Chapter 5
FIVE
Sevas
Sevas squinted under the harsh glare of the stadium lights as she stepped into the arena. The blast of noise hit her like a physical force, a wall of sound made up of cheers, growls, and guttural roars that rattled her chest. The crowd was a sprawling mass of bodies packed into towering tiers of stone and metal. It surged with energy as alien beings of all shapes and sizes spilled out of their seats, flinging gestures and strange, guttural words down at the fighters below. Some hurled objects—bits of food, small knives, jagged stones. One projectile clattered near her feet, kicking up sand in a puff and making her instincts scream to keep moving.
The air reeked of blood and sweat. It stuck to the back of her throat, refusing to clear with every swallow. Overhead, thick glass panels formed a hazy dome, shimmering faintly under the harsh light of mounted lamps. The panels sealed the arena off from the outside world—a cage without bars, but a cage all the same.
The arena itself was a circle of sand surrounded by towering stone walls that trapped the fighters—and every bloodthirsty cheer—inside. The floor was uneven. Patches of darker stains told the story of past losses. The coarse grains shifted beneath her bare feet, making it hard to find steady footing. She flexed her toes instinctively, feeling for traction, trying to ground herself in a place designed to do the exact opposite.
The gate behind her slammed shut with a metallic clang that echoed in her bones. Sevas didn’t turn to look at it. Didn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that there was no going back. Her chin lifted and she scanned the arena. A spotlight beamed down, illuminating what lay in the middle of the pit: a small collection of crude, blunt weapons half-buried in the sand.
Before she could move toward it, a mechanical voice thundered overhead. “Match seven: new fighter 78-S versus Gimloria!”
Sevas stiffened as the crowd roared louder at the mention of her and her opponent’s identification. She went tense, willing herself not to flinch under the sound of it. She wasn’t a person to these creatures—just a number to be tossed into the pit and torn up for their amusement. Just as Takkian had said.
From across the arena, her opponent entered. A female of a species Sevas had never seen before walked in, head high. She was taller than Sevas and narrow as a blade with blue-gray skin and hundreds of tentacles waving from her head as though they had a mind of their own. She wore a breastplate. It looked to be made of leather or some other flexible material. Meanwhile, Sevas was still stuck in the ratty vest that covered the translucent shift she’d been given at the auction. This fighter had done this before. It was clear by the way the female moved and flexed her arms. Sevas’ gut sank as Gimloria raised her arms to the crowd, drawing a raucous cheer.
A whistle signaled the start of the match.
Sevas swallowed hard and stayed close to the wall, keeping her movements slow and calculated. The sand shifted under her feet. She didn’t dare take her eyes off her opponent, who moved with practiced ease to the center of the arena where the lights were strongest and the weapons lay like a feast.
Gimloria looked over the clubs, jagged pieces of metal fashioned into blades, and other crude tools, taking her time selecting one. They were battered and primitive, almost laughably unbalanced in design, but Sevas could see they would feel solid enough if struck by one.
Gimloria chose a dull blade the length of her forearm. With a lazy but skilled motion, she swung the blade experimentally. Her voice, calm and cutting, carried over the noise. “You are a pretty one. What’s wrong, little star spot?” she purred. Her teeth glinted as her grin widened. “Afraid to play? Or are you scared of getting that golden hair dirty?”
Sevas didn’t reply, didn’t give Gimloria the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, she adjusted her weight, keeping her stance low and her knees slightly bent. No one had ever called her pretty, and she’d never been afraid of getting dirty. But if she was going to be underestimated, this would be a great time for it.
Meanwhile, the crowd wasn’t waiting for action—they were demanding it. Angry shouts and hisses erupted from the stands. Something hard smacked the ground near Sevas’ foot—a jagged rock, hurled from somewhere above. A second one followed, whizzing past dangerously close to her ankle. She sidestepped quickly, only to have a piece of bone, sharp and splintered, smack into her shoulder, drawing blood. She hissed, covered the wound with a hand, and glared at the faces in the seats.
But they didn’t stop. More flew, faster, striking just beside her ankle and scattering sand, trying to drive her to the center of the arena, where Gimloria awaited. The crowd’s frustration buzzed through the arena, their voices rising into a chorus of guttural shouts and clashing languages. Someone near the edge hurled a bone shard—it skidded across the sand close to her feet. Another flash of movement, a crushed piece of what might’ve been rations, landed with a wet slap on her thigh.
