Chapter 36 #2
There’s a communal gasp while I breach the summit of the enormous rock and wait. The weapon flies in from a distance, from outside the arena, and I expect it to fall at my feet, truly I do. I’m the one they want to win. The people, they’re screaming my name even now.
I scan the stands, looking for a sign from one of my usual sponsors, all of them here today to watch my performance. But they all seem confused.
Whatever it is, it’s big. It must have cost a lot.
And it falls from the sky, well short of my rock, close to the place I last saw Jason.
The bastards.
They’ve given him the upper hand already.
I step onto one of the wooden bridges, holding the rope handrail tight in case it gives way beneath me. My fingers come away greasy. The rope’s coated with something. So long as it doesn’t slow me down…
I move swiftly across, scale the surface of the next boulder, then find the edge where the weapon fell. A shower of pebbles gives way beneath my foot as I try to look over.
Then a hiss and a loud roar and a burst of heat so intense it sends me stumbling back. A curtain of orange flame licks the edge of the rock.
A flamethrower.
They actually gave him a flamethrower.
The Sun God has his fire.
This is too well-planned. And no sponsor willing to take credit for it? There’s only one man who would have done such a thing.
My eyes move irresistibly to the Emperor, who leans forward, grinning. He’s all alone in his booth, Julius nowhere to be seen now. He looks revoltingly pleased with himself.
Another burst of flame shoots up, the other side of the rock now, and I center myself on the plateau. He can’t get me unless he climbs. I’m safe for now. But what am I supposed to fight with?
I edge closer to the precipice, careful to check I’m not casting a visible shadow. He’s there, finger on the trigger. A burst of fire comes for me, but at the same moment, I hurl the quartz down at him.
It’s a risky move. If I kill him with it, I’m playing next week. Then I really might have to fight Robin. But my aim must have been true. The crowd is cheering, the flame hasn’t reached me, and I can hear Jason’s shouts of anger.
I bolt, making for the wooden bridge, back the way I came. Yes, it’s safer on the rock, but I can’t kill the fucker up here.
Yet even as I run across the wooden planks, the heat of the flamethrower catches me, slicing into my legs. The bridge bursts into roaring flames around me. I dive onto the next rock just in time as it explodes into an inferno.
Scorching wind washes over me as my shoulder slams hard into the rough surface, my cheek catching a jagged edge. The explosion rips more excitement from the audience, more cheering, chanting.
The bridge must have been treated with something. They all must have been.
Then the speaker: “Another weapon drop! What could it be this time?” I stare off into the distance, waiting, praying it’s not another gift for him.
“Another anonymous sponsor!” the announcer shouts. “It’s as if the gods themselves are choosing their winners today.”
The thought of it makes me look again at the Emperor. His face has turned dark, furious, a contrast to the near blankness of Julius, back by his side, who only watches the package drift over the stadium like it’s a bird.
The noise of the drone buzzes closer, closer, then the package slams down at my feet.
A crossbow.
I barely have time to register what it is before an explosion blasts to my left, and I drop to the ground, pulling my cape over me for some small protection. But I know he’ll be on the move again, heading for that last bridge, cutting me off on top of this rock.
I snatch up the crossbow and quiver of arrows and sprint, praying the bridge can take my weight.
I don’t even look down, try to spot him, but I sense him there, rounding the corner just as I make it across.
The next explosion propels me forward, then I find the next bridge, the next rock, then grapple my way down to the ground.
The crossbow is enormous, more art than weapon.
The arrows that slam into my side with every precarious step down the rock are bronze-colored, sporting tips that look sharp but not nearly damaging enough.
My feet smack down on the ground, and I prepare an arrow.
Another bridge bursts into flame nearby. With any luck, he thinks I’m still up there.
I’m at a severe disadvantage. If it were a fight without weapons, I could beat him easily. But when he’s got fire and I haven’t…
A still-burning length of rope lands at my feet. My first instinct takes me, and I push the tip of my arrow through, hoping it will hold.
The crowd loves it, and it worries me that they’ve alerted him with their applause that I have some trick up my sleeve. So I move fast, rounding the edge of the boulder, searching for him.
He could be anywhere.
I check furtively over my shoulder, listen for the sound of him, but with the cheers of the crowd it would be near impossible to hear him sneaking up.
I move quicker, creeping close to the ground, praying this burning rope doesn’t go out. If I can get him in the back with it, the pain might be enough to make him drop the flamethrower.
Or if I can get him in the face…
There. Some small distance away, edging out into the open, overconfident with his weapon, he steps into the sunshine.
I lift the bow, aim for his lower spine… A hard target to hit from this distance with a poor arrow.
But a larger target…
I shift the arrow upwards, then shoot.
The bridge directly above him bursts into flame, burning wooden planks and rope raining down on him.
He screams with the pain of it, runs, but I’m faster.
I drop the bow, sprint, and tackle him out of the fire and into the sand.
He drops the flamethrower with the violence of my body hitting his, and I land punch after punch into his face.
His already-cracked cheek caves. His nose breaks with a spurt of fresh blood on red sand.
He lashes out at me, lands one good hit, and knocks me to the sand, my devil horns landing with a sharp reflection of flames.
