyes were on his challenger's body, reading every move he made. Bear barely noticed a large copper disk being presented to the announcer. A moment later the loud rapping of metal was heard through all the speakers. Bald Eagle instantly started making his way toward Bear. His elbows were low, and his fist framed the bottom of his chin. Bear made his way up the side of the granite mountain, and the man snickered, thinking Bear was afraid to confront him. Bear wasn't afraid. He simply needed a shot from higher elevation.

Bear stealthily leaned into the incline, gripping the granite rock with his bare feet. He kept his body tight but his muscles loose. Once he gained the right altitude, he began treading horizontally toward his opponent's location. Bald Eagle was still about five feet further down the hill but a stone's throw across the granite expanse, trying to keep up with Bear's speed. Bear quickened his pace. He wanted to intercept his opponent where the incline flattened a bit. He thought it best to take him out in a spot where he wouldn't roll down the side of the mountain face. Bear noticed the man trying to keep his balance, and his hands dropped further away from his chin. This was the perfect time to strike.

Bear ran a few steps and planted a jab-jab-cross combination into the man's jawline, testing the fighter’s pain threshold. The man flinched a little, but didn't cry out. Bear knew his opponent was taking some sort of numbing drug. His pupils were too wide for the brightness of the day. The man lunged at him, but his imbalance caused him to teeter. Bear sprang into the air. His foot landed into the man's left kneecap, and Bear felt a crack. Bear landed swiftly on his feet, and powered his torso to the right, turning his flattened toes on the rock ground to meet the force of his momentum. His shoulder slid across his tucked chin as his right arm extended like an agitated cobra. His fist—hard as rock from years of fighting—pummeled into the man's unprotected chin. The man's head snapped back, and his body fell flat on a small piece of even granite. Bear looked at his opponent's limp body, and saw his chest rise and fall with air. He was alive. He'd be okay.

The crowd roared as the referees checked Bald Eagle's pulse. The announcer came up to Bear holding the microphone to his lips.

"The winner by knockout in 1 minute and 9 seconds is the Shaman!" the announcer yelled, while grabbing Bear's right wrist and bringing his arm into the air.

Bear gave no expression.

Then the thunderous crowd quieted, the announcer looked toward Bear. "People have said that you had no more fight in you, but obviously they were wrong. In fact, you seem to have become an even better fighter in the last five years of your retirement. This is your quickest knockout or submission to date. You are notorious for winning in the final round, which is why people loved coming out to watch you. It's almost like you are a different fighter now. What has changed in the last five years?"

Bear stood for a moment. Is this why you brought me out here, God? To show that I have changed?

The announcer saw that Bear wasn't answering. "Don't you think the people have the right to know what happened to the Shaman they once knew? The fighter with the drum and the Mohawk who sang Indian songs with his bass voice? Do you think the people expected something more from you here today?"

The announcer put the microphone back toward Bear's face. Bear grabbed the microphone from the announcer's hands.

"Do you think I came here today to please you?" Bear asked, looking out over the crowd. "I came here today to please the Holy One. He is why I am here. I wear the blood of the Holy One's Son. I have the Holy One's Spirit inside of me. I am not the Shaman anymore. My name is Cabena Sa Ne’aw-ze! I am Fighting Bear, and I fight for no one's pleasure except for mine and the Holy One!"

Bear gave the announcer back the microphone. The announcer stood speechless for a moment, but remembered the priority he was given. "Yes, but look at the winner's booty," he said swinging his arms toward the piles of goods spread across the base of the mountain.

"Don't you think that it is deserving of a song from the Shaman?"

The crowd yelled and started chanting, "Sing! Sing! Sing!"

Bear looked over the crowd.

"Just one song, and you walk away a wealthy winner," the announcer finished and motioned for Bear to take the microphone.

Bear slowly took the microphone and waited for the crowd to quiet their chanting. "I gave you something better than a song. I gave you the Holy One and His Son. The winner's booty is for a fight not a song. It is mine by right. If anyone thinks I'm underserving of it, he can face me right here, right now!"

Bear looked around at the crowd and waited for several moments. He saw a few men approach, but they were his fighters from his village come to pick up his winnings and take them home. He put the microphone to his lips.

"This winner's booty is mine. I came out of retirement to claim it. I fought for it. I won it. My men are here to pick it up. If anyone touches it or bothers my men, I will find you, and take care of you like I did Bald Eagle."

Bear handed the microphone back to the announcer and made his way down the mountain. The crowd was silent as he walked the rock face to the bottom. He marched steadily through the crowd, keeping's eyes on the tree line. He will never come back to the fighting circuit again.