Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Marco: Field Trip
Perks of being the Deathball captain include: a very fucking nice villa, all the food and good sleep a man could desire, and not having to visit Victora Prison.
They brought me here every season until I finally made it out of the dungeon. And it never got any easier.
When the men start to file out, one after the other, I’m not surprised their faces come in varying shades from gray to green. Some hold their stomachs, some press their lips until they’re white, all are silent in their shared horror.
That is, until a retch breaks out somewhere up the back of the line.
There’s a small commotion as one of them breaks free, a louder retch when he tries to hold it back.
Then Robin slams an arm against the dirty stone wall to brace himself and empties his stomach in revulsion at whatever he’s just witnessed.
Looks like he had ham and bread for breakfast.
Good to see he’s eating.
He shoves himself to standing, wiping the back of one arm over his mouth, so I wander over and slap a hand down on his sweat-slicked back. “Better now, baby bird?”
He spits on the ground in response, disgust written in every feature.
Again, at least it’s not in my eye.
We’re making real progress.
It’s not that I’m desensitized to what he’s just seen—what I know is happening on the other side of those heavily guarded gates.
I do have sympathy, for him and for them.
But his reaction’s reassuring. It tells me he’s going to go hard at Deathball, given the choice is between that or being sent to rot in this godforsaken hellhole.
“What are you doing here?” he mutters.
I’m almost surprised he’s actually talking to me, like a normal person. Yesterday he looked ready to rip my throat out with his teeth.
It inspires a slight smile that I’m quick to wrestle down to a neutral face.
It’s wiser to address the whole group rather than just this man, who still manages to look hot right after vomiting, so I put on my captain’s voice and tell them, “Training. Make your way to the transport vehicles.”
There are communal groans of “Right now?” and “We did that yesterday,” and so on, but they follow my instruction regardless, which is all the enthusiasm I need.
Robin pushes away from the wall with a sigh, looking weaker than I’d like. But when he turns, walks past me, a purple-gray mark on his cheek catches the light. My hand shoots out by instinct.
There’s a massive bruise there. But on his left cheek. Not the bruise I gave him.
His brow lowers at me, that flash of angry distrust in his brilliant eyes, but I hold on to his chin, turning his face to see the wound better. “Who gave you that?”
His lips part slowly, then close.
It’s not a difficult question. It feels like he’s weighing his answer.
“Probably you.”
“I didn’t give you that bruise.” He can be as pissed at me as he likes for yesterday’s training session.
I hit him where I needed to—I had to keep him on his toes.
I wouldn’t have touched his face, now that I know he’s one of mine.
And especially knowing that a face as beautiful as his could garner him enough sponsorship to actually survive this season.
His tongue darts over his lips, and for the second time in two days, I realize there’s an intimacy in my touch—one that shouldn’t be there. Too soft, too close.
I shove his face away, hard, watching the enormous muscles in his neck flex as he counters the movement.
He moves past me without another word, making for the bus.
The creeping shiver of hateful, jealous eyes curls down my spine.
Jason, watching my every move.
That motherfucker.
I swear, if he touches a hair on Robin’s head…
Fuck.
What am I thinking?
Robin’s going to die. Just like the rest of them.
He’ll be dead in a month.
Get your head in the game.
No friends.
No favorites.
Only survival.
Only returning home.
The training ground is a short distance from the prison, and I’m regretting that I gave them the luxury of a bus ride. I should have made them run instead. Sympathy won’t get any of us through the season.
We pull up at the edge of Victora’s man-made forest, an oasis in a barren land.
It’s cool, green, looks spectacular. But half the trees and logs here are fake, artfully crafted to appear just-fallen, moss and mold coaxed to their surface with goat’s milk.
They’re designed to look like the trees of the before times, which exist for us now only in myths and ancient artworks, beauties the Emperor’s palace is full of.
They were huge things, lush and verdant.
It’s hard to believe they were ever real.
The air is cooler here, the living trees growing strong among the artificial, fresh water from sacked cities rerouted to nourish this folly. It will make the workout easier than it would have been down in the pit. But that’s not the main reason we’re here.
The second they’re off the bus, it’s fifty push-ups on gravel. I get down and do it with them. Rocks bite sharp into my palms, but I know that will help me dissociate later. If you can do that here, now, when things are calm, you can do it in the arena.
Practice is all about pushing through pain.
Seeing yourself cut and bleeding and learning to ignore it.
Knowing that it will heal, that scars are inevitable.
When you’re worrying about all those things during a game, you’re leaving yourself open.
You can’t afford that in Deathball, not once.
One slip, and you’re lucky if the other guy finishes you fast, doesn’t string it out to entertain the crowd.
Because they do.
They all want the sponsors, the fans. They all want the Emperor in their palm.
They all want my place.
And they’d do anything to take it from me.
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.
“René, bring the steel pipes from the van.”