Date: Mon, 17 Oct 2022 18:42:44 -0400
From: Ian Engle <mr.evan.andrews@gmail.com>
Subject: PECs chapter 7 -- science fiction of fantasy

PECs
Chapter seven: The Council of Six
Evan Andrews ©2022

This set of stories is not a fan fiction, although it is high space
opera. (So forgive the really dated terminology.) As always, though, I had
a cast of faces in mind for the characters, a list of whom follows the
story. Your image may differ, which is cool. This story should not be
considered a true representation of the sexuality of any of the men in real
life.

The story depicts males in pulp sci-fi sexual situations with other
males. If this offends you, if you are underage, or if reading such is
illegal where you are please stop reading now. Thank you.

If you enjoy this story, or even if you hate it, please contribute to
keeping Nifty going at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html


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The Black Hunter docked at ShipClan Station, and things happened quickly.

The several crewmen who had been overseeing the pec slaves got reassigned
to other jobs, and with no trainer present the slaves indulged themselves--
in doing anything that wasn't man-sex even if their cocks were obviously
ready to spring to attention at the least provocation. Speed and Feral took
advantage of the situation by retreating to a corner to speak privately.

"What now, Speed?" Feral asked as he pressed up against the muscular
redhead. The brunet pec slave's face betrayed concern, even as his body
urged him to do whatever it took to cum. "From what I've been able to make
out, these ship guys plan to make some political capital by trading us to
somebody."

"Or somebodies," Speed said.

"You don't think they plan to separate us, do you?"

"I think keeping us together is way down on their list of priorities,"
Speed said stoically. "Think about it, teams kept together might just plan
some sort of escape."

Feral's face spoke volumes. `Yes,' Speed could tell he was thinking, `We
ought to try to escape, but we also needed to serve the masters as suckle
studs.' The extensive training had definitely screwed with Feral's
priorities.

Speed let his buddy try to work it out, but in the meantime he thought
about the other PEC teams he'd identified in the stable. Beach and Monkey
for sure, and maybe Frog and Pitbull had been one. Bishop's advanced
training exercises had left his pec slaves time to think about little
beyond the cock they were sucking or getting fucked by. Things like PEC
partnerships never came up, except when slave trainees were in the chairs,
and even then they were distracted by having their tits sucked.

"And how could we?" Speed continued. "We don't know our way around this
ship, let alone this station that we've arrived at, and we have no access
to a rocket."

"Maybe one of the others has seen more," Feral suggested. "If we want to
ask, it's now or never."

Turned out it was never.

Speed was about to speak up when the door to the chamber opened, and the
little crewman, Pork, sauntered in leading four more pec slaves, clothed as
good pec slaves ought to be-- and completely unrestrained. They obediently
followed Pork to mid-room and, flanking him, fell into slave display
position.

"On your feet, you lot," the crewman said to the resting men, "And meet the
four pec slaves that we'd gotten perfectly trained before you lot stumbled
into our traps."

Speed clambered to his feet (with Feral giving him a hand up) and fell into
line to meet the new (or old) meat with an assessing eye he had not
possessed five hundred hours earlier. Of course he knew the four men, or
rather, he knew their faces from MIA reports circulated back at Base. PEC
had given these four up for lost between four and eight months
previously. Suddenly, a mathematical incongruity struck the redhead.

"Master Pork, sir," Speed said, pointing to the collar embossed with the
number `14' that circled his throat, "I thought..."

"Of course you did," Pork said, "You saw that `14' and figured that
fourteen PECs were all that the Black Hunter had captured. I'd bet you even
assumed the captain's slaves, and mine and Beef's, were part of the
inventory and figured them into the numbering system. It's a good think we
don't want you for your brains. Don't they teach logic in your academy? Or
strategy? Or math? Didn't it strike you that your pal Feral there should
have a collar reading `13' or maybe `15', but look. He doesn't. What number
are you, slave Feral?"

"Uh, `6', master Pork."

Speed started and then looked more closely at Feral's collar. Sure enough,
an embossed `6' stood out against the collar's black surface.

"Why give prisoners an accurate idea of their numbers?" Pork
smirked. "These pec slaves here have the numbers 1 through 4-- the first
and last whose collars reflected their seniority in the stable."

"Be that as it may," Pork continued, "The captain thought you should meet
(even if your association is to be short-lived) before the captains'
review."