Gimloria’s lips split into a predatory grin, revealing needle-like teeth. Her voice carried across the arena, silencing some of the crowd. “What’s the matter, little star spot? Lost already? Or are you just waiting for me to end this quickly?”
And she lunged.
Gimloria darted forward, her speed startling but not unfamiliar. Sevas had expected a quick advance. Strength and speed had worked on her brothers during sparring matches, and they would work now. She braced herself, bending her knees slightly to brace herself in the shifting sand. Just then, she noticed something odd through the chaos—a half-buried object. Unlike the bones and stones the crowd had been pelting her with, this one caught her interest. A slingshot. This was a tool—now, a weapon—that she knew how to use.
Takkian’s words echoed in her mind: Fight hard. Fight smart .
Sevas didn’t hesitate. While watching Gimloria, she darted down and snatched up the small device. It was crude—worn from use but sturdy enough, with a stretchy, stained band looped around two uneven prongs. Almost instantly, she spotted one of the palm-sized rocks that had been hurled earlier. Her fingers closed around it quickly, the rough surface digging into her skin as she moved with purpose.
“You think a toy will save you?” Gimloria sneered. Her tentacles swirled around her in a rhythmic, almost hypnotizing motion. Her confidence was palpable—a predator’s certainty.
But if there was one thing Sevas knew a lot about, it was rocks. The weight of them, the texture of them, the way they moved. She liked rocks more than most people, and holding this one gave her a burst of confidence she deeply needed. With a practiced hand, she loaded the stone into the slingshot’s pad and pulled back as far as the band would stretch. Her muscles tensed as she aimed her shot. The world narrowed to a single point of focus and she released the rock.
It grazed the side of Gimloria’s head. The impact drove her back a step and tore off a tentacle, her smirk replaced by a flash of shock. The alien touched her head briefly, as though surprised she’d been struck at all. Her hand came away with blood. Then her lips curled into something far more feral. “You’ve got spirit, little one,” she snarled, tentacles twitching furiously. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”
Sevas didn’t have time to breathe before Gimloria lunged. Her blade flashed under the harsh arena lights. Sevas scrambled back, sliding in the loose sand. The alien’s weapon whistled past her shoulder, slicing close enough that Sevas could feel the rush of air it stirred. She wasn’t prepared for the speed—that blade had almost found its mark. Her chest tightened as panic chipped at her resolve, but there was no time to dwell on it. Gimloria was already stepping forward, preparing for another strike. This time, her opponent faked and shifted her stance. Sevas had dodged the blade, but took the direct impact of the female’s fist straight to her jaw.
Sevas fell backward, her vision blackening as she slid on her back. Pain exploded in her face. Her head swam. Part of her wanted to just stay down, to put an end to this, but she couldn’t lose her first match. Ulo needed her, and fek if she’d return to that cell and tell Takkian that she’d lost.
Her gaze moved to the ground. More rocks, discarded bones, jagged bits of debris—ammunition. Her teeth clenched as she bent low, scooping up a larger rock. She shoved it into the slingshot’s pad, pulled back and aimed for Gimloria’s center mass. The stone flew, cutting through the air with precision.
The impact struck true this time, slamming into Gimloria’s chest. The alien stumbled. Her long, whiplike tentacles momentarily fell limp from their wild, chaotic motions. A hiss, quick and angry, escaped her lips as she regained her footing. “You should’ve stayed down,” she spat, her voice low and venomous. The crowd roared its approval, feeding off the tension like vultures circling over fresh kill.
Gimloria surged forward again, and this time, her attack was faster, sloppier, fueled by anger rather than precision. Sevas barely sidestepped in time, feeling the blade graze the fabric of her shift, slicing it with a chilling hiss and scraping her skin. Had it been sharp, it would have cut her. This would leave a bruise. Her muscles screamed for her to move faster. Her instincts kicked into high gear as she ducked low and rolled to the side. The sand bit into her knees and palms.
She kept moving, relying on her speed and smaller size to stay out of Gimloria’s immediate reach. Sevas glanced up, her mind racing. She needed to turn this fight around—and quickly. Her gaze swept the arena floor again, desperate for anything she could use.
