“House Powell and House Moore!”the announcer roars, followed by a loud wave of cheers.
“Make your house proud, or I’ll fucking break your balls!” Master Trainer shouts as we make our way onto the arena floor. I’m blinded by the bright lights, and when my vision clears, I take in the sight of thousands of people surrounding me. I feel like a bug. The noise is overwhelming. The rival team has the same number of fighters as us. They stand on the other side of the long arena, their armor dark yellow.
I look around until I see him. He’s separated from the rest, sitting on a higher platform. I would have dismissed him as just another face in the crowd if I didn’t know any better. Even his clothes seem dark and plain, as if he doesn’t need to show off to be respected. Or feared.
Hector stands up, and the crowd goes quiet. “Proud citizens of Denver, are you ready for entertaining pain?” His voice carries through loudspeakers around the arena, and the crowd cheers in response. “As you know, today isn’t about anyone’s death, but I’m sure that our fighters are eager to put on a showworthyof your time.”
His subtle threat is hard to miss. His gaze travels across the arena, only stopping when our eyes meet. There is so much I don’t understand about what is happening, and Hector holds all the answers. His lips stretch in a satisfied smile before he shouts,“Begin!”
I expect a quick attack, but the other team remains close together, as do we. It’s a strange way to start a fight, but I get it.If one of us wanders away from the group, he will be jumped on, leaving the rest of us more vulnerable. This is a hunt; two packs searching for the weakest prey.
I hold tightly to my stick, looking for an opening as both teams move slowly closer to each other. It’s a stressful, slow-motion dance, and being surrounded by thousands of shouting people isn’t helping me concentrate.
Suddenly, I’m flying. I don’t understand what is happening until I hit the ground hard. I’ve been pushed from behind by my own team. I glance back to see them walking backward, leaving me as a sacrifice.
The crowd grows louder when three of the rival team’s members run toward me. I can’t get up and escape fast enough, so I brace myself for pain. They’re about to reach me when they abruptly stop and begin to turn back. The ground shakes as the rest of my team rushes ahead, fast enough to catch up with the three others and bring them down with a storm of flying sticks.
I jump to my feet and join the commotion, using the different armor colors to help me identify my targets. We’re careful about hitting each other’s heads, but with so many limbs involved, I get hit more than once, leaving my brain rattling in my bruised skull.
We don’t remain a single pile of fighting men for long. Someone drags me backward by the neck, and I find myself facing two of the other fighters on my own. They try to force me farther away, and since they’re better at this than I am, they’re succeeding. I hold tightly to my stick, looking for an opening to attack or a chance to regroup with the others. A glance around reveals we’ve been divided into five smaller groups acrossthe arena. Fighters from both teams lie on the ground, some unconscious and some too injured to stand.
My two opponents try to circle me, which I can’t allow to happen. I walk backward, doing my best to keep both of them in my line of sight, but it’s becoming harder with every passing second. I remind myself I’ve been in worse situations before, and I could always count on my instincts to guide me.
I lock eyes with the guy to my right and throw my stick at his face, but I miss and hit his chest. It’s not enough to make him fall, but it gives me an opportunity to dash forward and smash into him. Once he’s down on his back, I punch the side of his face, using my other hand to snatch the stick from his grip.
The other guy stupidly shouts as he runs toward me. I wait until the last possible second, then sharply roll aside. He tumbles over his teammate and falls. Before he can get up, I hit him with the stick, mindful of not landing a fatal blow.
With these two temporarily dealt with, I take a second to catch my breath, and then I’m off to join the others. I tackle an opponent from behind, once more finding myself in the midst of chaos. I have so much anger and frustration locked up inside me; it’s a relief to let them spill out in a storm of violence. A few minutes later, it’s over. We win, though barely. The thought of having to fight all over again is chilling. The goal isn’t just to move to the next round, but to do so with enough remaining fighters.
In the locker room, medics come to check up on us, but they mostly try to determine who is capable of fighting again. Once they finish assessing, we’re down to six fighters, though I would have held one back with how wobbly he seems.
I’m in pain, my busted knuckles swelling, but whatever Elijah injected me with is helping.
“You did good,” Master Trainer tells me quietly.
“Was it your idea to shove me at the start?”
“Damn right.”
I nod. “Good call.”
He chuckles. “Wouldn’t have worked if the other team didn’t have fresh meat as well. Once you survive a few of these games, you no longer fall for cheap tricks.”
“Should I expect more cheap tricks?”
He shrugs. “They won’t work if I tell you about them.”
Before it’s time to get out again, a messenger comes with a note. Master Trainer reads it with a frown, then looks up with a grim expression. “The next game is without armor. No shirts and no shoes.”
It takes me a moment to realize what it means. Earlier, I was just another Raider fighting, but now the crowd will see my lack of tattoos. Best case scenario, they’ll assume I’m a captive civilian, but with how shitty my luck has been recently, I don’t count on that.
We walk onto the arena without our armor, my bare feet stepping on warm sand while cold air strokes my damp skin. We’re to fight against House Fernandez, now down to five fighters versus our six, though theirs seem to have fared better in their latest game.
We face each other on both sides of the arena, waiting for Hector to kick off the game. The seconds pass, and I become aware of the shifting mood in the arena as murmurs replace the crowd’s cheers. My back itches from their stares.
“For the final game, we have a couple of surprises,” Hector says over the loudspeakers. “The first one, as you can see, is a good old skin-on-skin action. I’m even willing to look the other way if some of our contestants don’t make it out alive.”
The crowd cheers wildly while the fighters beside me exchange looks of confusion and fear. Something tells me this change of rules is not common, and I once more wonder if Hector brought me all this way just to kill me in this arena. It doesn’t make sense, but what does?