'Review', Speed thought, `That can't be good.'

"Pec slaves," Pork said, turning to face the old quartet, "Step forward and
introduce yourselves.

The first slave, a little Southeast Asian who reeked alluringly of
kickboxer, said, "Pec slave #1. Tie."

The second, half a head shorter than Speed, hung a proud length out of his
access briefs, said, "Pec slave #2. Roan."

A muscle hunk whose body gave Freak and Beach a good run for their money
(and who looked like he belonged on a bed somewhere serving as a living
teddy bear) said, "Pec slave #3. Timmer."

"Pec slave #4. Cajun," the last of the four said. If you thought of the
slaves as ships of the line, Speed was a battleship while Cajun was clearly
a cruiser. (And that made the colonial, Pork, a destroyer, something Speed
was careful not to say out loud.)

The new pec slaves, after introducing themselves, fell into place at the
end of the existing line of the Black Hunter's inventory of man-flesh.

"Slave display position, now! All of you! Like the well-trained slaves
you're supposed to be," Pork shouted. "I shouldn't have to tell any of you
these things at this stage."

Hands went behind backs, and seventeen naked chests thrust forward.

"Hmm. Good thing Beef had the slobgoblins scrub you lot down this morning
and get you some new threads."

"Good, master Pork?" Speed asked.

"Very good indeed, slave Speed, because you are shortly to be presented..."

Pork never finished what he was saying. The door to the chamber opened once
again, and Bishop led seven men into the room. The line of pec slaves
snapped instantly (and instinctively) to an even more military version of
the slave display position, showing off their bodies to perfection. The
seven proudly muscled hunks that entered all wore the trunks of free men,
but in different colors (Speed recognized them as the colors of the seven
ShipClans). Furthermore, all of them exuded of an air of unimpeachable
authority.

"Fellow captains," Bishop said, "These are the pec slaves that the Black
Clan plans on offering to the Elite."

The captains walked up and down the line of pec slaves, but instead of a
simple visual once over, this lot got hands on. Intimately so. They
scrutinized the slaves from every possible angle: both externally and
internally. It seemed they liked what they saw.

Speed's cock, which was never far from a full chub anymore, filled out and
put on an impressive show for the review—not that his fellow slaves'
pieces were anything to sneer at—not even his newly introduced
brothers. This display of masculine rigidity seemed to please the captains,
who, Speed assumed, clearly had high expectations of pec slave stock.

The captain in blue trunks said, "And which of these are the four you're
keeping for your private use, Bishop? They all look worth a good rodding."

"Ah," Bishop said, "I'll introduce those four to you later, Caber, but I'm
not planning on keeping any of these choice studs. Every last one of them
is going to be offered to the Elite."

"Wait," the big Indian in green trunks said, surprised, "You're keeping
four?!"

"That's right, Taj. The Black Hunter caught twenty-one, and I made an
executive decision to hold out two for my own enjoyment and one each for my
senior officers, Pork and Beef," Bishop said, "That still left seventeen
for the Elite to dicker over, a number I assumed would be adequate,
especially with six more ships contributing to the show. Of course, I
expect my slaves will enchant the Elite and all end up chosen. On the off
chance any don't please the Council of Six, or the Fathers of the Senate,
or the Royal Creche, well, I'm prepared to take them back to the Black
Hunter to serve the crew."

"Really?" the Mexican in yellow trunks said. "Interesting, because I
thought we had agreed that unchosen stock would go straight into the
ShipClans' common trading pool. That was the resolution passed at the last
convocation of clans. Or am I mistaken?"

"Of course. Of course. You're right, Eagle," Bishop said, testily. "The
common trading pool, to be used as currency to advance the common causes of
the ShipClans. That's what I meant to say."

The burly blond in red trunks, who seemed still caught up on the previous
question, said, "Do you suggest that we follow your example, Bishop? Skim
the cream of our pec slaves off the top to keep for personal use and send
the rest to the Elite?"

"Not knowing what your take was, I leave that decision to you, Pops,"
Bishop said, as he ushered the captains towards the door of the
chamber. (Caber took a last appreciative feel of Speed's rod before
bringing up the rear.) "Just so long as we all remember that supplying the
Royal Creche must take priority. The true pick of the lot should be held
for His Highness and the Blood Royale. Then the Council of Six get their
pick, and finally the Fathers of the Senate. If I read your numbers
correctly, we have more than enough to cover that—presuming, of course,
that the Elite recognize and accept that they may choose only one pec slave
apiece. In fact there's no reason for any of the Elite to know that not
every ounce of slave flesh was made available to them. So, unless any of
you plan to spill your guts to the flatlanders."

