Chapter 3
Chapter three
Robin: In the Belly of the Beast
Consciousness comes back in waves.
First, the throbbing in my skull. Brutal, relentless, like someone’s driving nails through my temples. Then the taste of the air—dank mustiness that makes me long for the salt breeze of home.
Something cool touches my cheek. Gentle pressure, but it’s enough to bring me back.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
My words come out slurred. I try to pull away, but my body feels like it’s made of rock. Everything hurts.
“Very well.” The voice is calm, steady. Male. “Assuming you want that cut infected.”
My eyes crack open. The world swims into focus slowly—stone walls, bright lights, and a man leaning over me. Deep brown skin, close-cropped hair. He’s wearing a Victoran-blue tunic, with gold embellishments, and he’s holding up something that glints in the light.
A needle.
I jerk back, or try to. My head spins violently, and I have to close my eyes until the nausea passes.
“Easy.” His hands are back on my face, fingers probing the damage. “Just cleaning this up. It won’t take a second.”
Memory slams back. That beautiful bastard Marco, his fist connecting with my cheek. The world exploding into darkness. I lift my hand to touch the spot myself, and wince at the pain. The cut is deep enough that I can feel it pulling every time I move my face.
“Who are you?”
He’s already back to work, dabbing at the wound with something that stings like hell. “Evander. Though most of them call me Doc.” A pause, and I catch the hint of a smile. “When I’m stitching them up, however, the names get considerably more creative.”
Despite everything, I almost want to laugh. Almost. The pain keeps me grounded, keeps the anger sharp and ready.
I force myself to relax slightly, let him work. He can’t do any worse than they’ve already done to me, and the alternative is infection. I need to be strong if I’m going to find a way out of this place. Whatever this place is.
“Where am I?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. Really looks. “You’re under the arena.”
I shake my head, sending fresh waves of pain through my skull. “The arena?”
He continues to eye me carefully. “Where are you from?”
The question is casual, but I catch the way he’s watching my face. Looking for something. I’m not giving him anything.
“Somewhere far away.”
He chuckles. “Welcome to Deathball.”
The word means nothing to me, but the way he says it makes my stomach clench. I shake my head. “Deathball? What the fuck is Deathball?”
“You’ve never heard of Deathball? Not ever?” Evander laughs softly. It’s not a cruel sound, but it’s not entirely kind either. “Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” His hand pats my biceps. “You’ve got these to blame,” he says, squeezing the muscle. “What did you do back home?”
“Farming.”
It’s not entirely a lie. We do grow things on Atrea—our fertile soil gives us bountiful harvests. But mostly we train. Every day, from childhood, learning to fight. Learning to protect what’s ours from raiders and thieves and anyone else who thinks they can take it.
Fat lot of good it did us against Victora’s soldiers.
Evander nods like my answer makes sense. He goes back to cleaning the cut, his movements precise and practiced.
“Farmers don’t usually have shoulders quite like yours,” he murmurs.
The needle slides through my skin. I bite down hard to keep from making a sound, tasting blood where my teeth cut into my tongue.
“But anyway,” Evander continues, his voice conversational despite the fact that he’s literally sewing my face back together, “those muscles will serve you well. For a time.”
Silence falls after that. He clearly doesn’t want to fill me in any further, and besides, I need to clamp my mouth shut so I don’t cry out like a baby as he finishes his job.
“What time is it?” I eventually ask.
“Morning.”
I’ve been out cold all night. Not that surprising, after the exhaustion of travelling for days in trucks.
He performs a few more rudimentary tests, then pulls out a small cylinder from his pocket—one of those electric lights, smaller than the ones the guards had.
Raiding parties bring them back from the wastelands sometimes, but they’re rare enough on Atrea that I’ve never gotten used to the unnatural brightness.
When he shines it into my eye, I flinch back before I can stop myself.
Evander pauses, one eyebrow raised. “I’ll need to see you tomorrow morning, but you can go now.”
For a stupid moment, I think he’s setting me free. From this place. Then I realize he just wants me off his table.
My legs shake as I stand. The world tilts sideways, and I have to grip the edge of the metal surface until the dizziness passes. Evander offers a steadying hand on my shoulder, which he pulls away too soon, then I stumble toward the only door.
I have no idea what I’ll find on the other side.
