But… the arrow isstuckin the rock.
I reach out a hand, touch the surface.
The powdery feel of paint rubs against my palm. It’s fake. It looks so realistic, but it’s perfectly fake. Which means…
The next arrow clips my shoulder, sending a spurt of blood across the expertly painted surface. I lift my eyes just in time to see him raise the next one.
My finger slams down on the trigger, and Jason screams. His next arrow flies wide, but I follow its path with the flame, turn around, and set fire to the ‘rock’ behind me.
An inferno ignites. The crowd is screaming, the announcer is shouting, but worryingly, Jason is also screaming. He’s burning alive.
I snatch my cape from the ground, run to him, and throw it over him, stamping on him, trying to put out the flames. But he must still be covered in whatever coated the bridge that fell on him earlier.
“Don’t die, you fuck!” I shout at him, blow after blow of my foot crushing the flames.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Deathball!”
My heart leaps at the announcement. I turn to see the wreckage of that trick boulder. The whole thing is gone, some burning wooden scaffolds blackening, thin now-black walls blowing away in the wind, and in the center, a small podium with that shining object.
The Deathball.
What was once a horror now means only salvation. It glimmers there like all my hopes, all my dreams, every promise I made to the man I love.
I dash for it, leaving Jason to burn.
It’s heavy, hot with residual heat. But not too hot to touch.
I grab it at lightning speed, ready to dish the final blow.
Then it occurs to me, not too fast. Not too fast for the audience to enjoy it.
When I get back to him, back to the bloody, blackening, writhing mess that made Robin’s life a living hell, I pause with the Deathball raised in the air above his head.
“Just do it!” he screams.
But not the crowd. They begin their condemnation with a mess of roars and screams. Applause, stamping. Every noise an arena can make.
And I wait, eyes on Jason’s, blocking out his every plea for death as I listen to them.
Then it begins.
“Marco!” they chant.
“Marco! Marco! Marco!” over and over again. My name. My approval. My ticket out of this hellhole once and for all.
I hold that Deathball in the air until my arms begin to shake, until I can’t take another moment of the pain or the glory. Then I tell him, “This is for Robin.”
The Deathball comes hard and fast, demolishing his face, his skull, turning what was once a man into pulp in a matter of seconds.
He’s gone. He’ll never touch Robin again. And I won’t touch Robin either. Not in violence.
This is it. This was my final game.
I did it.
I’ve won Deathball.
They come to get me from the field, and I wave, and my smile is wide and genuine.