"Forfend!" the captain in brown trunks said.

`That's it,' Speed thought, catching Feral's distraught eye as the door
shut behind Bishop, `They really are going to sell us like animals to the
highest bidder. And soon.'

@@@@@@@@@

It was only few hours later that Bishop returned after the captains' tour
of the various pec slave stables, and ordered his own stable to fall in
before him.

The Black Hunter's seventeen available pec slaves fell in and assumed
display position.

"Gussy them up," Bishop said to the attending slobgoblins.

The cyborgs swarmed around the slaves, giving them a quick touch up to the
cleaning they'd all had a few hours earlier.

"Now, fall in, two by two, and follow me."

Bishop turned, and his servile regiment followed him into the grandeur that
was ShipClan Station.

@@@@@@@@

Bishop led the party, of course. And proudly.

Behind him strode his stable of pec slaves, two by two. Though they were
heading off to be sold like beasts, the former warriors strutted, proudly
putting on a show of their bodies, something the staff of the station
appreciated. Pec slaves were a novelty (well, Terran pec slaves that was),
and everybody appreciates a parade. Speed and Feral brought up the rear,
with Pork and Beef flanking them. Feral was impressed by the sheer number
of people they passed, but Speed was more impressed by the station's
profligate use of open space. Terran stations were economical in that
regard, stingy even. Here there were so many corridors, and chambers, and
lifts, and then more corridors! Speed was entirely lost long before they
got to their destination.

"Where're we going," the redhead whispered to Beef.

"The Hall of the Clans. That might well be the last you ever see of space,
so you should make the most of it. Now, shut your mouth."

If the bulk of ShipClan Station was larger and roomier than any comparable
Earth space station, the Hall of the Clans was unimaginably vaster than any
chamber Speed had ever seen in space. A great transparent dome, of the same
material that formed the Black Hunter's bridge, crowned the Hall permitting
an unimpeded view of the naked stars. The hall itself was circular, divided
into eight sections. In the middle, in another wide circle, stood seven
large seats in the shape of captain's chairs, though decidedly
grander. Each chair was identified by clan color: black, white, red,
yellow, green, blue, and brown, and they stood each before one of the bays,
framed by arches the keystone of which matched the color of the throne in
question. The Hall declared that this was a ShipClan place, and you came
here only by their sufferance.

In the bays, slobgoblins had erected corrals to hold each clan's pec slave
herd in one place and keep any of them from wandering. Bishop and his
party, the first to enter as befitted the oldest ShipClan, headed for the
black chair. The blond captain stood in front of the black chair while his
officers secured the pec slaves in their corral. After that, in order of
seniority, the other clans entered, each captain followed by his officers
and stable of pec slaves.

"Gentlemen," Bishop said when the other captains stood before their chairs
and their pec slaves had been corralled, "Our first order of business
regards our noble Prince. The staff has set up a separate corral in the
eighth bay for the cream of our stables, the two pec slaves apiece that we
think best suited to serve the Royal Creche. So, shall I start by
nominating my pair?"

"Go ahead," Caber said cavalierly, and Bishop had his seventeen enslaved
PECs step forward.

"From what we saw during our tour, I think we can all agree that Earth has,
in general, done itself proud with the slave fodder they've sent our way,"
Bishop said. Bishop's smile reminded Speed of Honest Greeb, a used repulsor
speeder salesman he'd once dealt with on the Ramses Colony.

"I can vouch for that," Caber said, and he rubbed at his crotch, kneading
the tumescent shaft that had raped every one of his pec slaves down before
their real training had begun. The four that he had most enjoyed reducing
to sniveling pieces of flesh he had kept for his continued enjoyment, but
he still had brought fourteen well-trained pec slaves to the party.

Doing his best to ignore the blue captain's vulgarity, Bishop continued,
"Every single one of my slaves is overflowing with top-grade Vril, but I
think the two standouts are the most recently acquired, slave Feral and
slave Speed. Slaves, step forward."

Speed and Feral, surprised but pleased to be singled out, left the line-up
and walked to the center of the circle of captains. Assuming display
position, the pair endured a second bout of scrutiny.