The door opens into a large, circular space filled with almost a dozen unknown faces. Most of them are gathered around a massive wooden table, but all conversations cut off the moment I appear. They stare at me like I’m some exotic animal that just wandered into their territory.
Someone rises to his feet. It takes a second, but then recognition hits me.
My mouth falls open. I’d never expected to see him again.
“Caspian?”
“Yo, Robin! You’re finally awake!” He grins at me like I’m an old friend, though there’s something strained around his eyes.
“You’re… here too?” I manage to get out, completely dazed, and the others—all men—snicker.
They’re all dressed the same—dark linen trousers, rough off-white tunics that fall to mid-thigh, belted with simple rope. The fabric looks coarse, like burlap. A few people wear leather sandals; others are barefoot.
Caspian pulls me roughly toward a couch against the wall. The cushions are rock hard beneath me as I sink down, still trying to process this place.
“You’re lucky to be alive, mate. I thought you’d be shot for sure, after you spat in his face like that.”
“Same,” I say, taking a proper look at the space.
It’s a communal room of sorts—dining table, mismatched chairs, couches and armchairs that have seen better days. A few battered bookshelves line the walls. Doors branch off in different directions, leading to who knows where.
“So… we’re underground?”
“Yeah. Welcome to the dungeon. I hope you don’t like sunlight.”
I laugh, but he’s not joking. The stone walls press in around us, no windows anywhere. The air tastes stale and recycled. My chest starts to tighten. “We’re not… trapped down here forever, are we? When do we get to leave?”
My heart starts to pound. I’ve spent my whole life in the open air, under the sky. The thought of being locked down here…
A blond man steps toward us. Tall, lean, with a horrible sneer twisting his features. He’s sizing me up, his gaze lingering on the fresh cut across my cheek.
“Leave?” He laughs. Nastily. “Boys, this new kid fancies a stroll around the city. Think they’ll let him?”
The room erupts into laughter. The way they all stare at him adoringly tells me this guy has serious clout down here. He’s high up in the pecking order. And I’m right down at the bottom.
I open my mouth to defend myself, to tell him to fuck off, but snap it shut. That got me knocked out last time. Silence is the best bet right now, until I figure out what this place is all about.
The man steps closer still, close enough that I can smell sweat on his clothes. “Are you used to people opening doors for you, pretty boy?” His eyes glitter with malice. “Well, you better get used to being down here with the rest of us. For as long as you last, anyway.”
He wanders back over to the table as if he’s lost interest in me. The others instantly part to make space for him, all shooting me and Caspian curious glances before turning their attention back to whatever conversation they were having.
“What’s his deal?” I hiss at Caspian.
Caspian shrugs. “All I know is that he’s called Jason, and he’s an asshole. Most of them seem to be, I’m afraid. That guy with the longish black hair, Elijah, seems alright. But obviously, we don’t want to trust anyone in this place.”
“What? What is this place?” I glance up at the stone ceiling, thinking of ‘the arena’ above us. “What’s going on? Why are we here?”
“Oh,” he says. “Well, the stars were really shining down on us yesterday. Because as it turns out, we’ve been selected for Deathball. Lucky us.” He forces out this weird laugh.
Deathball. I still don’t know what that is. The admission sits heavy in my throat. I hate showing weakness, but I need to understand what we’re facing.
“What’s Deathball?” The words come out as a whisper.
Caspian stares at me. “Seriously? Never? Where are you from? The moon?”
I remain silent.
He sighs and rubs his face with both hands. “It’s Victora’s main sporting event. Our suffering for their entertainment.”
“But what is it?”
He tsks his tongue sharply. “Let me break it down for you. One of these guys, in this room, is going to beat you to death with a very spiky ball in an arena. Unless you kill him first.”
Pieces start to click into place. The way Marco examined us like livestock. The casual execution of those men who didn’t make the cut. The way that doctor wanted me fit and healthy.
I stare at him. “They make us fight… to the death… so they can watch?”
“There’s a bit more to it than that, but that’s my understanding, yes. It’s a massive thing here. You’ve really never heard any of the rumors?”
I kick at the stone floor. “Sick bastards,” I mutter.
Caspian lets out another one of those hollow laughs. “Might be better than the mines, though. Death could be quicker. Less painful. Maybe we could snap each other’s necks, make it clean.”
I don’t react, and his laughter dies quickly.