Then she spotted it—a jagged metal shard partially buried in the sand a few yards away. The edges were uneven and rusted, but it looked sharp enough to do some real damage. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Summoning her courage, Sevas darted toward the shard. Her legs pumped hard against the shifting sand.
Gimloria’s snarl followed her, a guttural growl that sent a shiver down Sevas’ spine. “Running already?” the alien taunted. “Pathetic.”
Sevas didn’t respond. Her fingers closed around the metal shard. The rusted edges bit into her palm, but she barely noticed through the adrenaline surging in her veins. Gimloria’s movements were slightly more erratic now, her wrath turning what had been precise strikes into broader, more reckless swings. Her tentacles flared and coiled like serpents ready to strike, rippling with aggression.
Sevas tightened her grip on the shard, ignoring the faint sting where it cut into her skin. Blood smeared along the jagged edge, but it didn’t matter. She shifted her weight, knees bent, muscles coiled like springs. Every thought, every instinct narrowed to this moment.
Gimloria lunged again. Her blade arched as she aimed to hit Sevas in the chest. Sevas veered away, but the force of the swing was an audible whoosh . Without waiting for the alien to recover, she drove forward, slamming her shoulder into Gimloria’s midsection. The impact wasn’t enough to topple her opponent, but it sent Gimloria stumbling back a couple of steps, unbalanced.
The crowd erupted, their roars and hisses a chaotic storm of reactions—rage from Gimloria’s supporters and wild approval from those gambling on an underdog victory. Sand sprayed into the air as Sevas pushed her advantage. She surged forward, raising the shard and slashing toward Gimloria’s thigh. The makeshift blade tore through the soft leather armor and bit into flesh. Black blood sprayed across the white grains of sand. Gimloria howled—an awful, guttural sound that made bile crawl up Sevas’ throat.
Gimloria staggered. Her tentacles whipped wildly. One lashed out reflexively and struck Sevas across the face, sending her reeling sideways. The impact was cold and slimy, stinging her skin. She hit the sand hard. The breath knocked from her lungs, and the metal shard flew from her hand.
She pushed herself upright, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs. Her quick breath rasped as she tried to match Gimloria’s movements. Pain throbbed where each blow had struck. Blood was warm and sticky on her skin, but she shoved the pain aside. There was no time for it—not now.
Her fingers brushed over the slingshot at her side, clinging as if to an anchor. She needed to shift the tide, and she needed to do it now. “Come on,” Sevas muttered under her breath, scanning the arena floor for anything else she could use.
She finally spotted it—a rock, perfectly palm-sized, sitting just a few feet away. It had likely been hurled from the crowd earlier, smooth and solid enough to be effective. Her muscles screamed as she dove for it, kicking up a spray of sand. She clutched the rock tightly and scrambled back to her feet just as Gimloria surged forward.
Sevas loaded the new rock into the worn leather pocket. Her arms trembled, but her aim was steady as she pulled the sling back, the elastic groaning under the strain. Gimloria’s lips parted in a growl as she closed the distance, her tentacles flaring like a deadly halo around her.
Sevas had no time to think, no time to plan. Instinct took over. She released the slingshot’s pad with a snap, the rock whistling through the air. It struck Gimloria squarely between the eyes. The impact echoed faintly over the frenetic noise of the crowd. The alien’s head snapped back. Her tentacles writhed in wild, chaotic spasms as she stumbled and fell onto her knees.
The audience erupted into a chaotic mix of cheers, jeers, and bellows. Sevas barely registered the noise. Her entire body was still coiled tight, waiting for the next move. Gimloria’s blade fell to the sand. Her tentacles twitched less violently now. Their movements went sluggish and uncoordinated. Blood trickled down her forehead, a stark line of black against her blue-gray skin, dripping onto the sand below.
Sevas stayed rooted in place. Her breathing was ragged as she watched her opponent. This had to be a trick—no one went down that easily, not in a place like this. She tightened her grip on the slingshot. “Get up,” Sevas muttered under her breath. She narrowed her eyes as she waited for Gimloria to strike back. The alien groaned, swaying unsteadily where she kneeled, but didn’t rise.
From the stands came a riot of alien sounds—angry hisses, disappointed growls, and, from another corner, wild cheers for the underdog. A few spectators slammed their fists against the railings, demanding more blood, more action, but Sevas didn’t move. Her chest heaved as she fought to steady her breathing. The tang of blood from her cuts mingled with the acrid metallic stench in the air. Sand clung to her sweaty limbs, irritating her skin as she stood tall, unwilling to let the crowd or anyone else see the exhaustion creeping into her bones.
