The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (The Hipster Trilogy Book 2) by Luke Kondor Page A

off. At first he thought he’d been left alone, but turned to see the fat ginger brute behind him. The one with half a tail, with whiskers the size of Moomamu’s arms. This was no pet. This was a mountain of a cat.  
    His skin felt cold at the certain death to follow. He looked at the other pairings of slaves, circling each other. The one on the right, with the metal helmet over his head and holes for his ears, and the other a shivering mess, urinating on the floor around himself. The stronger one had armed himself with a blade and the weaker one with a spiked-club. He looked like he was struggling to lift the thing. Poor choice.  
    Moomamu looked down at his weaponless hands and sighed.
    Across the other side of the grounds, he saw the other human wielding a curved blade. His naked bronze flesh reflecting the sunlight. He wasn’t muscle-bound or battle-scarred like the cats, but he held his blade with confidence. The fabric tied around his head and mouth kept the dust out and any emotion from being seen. The human’s opponent, though, looked every bit as tough. He was pointing his long blade towards the human’s throat, readying to pounce.
    Behind Moomamu were another pair of brutes, bodies covered with scars. They looked like they’d popped out of the womb fighting and had spent their lives clawing and biting between meals and sleeps.  
    “Wait,” a voice shouted, a posh twerpish meow from next to the shouting cat. The royal kitten walked to the edge of his booth. His wrists were covered in golden circlets and his tail looped with silver jewellery. This one was smaller. Possibly smaller than Gary. It wasn’t a fighter. It was a bald and ludicrous-looking thing. “I wish to make the fight more interesting,” he said, his voice a soft purr in comparison to the bellower. “I am a generous prince and I wish to incentivise the battle. Only a shallow prince watches a competition without giving a prize to its victor.” The crowd quietened. “I am not my father, strong of heart and cruel beyond reason, or my mother, with tail-fur too soft for the cold world of cats, and so I find I must strike a balance. Whoever is victorious in this battle will win their freedom, and the rest of you will be taken to the far-coast and your remains will be used as bait for the sea-worms.”  
    The crowd erupted again with cheers and Moomamu noticed another human next to the prince. A bald one with big eyes. The whites so large Moomamu could see them from all the way down on the Scrapping Grounds. He was a servant of some kind, holding a tray for the prince. But he was dressed well. Robed. Silver ringlets around his wrists. Shoes. For a second Moomamu thought the servant was looking at him, but he couldn’t be sure.
    “Okay,” the bellower roared. “It is begun.”
    With those words, the slaves took their fighting stances and began to circle each other. Apart from Moomamu and his opponent — the ginger mountain. He grinned at Moomamu and brandished his yellow-white claws. Moomamu looked down at his clenched fists and wondered if he’d doomed himself. What damage could his fists do to a cat that looked like it could eat rock?
    From behind Moomamu there was a scream followed by a bell and then cheering. Moomamu caught sight of the cat who’d pissed himself. He’d taken a sword to the stomach and had fallen into his own puddle. The first kill.
    Moomamu backed himself up. A step at a time. His opponent matched him step for step, still grinning. He had no weapons, but his claws were out, almost as big as his yellowing teeth — sharper than the parasite who’d once tried to eat him.  
    “I don’t want to kill you,” Moomamu said to the cat, but he ignored him. He lowered his head, placed his front paws on the floor and slowly crept towards him, readying to pounce. “Please,” Moomamu said. “I’m a Thinker, not a fighter.”
    The crowd erupted again as the bell rang a second time. Another had fallen. In his peripheral