"Visually," the brown captain said, "They're fine. Are you sure about their
output, though?"

"I have the quality analyses here, if you don't trust my judgment," Bishop
said, reaching for the datapad Pork held out to him, "But you could just
take a quick suck and judge their quality for yourself."

Speed was not at all surprised when every single captain, after reading the
report, converged on his and Feral's bodies. One at a time, they suckled at
one or the other of Speed's tits before switching over to try Feral
out. Speed was reminded of gathering of snooty wine connoisseurs, except
that none of this lot spat his Vril out.

"Gentlemen?" Bishop said when the captains had finished.

"I accept your judgement," the captain in white trunks said.

"Thank you, Toro. Any dissent?"

"Can we just get on with it," red-trunked Pops interrupted, and Bishop,
figuring out which four specimens Pops had held back, understood his
impatience.

Smiling, he said, "Fine. Pork, take these two to the Reserve corral."

"The what..?" Speed whispered when Pork ushered him and Feral to the corral
in the eighth bay. (Beef was returning the other fifteen to their own clan
corral.)

"The Reserve. Don't you ever listen? This is the holding pen for pec slaves
that will be offered to the four ranking members of the royal house: Roc,
the Prince; Rom, the Prince in Waiting;, and Jay and Jim, the two Bloods
Royale to forestall your next question. Each clan is submitting their two
best pec slaves for royal consideration. They may take one of the two of
you, or both, or neither. It all depends on the royal whim. Now, watch the
rest chosen, stay put, and keep your mouth shut."

One by one the captains presented their choices for the Reserve. Speed had
no idea what criteria the captains were using to make their choice. He
guessed it was something to do with the slaves' Vril potential, but he
realized that his new mates were also a visually impressive lot. A
smorgasbord of what Earth and the Empire had to offer in terms of man
flesh, and all up to the rigorous standards PEC demanded of its warriors.

Once the fourteen Reserve slaves had been sequestered, the captains took
their seats, and, flanked by their officers, resumed their air of
uncompromising authority. Speed almost asked what they were waiting for,
but he realized that Pork was standing by Bishop now, and none of the other
slaves in the Reserve could possibly know the answer. Instead, the redhead
waited, as patiently as a man can when he's waiting to be sold and his
balls are screaming for release.

A gong sounded, and Bishop said, grandly, "Brother captains, rise and do
honor to the Council of Six, advisors to and most loyal servants of His
Highness the Prince of Colonia Prima."

The great doors opened, and a body of six men, in their own way as
impressive as the captains, strode in as if they owned the place.

`Ballsy lot,' Speed thought.

These newcomers wore bi-colored trunks, in richer colors than the ShipClans
used, and calf-high sandals instead of the more utilitarian boots that were
common on the ships. The colors of the trunks met in a swirl that drew
attention to the bulges in their trunks. They bore no insignia save for a
coil of gold that circled their upper right arms several times. The
captains and officers all bowed, and, except for Bishop, they offered their
seats to the newcomers. Bishop, as the ranking clan head (and, Speed
assumed, functional prince of the rocket men) stood by his empty chair, and
one by one the other captains fell in on either side of him.

"Councilors," Bishop said gravely, "The Captains welcome you to ShipClan
Station."

The six councilors seated themselves and looked disdainfully at the rocket
men. Arrogant as fuck, each of the councilors wore authority like a
garment, but even Speed could make out that these men could be sorted by
what look was on their faces. Half were threatening (as befitted the War
Faction though Speed had no way of knowing that was who they were), and the
others accommodating (as befitted the Homeland Faction).

"Councilors, you honor us with your presence. This day we have assembled
stables of fully trained Terran pec slaves. It would please us greatly if
you were to take the choicest among them to serve you."

"Pec slaves?" the councilor in burgundy and gold trunks said. "These? All
of them?"

"Yes, councilor Battle, we fit each of them upon capture with an Id Tap in
order that they might serve the elite of the State as fonts of Vril."

"So, you're tell me that you kept not a single captive for the Council to
interrogate?" Battle pursued.

"Councilor Battle, the captains consulted and determined that such measures
were not necessary," Bishop said, "We of the ShipClans may not be so
skilled as certain others in the arts of interrogation (`He means torture,'
Speed thought), but we have found that the Id Tap affords the skilled
interrogator a tool just as reliable as physical coercion when it comes to
the extraction of information. The pec slave you choose today, you may
torture to your heart's content, naturally, but I believe that by simply
denying that slave any and all sexual release you will in short order be
able to get any information you want out of him."

