Chapter 15 #3
“Let me have him,” a massive Raider says. He and some of the others move toward me. I hold tightly to my stick, standing in place and trying not to show fear.
“Quiet!”
The shouting dies down instantly. Everyone stands at attention, and I automatically do the same. Elijah strides over and stops in front of me. I expect to get punched in the face, but he tells me and Master Trainer to follow him.
We walk away from the rest, and when we’re out of earshot, Elijah turns around and hisses, “What the fuck are you playing at?”
“What?”
He holds a piece of paper. “Why did I get a letter from Hector telling me to include you in today’s game?”
I swallow what little spit I have in my mouth. “Today?”
“Did I stutter? Is this part of a plan to take down my house? Does…” He lowers his voice. “Does Hector have a deal with House Fernandez? Or is it with House Jackson?”
“The fuck you’re talking about?”
Master Trainer punches my stomach. “Respect!”
I draw a sharp breath and hiss, “I’m not working with Hector, and I don’t know of any move against your house.” The last thing I need is to find myself neck-deep in local politics.
“You better not be lying to me, Defender.”
“I’m not.”
Elijah sighs and tells Master Trainer, “Get him ready with the rest. I want to leave early.”
“Sir, he’s not ready.”
“Then he’ll probably die.”
*
“Listen up, maggots!” Master Trainer shouts. We’re in the locker room of Denver Coliseum’s arena, an old industrial structure with enough seats for thousands of people. Ten of us are competing today, wearing burgundy synthetic leather armor.
“We’re starting off against House Moore, then we’ll fight against whoever wins the other match.
Unfortunately, we have fresh meat with us today, and fuck if I know how it’s gonna play out.
” He watches me, looking both pissed and curious.
“Out there, you’re a part of a team. If you get separated, it will make you easy prey.
Protect your brothers, or you have no chance. ”
I taste bile thinking of the Raiders around me as brothers, but I swallow the insult and give a stiff nod. I don’t believe they’ve figured out I’m a Defender yet, but I don’t know how long this is going to last.
Elijah enters, and we all stand at attention. He tilts his head at me to follow him to the side of the room, and once we have privacy, he pulls out a syringe.
“For the pain,” he says.
“I’d rather not.”
“You stopped having opinions the second I bought you. You have zero experience in these games, and you’re still healing, so shut up and take this painkiller that cost me a shitload.”
I glance at the syringe. “Just painkillers?”
“I can give you sewage water if I want to, but yes, just painkillers. Raise your sleeve.”
He sticks the needle deep into my flesh, and I hiss because I hate needles. He pulls it out and says, “Your rivals out there aren’t supposed to know you used to be a Defender, and until they do, make sure to blend in with the rest of your team.”
I stop myself from saying I didn’t used to be a Defender.
“The game ends when all members of the other team are down, but if you kill someone, your team will automatically lose. A game can take anywhere from a few minutes to an hour. If Hector gets bored, he can decide on a tie, though that rarely happens.”
“Hector’s here?”
He narrows his eyes in suspicion, and I can’t blame him. “He never misses a game. Now, I’m asking you again whether there is a plot against my house.”
“If there is, I don’t know anything about it. You have my word.”
He opens his mouth to likely say my word means nothing, but he stops himself and nods.
“I thought you had games to the death,” I say.
“Of course we do, but if all games were the same, people would have lost interest. Consider yourself lucky to have this as your first game.”
Yeah, never felt luckier.
Once he leaves, I return to the other fighters, where more glares await me. I can easily picture them backstabbing me the first chance they get, but I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt because I don’t have any other choice.
Master Trainer goes over the basic rules, then we stand in front of the entrance in a straight line, carrying heavy plastic sticks.
We can use our fists and legs as well, but the sticks should be our primary fighting tool, and we should be careful about hitting a rival’s head and accidentally killing him.
“House Powell and House Moore!” the announcer roars, followed by a loud wave of cheers.
“Make your house proud, or I’ll fucking break your balls!
” Master Trainer shouts as we make our way onto the arena floor.
I’m blinded by the bright lights, and when my vision clears, I take in the sight of thousands of people surrounding me.
I feel like a bug. The noise is overwhelming.