Gimloria’s head lifted slightly, her eyes unfocused but still fixed on Sevas. A flick of her tongue passed over her lips, tasting the blood smeared there. For a moment, she looked as if she might rise, but her tentacles sagged in defeat.
The booming voice of the announcer echoed through the arena, silencing the crowd for a brief second. “New fighter 78-S… Victory!”
The noise erupted again, this time louder and more chaotic as factions of the audience reacted to the announcement. Coins and small metal tokens rained down into the arena, thrown by those who had bet on her and won. Others hurled threats and insults in alien tongues, furious that the newcomer had upset their expectations. Sevas didn’t care. Their noise barely registered. All she could do was focus on keeping her legs steady beneath her. Her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Gimloria shifted. Her tentacles curled weakly against her chest as she coughed. “Don’t be,” the alien rasped. “You fought well…won the match.”
The worst game in the history of games. Sevas simply watched as a mech rolled out from one of the gates. It ignored Sevas entirely, focusing instead on Gimloria’s crumpled figure. A shock baton extended from one of its appendages, sparking faintly as it jabbed the alien in the side, prompting a yelp from Gimloria.
“Combatant 55-T, Gimloria,” the mech droned, its voice devoid of inflection. “Incapacitated. Retrieval protocol initiated.”
Sevas forced herself to step back as the machine grabbed Gimloria’s arm and dragged her toward the now-open gate she’d entered from. Her defeated opponent didn’t resist. She slumped in the mech’s grip as her tentacles dragged in the sand, like broken vines.
Sevas pressed her trembling lips together, watching as the mech dragged Gimloria away. Her knuckles throbbed where they gripped the slingshot. She couldn’t stop the ache spreading through her chest or the sick twist in her gut. I had no choice , she told herself, but it didn’t help. Nothing could erase the image of Gimloria’s blood dripping onto the sand.
The crowd roared above, more alive than ever, feeding on the spectacle like scavengers. Coins and debris continued to rain down. Something bounced off her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch. Her brain numbed the chaos. Her vision narrowed to what lay ahead of her: the gates. She wanted out—out of the arena, out of the noise, out of this nightmare.
As Gimloria disappeared into the shadows beyond the gate, Sevas exhaled shakily, forcing her hand to unclench enough to drop the slingshot. The shakiness in her muscles betrayed the weight of her emotions. She cast a glance toward the sand-streaked blade Gimloria had wielded, lying abandoned in the sand like a relic of the violence that had just unfolded. For a fleeting moment, Sevas considered picking it up—claiming it as a trophy or a tool for survival, but the thought of holding another weapon made her stomach churn. She left it there, half-buried, as the echoes of the fight settled like dust around her.
The quiet scrape of a mech’s approach brought her to a stop. It wasn’t the same one that had taken Gimloria, but another, its dull silver chassis stained with streaks of grime and rust. Its single glowing eye flashed briefly as it scanned her, whirring softly. “Fighter 78-S,” it intoned in its mechanical monotone. “Exit protocol initiated. Follow.”
Sevas followed without complaint. Her body felt so heavy. Every joint ached. Her feet sank into the sand with each step, and she felt a lump build in her throat that she didn’t dare let out. Her face stung where Gimloria had struck her, her cheek sticky with dried blood. But it wasn’t the physical pain that gnawed at her insides—it was the memory of Gimloria’s eyes, the reluctant respect in her words, and the sheer, primal desperation in every move they’d made. She’d won, but it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt hollow, like she’d scraped through by a thread too thin to hold.
As they neared the gate, Sevas glanced back over her shoulder. Gimloria’s head was gone from sight, but the faint drag marks her body had left in the sand remained. Quietly, almost under her breath, Sevas muttered again, “I’m sorry.”
The mech didn’t pause. Its mechanical voice cut through her whisper, as if rejecting her regret outright. “Fighter 78-S, compliance required. Continue forward.”
Sevas bit the inside of her cheek and faced forward again. The heavy gates loomed ahead, their dark expanse swallowing the harsh light in this forsaken place. The walls seemed closer now. The weight of them pressed down on her shoulders. Gimloria’s words echoed in her head, sharp and bitter: You fought well. Won the match. But would she prevail the next time?