"You realize it was presumptuous to assume you had the right to make that
choice," Battle sneered.

`Wow,' Speed thought, `Great way to win friends. But maybe that's the
point.'

"Councilor Battle, I beg you forgive your servants in the ShipClans. Our
training and experience inclines us not to waste any resource."

"Hmpf, perhaps. And what about those off to the side there?" Battle asked,
pointing at the Reserve corral. "Are they available for interrogation?"

"Those pec slaves, councilor, constitute the cream of our stocks. The
Captains decided to hold them to offer exclusively to the Prince and the
Royal Creche. I'm certain the learned councilors would agree that the royal
family deserves nothing but the best."

Speed could tell (Well, to be fair, subtlety was not Councilor Battle's
forte and for Bishop to use subtlety would be lost on the arrogant cock)
that the Council, and especially Battle, wished they had had the option of
taking the first pick of the pec slaves, leaving the Prince with nothing
but their cast offs. (Even though the cast-offs would still have been
impressive specimens of manhood.) It appeared that politics operated here
just as they did in the history books Speed had read.

"Give it a rest, Battle," a blond councilor in green and gold trunks
said. "The Royale Creche must, of course, come first. Be thankful that the
noble captains didn't put the Senate ahead of the Council of Six."

"You're too soft, Slab," Battle said, "But I suppose if that's where things
stand, then let the pec slaves at our disposal disport themselves before us
that we may determine the best of the lot."

The pec slaves from the seven clans walked into the center of the
hall. Speed recognized many of those from outside the Black Hunter by name
and knew most of the rest by face, but even if he had been building a
census of the missing today, the hormonal storm in his body would have made
compiling such a list, let alone remembering it, next to
impossible. Instead he watched as the men got down to doing what they did
second best (the best being giving suck). Dozens of good-looking, horny men
descended on each other's bodies and proceeded to besmirch their PEC honor
by committing acts of the grossest and most indecent intimacy. Speed (and
every other slave in the Reserve corral) was hard in half a second.

The arrogant councilors (even the Homeland faction had an air of
condescension on their faces) watched the demeaning orgy proceed for maybe
a quarter of an hour. Then at a nod from Battle, they rose and circulated
among the fornicating pec slaves to separate the grain from the chaff. One
at a time, or in groups, slaves found themselves dismissed from further
consideration until only a couple of dozen remained. Speed, curious in
spite of the id warring in his body, tried to ascertain what criteria
dictated the councilors' choices, but it eluded him. He was clearly not yet
sufficiently well versed in the appreciation of male bodies; they all
looked more or less the same to him. Each councilor now had four strapping
Terran males standing before him, and the master studs put their potential
slaves through an thorough examination, including sucking on their
tits. Clearly connoisseurs of Vril, the councilors reduced their choices to
two men each. And finally, to one.

Speed saw that Battle had chosen Nitro (who had been a Blue clan trained
slave). Hammer chose Ronin (from the White clan). Whip settled on Stars
(captured and trained by the Brown clan). Cage decided on another Irishman,
Swagger (from the Yellow clan). Raptor scooped up (literally) little Spirit
(taken and broken by the Green Hunter). And Slab, for all that he was the
peacemaker designate, seemed pleased with his choice of the Mexican, Saint
(from the Red clan).

The councilors took joy in stripping their new slaves of their clan-color
slave briefs and collars. In place of those garments, each chosen pec slave
was fit with an anodized metal cock-ring of the same two colors as their
new masters' trunks. (Collars engraved with the pec slaves' names would be
supplied later, Speed guessed.) Once fitted up, the all-but-naked pec
slaves came to stand beside their new masters when the latter returned to
their chairs.

None of the chosen pec slaves, as things worked out, had worn the briefs of
the Black clan, leaving Speed curious about the unfathomable politics of
the colony's pec (and sexual) slavery. The redhead wondered what the
councilors would have said if they knew that where they would be leaving
with a single pec slave, the captains would be going home to tight little
harems. The captains had mentioned nothing about it, nor would they, there
being no love lost between the clans and the Council.