The rival team has the same number of fighters as us.
They stand on the other side of the long arena, their armor dark yellow.
I look around until I see him. He’s separated from the rest, sitting on a higher platform. I would have dismissed him as just another face in the crowd if I didn’t know any better. Even his clothes seem dark and plain, as if he doesn’t need to show off to be respected. Or feared.
Hector stands up, and the crowd goes quiet.
“Proud citizens of Denver, are you ready for entertaining pain?” His voice carries through loudspeakers around the arena, and the crowd cheers in response.
“As you know, today isn’t about anyone’s death, but I’m sure that our fighters are eager to put on a show worthy of your time. ”
His subtle threat is hard to miss. His gaze travels across the arena, only stopping when our eyes meet. There is so much I don’t understand about what is happening, and Hector holds all the answers. His lips stretch in a satisfied smile before he shouts, “Begin!”
I expect a quick attack, but the other team remains close together, as do we. It’s a strange way to start a fight, but I get it. If one of us wanders away from the group, he will be jumped on, leaving the rest of us more vulnerable. This is a hunt; two packs searching for the weakest prey.
I hold tightly to my stick, looking for an opening as both teams move slowly closer to each other. It’s a stressful, slow-motion dance, and being surrounded by thousands of shouting people isn’t helping me concentrate.
Suddenly, I’m flying. I don’t understand what is happening until I hit the ground hard. I’ve been pushed from behind by my own team. I glance back to see them walking backward, leaving me as a sacrifice.
The crowd grows louder when three of the rival team’s members run toward me.
I can’t get up and escape fast enough, so I brace myself for pain.
They’re about to reach me when they abruptly stop and begin to turn back.
The ground shakes as the rest of my team rushes ahead, fast enough to catch up with the three others and bring them down with a storm of flying sticks.
I jump to my feet and join the commotion, using the different armor colors to help me identify my targets. We’re careful about hitting each other’s heads, but with so many limbs involved, I get hit more than once, leaving my brain rattling in my bruised skull.
We don’t remain a single pile of fighting men for long.
Someone drags me backward by the neck, and I find myself facing two of the other fighters on my own.
They try to force me farther away, and since they’re better at this than I am, they’re succeeding.
I hold tightly to my stick, looking for an opening to attack or a chance to regroup with the others.
A glance around reveals we’ve been divided into five smaller groups across the arena.
Fighters from both teams lie on the ground, some unconscious and some too injured to stand.
My two opponents try to circle me, which I can’t allow to happen. I walk backward, doing my best to keep both of them in my line of sight, but it’s becoming harder with every passing second. I remind myself I’ve been in worse situations before, and I could always count on my instincts to guide me.
I lock eyes with the guy to my right and throw my stick at his face, but I miss and hit his chest. It’s not enough to make him fall, but it gives me an opportunity to dash forward and smash into him.
Once he’s down on his back, I punch the side of his face, using my other hand to snatch the stick from his grip.
The other guy stupidly shouts as he runs toward me. I wait until the last possible second, then sharply roll aside. He tumbles over his teammate and falls. Before he can get up, I hit him with the stick, mindful of not landing a fatal blow.
With these two temporarily dealt with, I take a second to catch my breath, and then I’m off to join the others.
I tackle an opponent from behind, once more finding myself in the midst of chaos.
I have so much anger and frustration locked up inside me; it’s a relief to let them spill out in a storm of violence.
A few minutes later, it’s over. We win, though barely.
The thought of having to fight all over again is chilling.
The goal isn’t just to move to the next round, but to do so with enough remaining fighters.
In the locker room, medics come to check up on us, but they mostly try to determine who is capable of fighting again. Once they finish assessing, we’re down to six fighters, though I would have held one back with how wobbly he seems.
I’m in pain, my busted knuckles swelling, but whatever Elijah injected me with is helping.
“You did good,” Master Trainer tells me quietly.
“Was it your idea to shove me at the start?”
“Damn right.”
I nod. “Good call.”
He chuckles. “Wouldn’t have worked if the other team didn’t have fresh meat as well. Once you survive a few of these games, you no longer fall for cheap tricks.”
“Should I expect more cheap tricks?”
He shrugs. “They won’t work if I tell you about them.”