Me, Of Course!

You stand in the center of the arena, panting and feeling the gas numb your reason and heighten your senses. A voice from the ceiling calls out and startles you.

"We have a winner! Eliza Blackburn has won her debut match!"

You try to focus on the words but it's hard. You feel tired and your head is all fuzzy. You notice people then, women in tight white uniforms with very, very short skirts. They're also wearing gas masks that cover the lower half of their faces and carrying little satchels with red crosses on them. You wonder what they're doing here as one of them crouches down near Heather. You lean and try to sneak a peak up her skirt but another woman in white gently pulls your gaze to her. You look into her eyes and know beyond a doubt that you must have her! Maybe after a nap...

You hear a loud mechanical click followed by a small tornado as fans somewhere in the ceiling kick on at ludicrously high speeds. The pink mist is eaten by the ventilation system in a matter of moments, the vents that produced them now shut tight. Unfortunately, the skirts on the newcomers are so tight that they barely flinch at the gust of wind. Damn!

The woman in white before you presses something to your lips. It's a clear soft plastic or hard rubber apparatus that covers your mouth and connects to a little spray bottle looking thing. You watch her press the release button and hear something come out but don't see it through the clear apparatus. But you sure as hell taste and smell it on the back of your throat. It burns like **** but without the pleasant buzz. You cough and try to get away but the surprisingly strong nurse holds your head in place.

"Relax," she says in a professional tone. "Deep breaths."

Something about her voice makes you feel like it's important to do as she says. After two or three deep breathes you get used to the foul gas. In fact, you can't even taste it now, though your throat feels very dry. The nurse nods at your lack of reaction and puts the spray into her satchel. She starts rummaging within it while you watch two nurses carry Heather out on a stretcher.

Wait, when did the third nurse get here? And the stretcher? You turn to ask the nurse but as you open your mouth a straw is inserted into it.

"Drink this," she orders in a mellow tone.

You take a sip and then start slurping it up. It's just cold water from a water bottle but at that moment your every cell is sighing in pure joy. Apparently you expended a lot of fluids just now. It feels especially good on your throat and the nurse has to command you to slow down in your gulping. She insists you drink the entire bottle, at a reasonable pace, and you aren't about to argue. Once you're finished she shines a light in your eyes, checks your pulse, then nods before packing up her gear and leaving out a side door you didn't notice earlier. It must have been covered by the gas. You stand alone in the arena for a moment before heading back into the red locker room.

You see Ms. Manchester there. Her face is a stoic mask again and her clipboard rests next to her on the bench she sits upon. In her hands is a tablet she idly presses on before addressing you.

"Congratulations," she says without emphasis. "You managed not to fuck up your first match."

You grin and start to stretch in an attempt to look impressive. Your body doesn't fully obey your commands, creaking in joints that never creaked before. Your worried/pained expression finally makes her smile.

"These matches take a lot out of you," she says. "And the counter agent they just gave you to neutralize the aphrodisiac will make you lethargic in about thirty minutes. Go back to your rooms and get some rest. You've earned it. Oh, and the money will be wired directly to your account. While you were getting settled and into your first match your things were put into your new rooms along with a tablet. That tablet is not to leave this facility as it is equiped with software linking you to all FWF networks you might need. One of them links directly to your bank account so feel free to confirm you've received your funds."

As she finishes speaking you carefully walk over to your locker and open it. Your clothes are still inside, along with a short white robe that wasn't there before.

"You can leave your things there, if you like," says Ms. Manchester. "Any items found in your locker will be properly laundered at the end of the night and delivered to your rooms by morning."

You turn to her and think you spot her glancing away. Was she checking you out again?

"And feel free to use the showers here," she says as if nothing happened. "Just be quick. I wasn't lying about the lethargy. It hits first timers like a truck when it comes."

Her advice has been sound so far so you don't delay. Even after a very brisk shower, drying off with a towel you find in a stack near the stalls, you start to yawn. Ms. Manchester left during your rinse so you open the locker back up again. Putting on all your clothes feels like too much work so you slip on the robe instead. The hem tickles the bottom of your butt cheeks and even flaccid your penis hangs lower than the robe does. You pad down the hall, getting turned around once or twice but make it to the living area.

This part of the facility is mostly above ground. From outside it just looks like a big apartment building. No one walking by would guess that it exclusively houses FWF competitors and connects to the local arena, nor would they suspect how luxurious the top floors are said to be. Alas, you are a newbie and are gifted only a basic apartment on the lower levels. It's a decent place though, bigger than your old apartment. You find the door unlocked and all your bags, previously handed off to security personnel, are neatly stacked on the floor. The dining room table has a note, a set of keys, and a tablet sitting on it. But your eyelids feel heavy and those seem like tomorrow problems. You loosen the belt of your robe but collapse onto your soft new bed before you can shrug out of it.