“Good job, birdie.” I slam the shovel into the side of another man’s head.
“Shut up, Marco.” But even as he stamps his foot down on his writhing victim to hold him in place while he withdraws the prongs, he’s smiling.
And I want that smile, five years from now, when he comes back to Atrea. When we’re both home, where we belong. Where, maybe, one day…
A blade slices into my arm. I didn’t even realize anyone was behind me. The lizard flicks its head at the sight of my blood, its tongue seeking thescent of me on the air. I block the next stab with the wooden handle of the shovel, but my attacker comes again and fast, and I can imagine this being his daily life in prison, always on edge, always fighting. No doubt it’s how he got picked for this match.
I shove him to the ground, but barely slow him at all. He lunges forward, his thin blade stabbing down an inch from my toes. My knee collides with his face, but he only rolls over and scrambles back to his feet, scarlet streaming down his chin.
A sharp clang rings out as Robin’s weapon collides with a hacksaw, and seeing him stumble, I step back, dodging another knife strike and bracing him with my back. He leans against me, fluid as he is in every training session. When he pushes off the earth, I lean down to support him. He takes hold of my side, leverages his grip to kick both legs into his attacker, knocking him into mine, and they both land on the ground, right in front of the hungry lizard.
“Clever,” I call over their screams.
But there’s no time for him to respond. The next are upon us, and the lizard won’t be long feasting.
I subconsciously break into a pattern of attack I learned from boyhood. Three attackers, a fighter on your left. Punch, duck, roundhouse kick, jab. And Robin… he falls in next to me as easily, as confidently, as peacefully, as if we were home on our shared beach doing this together with the sun rising over tangerine waves.
Jab, knee, twist and elbow, and his every move complements mine. The men fall where they should, and we advance like warriors, out across the arena, just like we were taught. Take up space, move forward, don’t give an inch. Fight.
We fight. We fight on and on, tossing the men in our wake, never dead, always a living meal for the creature that seems to understand, as well as we do, this is survival. We’re reliant on each other.
But a wild animal is only ever one meal away from attack, and I keep one eye on it, the other ready for the next man.
Never on Robin. If I even look at him, I’m sunk. He’s everything to me right now. His fighting ability, his intelligence, his raw and protective power… But that softness. It’s everything I’m working for today. Even if it’s the last time he ever touches me, all I can think about is laying my head down on his chest.
That one desire turns the condemned of Victora Prison into mincemeat, strewn across the arena in the bloodiest display this place has seen in years.
The crowd drinks it down, every drop of spilled blood. We’re doing everything the game architects wanted. Showing off the weapons they gave us. Smiling while we do it. Making this look easy, even as our muscles strain, as our cuts gape wide and fill with dirt. We make Victora look beautiful. Magnificent. Unstoppable.
But it never could be easy, not with me and Robin at the helm.
The fiddle speeds up as we demolish the last of the men, Robin’s shoulder meeting mine, sweat and dirt and blood, our breaths heaving in our chests, our dark eyes settling on the faun.
The man pauses. Turns. Grins at us. Then that sharp note sings from his instrument.
Every door in the arena slams open, and a screech that I know all too well slices through the air. My blood turns to ice.
“Run!”
I smash a hand into Robin’s arm to propel him forward, both of us making for the faun on his podium, while he plays ever louder, ever faster, as every sense is scrambled.
The uneven floor shifts beneath us, tumbling us down into small pits, where the sliding sand makes us slip as we try to climb out, slowing our desperate dash for the Deathball.
But we never stop. Neither of us. Because if the infected they’ve just let loose in the arena even touch us, we’re dead.
Robin makes it first, jumping up to snatch the ball down. He frees it from its hook, but goes flying backwards with the weight of it. Right into my arms. “Birdie, climb.”
“You’re coming up with me.” He clutches the ball to his chest, looks at me clear and hard.
I put on my captain’s voice. “Get up there and kill him. Now.”
He hesitates, looking past my shoulder. Then he swings the ball up and jumps. I grasp him at the waist, pushing him up with all my strength. The sound of the ball slamming onto the platform fills me with relief, but Robin’s still scrambling to get up. The music never stops, but it becomes more erratic, and I see the shadow of the faun as he kicks at Robin, stamps on his fingers trying to knock him back down. I grasp his foot and shove him up as hard as I can.
The screeches of the infected grow louder. The hungry, broken, unhuman sound they make is terrifying in and of itself, but it’s the knowledge that I could be making that same sound when they bring me back here for my final battle that horrifies me the most.
“Kill him, birdie!”
Robin’s legs disappear over the edge, but the music’s still playing. I turn, my weapon lost in the scramble, nothing but this tiny dagger in my wrist cuff and twelve vicious creatures coming at me from every direction. There’s no way to get up onto that platform now. Not without another man to hoist me up.
