“The architects always make them a spectacle.”
I nod. Wait for him to continue.
“They’re usually sword and shield. Sand arena. But the Emperor expects a show.”
“What kind of show?”
“You know. Blood. Drama.” Marco’s fingers drum against the table. “The usual. The worst I’ve seen was three bears.”
My jaw drops open. “Bears? There are no bears left!”
Marco laughs, his lips cracking into an almost-smile. “There are no bears onAtrea.”
“Bears have too much meat on them.” I shake my head, incredulous. “Wastelanders would kill themselves trying to get a piece of them. No way there’s any bears left.”
“The meat on these bears is no good to eat.” Marco’s smile widens at my confusion. “They’re mutants.”
I stare at him. “Mutantbears?”
Marco laughs again, the sound bitter. “God, I forgot just how sheltered we were out there.”
Annoyance flares within me. “We have people get resources from the mainland all the time. I’ve never heard of mutant bears.”
“The chemicals fucked them up.” Marco’s voice turns matter-of-fact. “Made them into these fierce, twisted things. Vicious things. Nothing like the three bears in children’s tales.”
The water tastes metallic in my mouth. I force myself to swallow.
“The gladiators didn’t have a chance,” Marco continues. “Bears ripped their heads clean off. Quickest Deathball match ever recorded.”
I set my glass down hard. “So, if it’s bears again, basically lie down and die?”
Marco nods.
The room feels smaller suddenly. I lean forward, gripping the table edge. “What about if it’s men from Victora prison?”
“Those men are more dangerous than they appear.” Marco’s expression grows serious, calculating. “They look weak, starving—because they are. But they’re also deranged. Desperate.”
I sip my water, waiting.
“They fight like animals,” Marco continues, his voice dropping lower. “No strategy, no technique. Just pure desperation. They’ll claw at your eyes, bite chunks out of you if they get close enough.”
I nod, trying to picture it. Trying to prepare myself.
“The key is distance. Keep them at sword’s length; never let them grapple you. They don’t feel pain the same way we do—starvation does things to the mind. I’ve seen men take fatal wounds and keep fighting until they bled out.”
Marco’s fingers trace patterns on the table as he speaks, sketching invisible battle plans. “They’re fast, though. Faster than you’d think. They promise them food or freedom if they survive.”
“So we stay mobile, keep our distance, pick them off one by one.”
“Exactly. Now, obviously, the worst-case scenario isn’t bears or prisoners.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “What is?”
Marco presses his lips together. “It’s if they bring in infected.”
The infected. I’ve never seen one myself, but every Atrean knows the stories. The traders who make it back from the mainland often whisper about them around the fire—people who aren’t people anymore. Creatures with black veins crawling up their necks, minds eaten away by whatever poison still seeps from the old war sites.
They don’t think. Don’t speak. Just hunt and tear and devour anything warm that crosses their path. Including human flesh.
