Fuck.
I do my usual morning workout, then drop by the stadium on the way to the dungeon. They’re starting construction for the first official Deathball match. We haven’t been given the fixtures yet, or told what the first type of battle will be. That’s what they’re going to announce at lunchtime today.
All I can see here is wood and metal, and a lot of the latter. Looks like some kind of scaffold might be built, but when I ask the workmen for details, they tell me they’re just the delivery guys. No one with the plans is here yet.
The sight of it all sets my teeth on edge.
How cruel will it be? How hard to survive? And above all, who will be first to navigate it?
The early Deathball matches are always the new guys—fresh blood to get the crowd riled up for the champions rounds.
Two of the men I’ve spent the last few months of my life training are going to have to try to kill each other. Then again and again, in all of the first eight games. One of them has to succeed, each and every time.
I’m anxious for them, but I’m anxious for me too. A poor season, poor fighters—all of it reflects badly on me. And when I’m already losing the Emperor’s goodwill, I’m depending on them to prove I’ve done my work well. Taught them all the skills, yes. Made them tough enough, physically, of course. But that I’ve made them fearful enough, that they’re sure what’s going to happen to them if they don’t fight is worse than if they do.
When I finally get to the dungeon, the men are halfway through breakfast. I’ve been coming a lot lately at this time of day. I want to say it’s to give them some kind of camaraderie before they die. To get to know who they were, briefly. And maybe some portion of it is.
But I know, right in the core of me, the main reason I keep arriving early is those stormy eyes that flash on sight of me.
There’s a space next to him, small but noticeable, like he’s moved up tight against Andreas on sight of me to make room.
I can’t take it. Not without the others seeing. Not without putting a mark on his back.
“Marco!” That fuck, Jason, raises his chin in that all-too-familiar way of his.
It makes my skin crawl, but when he shoves Elijah over, I make directly for the spot he’s just created, next to him, opposite Robin.
Robin’s head dips. I’m not even looking at him; it’s only in my peripheral vision that I catch it.
Say hello to everyone else first. Act like he’s not there. Break the bread, make small talk.
“Ready to see the fixtures?”
“Fucking no,” Max responds. “Who do you think’s going down first?”
“I don’t know,” I tell them honestly, trying not to watch Robin stabbing his fork into his meat, movements rigid from the moment I took this seat.
“Come on,” Max probes, like the irritating prick he is. “You’ve got a direct line to the Emperor. You’ve gotta know more than us.”
Robin’s movements slow, color rising to his cheeks.
Jason snaps, “Shut the fuck up, dipshit.”
They all know. They’ve always known.
I don’t understand why I still feel so ashamed.
It’s survival. Nothing more.
“Do you imagine the Emperor sits down and plans the matches himself?” I throw out as calmly as I can manage, the undertone of spite still too perceptible.
“Guess not,” Max mutters, then distracts himself from his embarrassment by pouring out some milk.
Robin’s just pushing the food around his plate now.
He needs to eat. Keep his strength up.
I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself.
