I check furtively over my shoulder, listen for the sound of him, but with the cheers of the crowd it would be near impossible to hear him sneaking up.
I move quicker, creeping close to the ground, praying this burning rope doesn’t go out. If I can get him in the back with it, the pain might be enough to make him drop the flamethrower.
Or if I can get him in the face…
There. Some small distance away, edging out into the open, overconfident with his weapon, he steps into the sunshine.
I lift the bow, aim for his lower spine… A hard target to hit from this distance with a poor arrow.
But a largertarget…
I shift the arrow upwards, then shoot.
The bridge directly above him bursts into flame, burning wooden planks and rope raining down on him.
He screams with the pain of it, runs, but I’m faster. I drop the bow, sprint, and tackle him out of the fire and into the sand. He drops the flamethrower with the violence of my body hitting his, and I land punch after punch into his face. His already-cracked cheek caves. His nose breaks with a spurt of fresh blood on red sand. He lashes out at me, lands one good hit, and knocks me to the sand, my devil horns landing with a sharp reflection of flames.
Jason scrambles for the flamethrower, so I reach for the only weapon I have. I rip the crown in half, turn the horn, and slam the sharp end down through his thigh and into the earth.
He screams in agony, turns back to free his leg, and the next horn comes down with precision, beneath his shoulder cap, straight through his body, twelve inches of stake holding him against the burning sand.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” he screams.
And I laugh. It’s wonderfully comical.
I step around his writhing, pinned body, snatch up the flamethrower, and point it at him.
Every movement stops. All his screaming, his writhing in pain to be free. It’s just him, and me, and this brutal reality of being burned alive. “What do you think, Jason? Is this how you thought it would end?”
“Don’t. Marco, not like that.”
“You think you deserve better?”
His words come crowded and desperate as he starts to cry. “Marco, please. Don’t.”
I step a foot down on his chest and press hard. “What do you think Robin would have me do?”
His expression slips to horror, mingled with understanding.
This is exactly what I want to do to him.
But Robin would never let me.
I slam the flamethrower down into his ribs, no doubt breaking at least two of them, then step off him to find the Deathball.
I move fast, slipping in and out of the caves and tunnels each of the boulders has. The announcer drones on and on about how it’s my last game, about how everything is riding on this. But it’s more than any of them could ever know.
The heat of the arena is grating on me, sun and fire, bringing droplets of sweat to my skin that trickle down my face. I unlatch the cape, let it slip to the sand, to a chatter of approval from the audience and the announcer.
I now have only the crisscross of leather straps across my chest, pure display, and a short, bronze-looking skirt. Perfect. Better than Jason’s codpiece, I guess.
“Marco!”
Fuck.He’s up somehow.
An arrow whizzes past me and slams into the rock beside my head. Only…
I stare a moment, well aware every second might bring me to death’s door.
