I’m the first to finish the set, Max and Cas not far behind. Robin’s arms are shaking. He’s slowing. Maybe it’s that empty stomach. He’ll need to be stronger than this if he’s going to make it through the season.
Dual visions assault me: Atrea, the punishing routines in the hot sun; Robin’s stormy eyes, one second from death, before the Deathball smashes them blind, red tears leaking down his face.
My boot kicks out automatically, knocking him off his balance and into the gravel.
“What the fuck was that for?” The words burst out of him in a fury before he can even roll over, exposing the deep and dirty grazes down his arm.
Guilt stabs my gut. “You’re slow. Weak. Another twenty.”
He’s about to speak, but Jason cuts him off. Finished with his fifty and sitting back on his haunches with a smirk. “Pussy.”
I crack my hand down on the back of his head, his face crashing into the dirt. Stamping on his back, I hold him there. “What was that?”
“Get off me!”
He can struggle all he likes beneath my boot. It’s his face he’s ripping to shreds. “Apologize.”
“Fuck off!”
I apply a little more pressure, dust blowing away from his flaring nostrils as I force the air from his lungs.
“I’m sorry, Robin,” I demonstrate for him.
He tries to get up, pressing both hands hard into the ground, so I push down on him with twice the pressure. I could break his spine easily, and he knows it. The guards wouldn’t do a thing to stop me.
He squirms another moment, then finally goes still, lets out a grunt, then a hoarse whistling sounds in his throat as he sucks shallow air in. “I’m sorry.”
I press a little harder. “Sorry who?”
“Sorry, Robin,” he rasps out, half garbled with pain and suffocation.
“That’s better.” I release him, let him roll onto his back and gasp in deep breaths. Robin’s big and too-pretty eyes are fixed on me. “I said twenty, baby bird.” He stares a moment at Jason, who’s spitting dirt from his mouth. “And fifty for you,” I tell the mess on the ground.
Robin’s too smart to say another word. He hits his twenty and gets done by the time I have the others in a line. Well before Jason can make his way over, a filthy, bleeding, sweaty wreck.
I wait for him before I address them all. “You’ll respect your teammates. Yes, you’re going to kill each other. But until that day, you’re merchandise, and if I catch one of you damaging the Emperor’s goods, you’ll have both of us to answer to. Is that clear?”
They all make noises of understanding, some less convincing than others.
“You think I’m harsh? He’ll cover you in honey, string you up, and leave you for the butcher ants.”
Cas, stretching out his muscles and looking like he’s ready for the next challenge, makes a laughing sound in the back of his throat.
“I’m not joking. I’ve seen him do it. Twice.”
His movements slow, and he swaps a look of worry with Robin.
I’m not entirely sure I like whatever’s between these two. Robin should have a friend. He should. For whatever little time remains in his short life.
But something in me sparks at the thought of them back in the dungeon together, bonding over a mutual hatred of me and Victora. “You two, Cas, baby bird. You’re going to climb on that fallen tree trunk and fight. First one to knock the other to the ground wins. If you break a bone, you’re fucked for Deathball, so you’d better learn to fall well. It’s a two-meter drop. Get up there, both of you.”
Saplings snap underfoot as the men tramp over to the tree, new life just as tentative as our own crushed out.
The wariness the match provokes between them eases me. Their stances become stiffer, more guarded. Now they’re not sharing thoughts and looks; they’re wondering what the other’s thinking, how far and hard he’ll go to take him out.
It’s low. Base. I know that. I have no cause to isolate him. Yet I realize that’s what I’m doing. I want him away from it all. Like I wish someone could have taken me away from it. But that’s not going to help him at game time.
Fuck, I’m going too easy on him.