Station staff, human and slobgoblin, removed the unchosen pec slaves to
holding cells elsewhere on the station (to be presented to the Fathers of
the Senate the next day, though none of them realized that), and a formal
banquet began. The captains, in a display of humility, acted as servers to
whichever councilor was sitting in their chair. Bishop kept his place
throughout the selection process since Black was the oldest and therefore
preeminent among the ShipClans. He acted the consummate host and when the
banquet began, called on his noble guests to enjoy the fruits of the
State's colonial empire. The food, while exotic, was still hearty, not
delicate, and it smelled delicious. Speed had not been fed for hours, so he
felt his stomach growling at the enticing scents. In spite of the
provocation, though, he managed to hold slave display position throughout
the meal.

Occasionally, one of the Council's newly chosen pec slaves was pulled
forward to give suck to his new master. The kind masters (like Slab) sucked
the slave to orgasm—not something that took a lot of time given how
worked up the Id Taps had left them. The stern ones (like Whip) went out of
their way, it seemed, to leave their slaves worked up to the point of
tears. Speed felt for them.

The meal ended with an insincere ritual of respectful leave-taking, and the
councilors' pec slaves followed them out, with only a glance back to the
captains who had taught them how not to be warriors anymore. (Caber was
rubbing an erection as he watched Nitro's naked ass led away.)

"Well," Bishop said, once the door had shut and the room had been swept for
flies on the wall, "That went better than I expected."

"Did you hear their talk?" Pops asked, "If the War Faction isn't working on
the Prince trying to move him to attack the Terran Empire, then I'm a
slobgoblin."

"Let's earnestly hope that His Highness' sense of strategy and love for his
people proves greater than his ego," Boone said.

"And that he can recognize a suicidally bad idea when he hears it," Taj
said. "I have no desire to take my rocket into battle and risk the lives of
my kin in a pointless war."

"With luck, hot mouths and asses and tits overflowing with Vril will
distract them," Caber said.

The leaders of the Clans parted ways and returned to their rockets, leaving
the Reserve slaves behind to be taken to their own special holding area by
station staff. The Reserves dropped onto couches that lined the room and
spent the down time telling their stories. These were all depressingly
similar, except for the way that each clan introduced a captured warrior to
pec slavery. Caber, they found out, really did rape each and every one of
his prisoners up the ass in the middle of his bridge, multiple times,
before sending him to the Training Suite. Eagle did much the same, except
that he employed specialty-designed fucker slobgoblins to rape down his
captives. Pops handed prisoners into the tender (or not so tender) hands
(and cocks) of his crew. Toro, on the other hand, followed Bishop's
example, as did Taj and Boone—bringing the PECs off first and then
consigning them to the sucking devices.

In the end, Speed mused, they all ended up as pec slaves, so did it really
matter how they got there?


Possible cast:

Colonials:
Pork, Drake Maverick (WWE); Bishop, Triple H (WWE)

Captains: Toro, Andrade (WWE) ; Daddy, Brian Pillman (wrestler) ; Sonny,
Brian Pillman Jr. (NXT) ; Eagle, Emperador Azteca (wrestler) ; Taj, Jinder
Mahal (WWE) ; The Bollywood Boyz (wrestlers) ; Caber, Drew McIntyre (WWE) ;
Boone, Mark Jindrak (wrestler)

Council of Six: Battle, Bautista (wrestler) ; Hammer, Alex Hammerstone
(MLW) ; Whip, Bobby Lashley (WWE) ; Cage, Brian Cage (wrestler) ; Raptor =
Luchasaurus (AEW) ; Slab, Test (WWE)

Terrans:
Speed, Sheamus (WWE) ; Feral, Finn Balor (WWE) ;

Stable slaves (mostly wrestlers): Beach, Kerry von Erich ; Dar, Naom Dar ;
Freak, Rob Terry ; Frog, Eddie Guerrero ; Maple, Petey Williams ; Monkey,
Vikas Kumar ; Pitbull, Will Ferrara ; Rex, Tyler Reks ; Sable, Seth Rollins
; Java, Osteen Brown ; Tie, Rodtang Jitmuangnon ; Roan, Ronnie Pearl ;
Timmer, Tim Rawlins ; Cajun = Matt Sydal

Council of Six's slaves: Nitro, John Morrison (WWE) ; Ronin, Kenta
Kobayashi (wrestler) ; Stars, Jamie Varner (MMA) ; Swagger, Conor McGregor
(MMA) ; Spirit, Ariel Dominguez (MLW) ; Saint, Santos Escobar (wrestler)