Jason scrambles for the flamethrower, so I reach for the only weapon I have. I rip the crown in half, turn the horn, and slam the sharp end down through his thigh and into the earth.
He screams in agony, turns back to free his leg, and the next horn comes down with precision, beneath his shoulder cap, straight through his body, twelve inches of stake holding him against the burning sand.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” he screams.
And I laugh. It’s wonderfully comical.
I step around his writhing, pinned body, snatch up the flamethrower, and point it at him.
Every movement stops. All his screaming, his writhing in pain to be free. It’s just him, and me, and this brutal reality of being burned alive. “What do you think, Jason? Is this how you thought it would end?”
“Don’t. Marco, not like that.”
“You think you deserve better?”
His words come crowded and desperate as he starts to cry. “Marco, please. Don’t.”
I step a foot down on his chest and press hard. “What do you think Robin would have me do?”
His expression slips to horror, mingled with understanding.
This is exactly what I want to do to him.
But Robin would never let me.
I slam the flamethrower down into his ribs, no doubt breaking at least two of them, then step off him to find the Deathball.
I move fast, slipping in and out of the caves and tunnels each of the boulders has. The announcer drones on and on about how it’s my last game, about how everything is riding on this. But it’s more than any of them could ever know.
The heat of the arena is grating on me, sun and fire, bringing droplets of sweat to my skin that trickle down my face. I unlatch the cape, let it slip to the sand, to a chatter of approval from the audience and the announcer.
I now have only the crisscross of leather straps across my chest, pure display, and a short, bronze-looking skirt. Perfect. Better than Jason’s codpiece, I guess.
“Marco!”
Fuck. He’s up somehow.
An arrow whizzes past me and slams into the rock beside my head. Only…
I stare a moment, well aware every second might bring me to death’s door.
But… the arrow is stuck in the rock.
I reach out a hand, touch the surface.
The powdery feel of paint rubs against my palm. It’s fake. It looks so realistic, but it’s perfectly fake. Which means…
The next arrow clips my shoulder, sending a spurt of blood across the expertly painted surface. I lift my eyes just in time to see him raise the next one.
My finger slams down on the trigger, and Jason screams. His next arrow flies wide, but I follow its path with the flame, turn around, and set fire to the ‘rock’ behind me.
An inferno ignites. The crowd is screaming, the announcer is shouting, but worryingly, Jason is also screaming. He’s burning alive.
I snatch my cape from the ground, run to him, and throw it over him, stamping on him, trying to put out the flames. But he must still be covered in whatever coated the bridge that fell on him earlier.
“Don’t die, you fuck!” I shout at him, blow after blow of my foot crushing the flames.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Deathball!”
My heart leaps at the announcement. I turn to see the wreckage of that trick boulder. The whole thing is gone, some burning wooden scaffolds blackening, thin now-black walls blowing away in the wind, and in the center, a small podium with that shining object.
The Deathball.
What was once a horror now means only salvation. It glimmers there like all my hopes, all my dreams, every promise I made to the man I love.
I dash for it, leaving Jason to burn.
It’s heavy, hot with residual heat. But not too hot to touch.
I grab it at lightning speed, ready to dish the final blow.
Then it occurs to me, not too fast. Not too fast for the audience to enjoy it.
When I get back to him, back to the bloody, blackening, writhing mess that made Robin’s life a living hell, I pause with the Deathball raised in the air above his head.
“Just do it!” he screams.
But not the crowd. They begin their condemnation with a mess of roars and screams. Applause, stamping. Every noise an arena can make.
And I wait, eyes on Jason’s, blocking out his every plea for death as I listen to them.
Then it begins.
“Marco!” they chant.
“Marco! Marco! Marco!” over and over again. My name. My approval. My ticket out of this hellhole once and for all.
I hold that Deathball in the air until my arms begin to shake, until I can’t take another moment of the pain or the glory. Then I tell him, “This is for Robin.”
The Deathball comes hard and fast, demolishing his face, his skull, turning what was once a man into pulp in a matter of seconds.
He’s gone. He’ll never touch Robin again. And I won’t touch Robin either. Not in violence.
This is it. This was my final game.
I did it.
I’ve won Deathball.
They come to get me from the field, and I wave, and my smile is wide and genuine.
I give them a speech, tell them Deathball was the greatest thrill of my life. That I’m honored to have represented the strength and bravery of Victoran citizens in their arena.
I shake hands, drink their wine, bask in the glory they bestow upon me, their champion.
But the second I walk through the gates, those same guards who helped me bring Jason to the sand surround me.
Two of them take my arms, careless of my wounds.
The other four flank me, front and back, and we march, all of us, along the dark halls of the arena, up and up, until we finally spill into the Emperor’s own richly decorated chamber.
They bring me forward, shove me to my knees at his feet, and he stands there, glaring down at me.
The game architects walk back and forth whispering anxiously, and even Julius is present, scowling over his father’s shoulder at me while he pretends to be busy picking something to eat from the buffet.
“Well?” asks the Emperor. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Nothing. Not a word.
I only lean my head back to look up at him and smile.