Well, I think someone scoured every patch of soil on this planet to find a bunch of these guys and then brought them all together tonight.
There’s enough room in this dumpy holding facility to give the hundred of us enough space to break into gangs.
There are the shaggy blue guys over there, the seven-foot red Halckons over there, and the almost-milk-white ugly guys over there. The spikes that grace their browridges, wrists and ankles look like they’d be deadly in a fight.
A businesslike female’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, “The Game will start in one hour. If you wish to select out, you can assemble in front of the red door and be terminated before this process begins.”
Sweet. The staff will mercifully kill you beforeThe Gamebegins. Kill you, that is, if you can remain alive while making your way through the crowd to the red door.
I stand perfectly still for a moment as my brain freezes. The producers of this mess are not-so-subtly telegraphing that choosing death right this minute might be better than proceeding withThe Game.Bone-chilling. The implication is so stark, so foreboding, I actually consider the offer.
I’m a survivor. I can’t say I’ve survived worse—my gaze is drawn to the seven-foot-tall guy whose mouth is way too big and has rows and rows of shark-like teeth—but I’m not giving up.
Since everyone seems to have divided into teams, I look for an entry into one of the groups. I see a few females. They’re all over six feet and each seems firmly ensconced in a gang.
I seem to be the only singleton here. I’m voting me most likely to die first.
Titan
They don’t exactly pipe entertainment vids or news into the gladiator barracks. I’d never heard ofThe Gameuntil an hour ago when Mistress mentioned it. It’s not like she and I did a great deal of talking when she ordered me to her quarters to service her.
I listen closely to the commercials playing on the hover’s comm system as they’re hyping tonight’s show. The premier ofThe Game, Down to Onestarts tonight. I assume that’s where they’re transporting me. Master had the physician dose me with a painkiller known for its doping effects. I’m not thinking too clearly.
“You must not pray to the right God,” the Branteen guard on my right says with no trace of malice. “You’re fucked.”
I lift my brow in question. There’s no reason for us not to talk. They’ve cuffed my wrists and ankles. There are three pistols aimed at me, and I’m so groggy I can barely keep my eyes open.
“The premier is tonight. My mate is recording it for me while I work my shift. It’s so brutal they’re suggesting no one under 18 watch it. It will take place right here on the outskirts of Corinthus.”
“What are the rules?” I don’t know why I ask. Certainly they’ll tell me the rules before it begins.
“There aren’t any.”
“Which arena?” I ask. I’ve been in melees before. They had dozens of gladiators and no rules. I’m still alive. I shouldn’t have to worry aboutThe Game.
“No arena. The commercials have been short on specifics, so I looked online. No arena, no rules. People can help you, give you weapons, tell you where the others are. No one wins until everyone else is a confirmed kill.”
“99 to 1 odds, Titan,” the guard on my left offers helpfully, as if I couldn’t do the math. Even in my stupor, I figured that out.
The hover lurches to a stop and one of the guards announces, “Here we are,” in that cheerful way transport drivers do when they have a bus full of tourists.
They process me quickly and shove me into a cavernous room full of hardasses. I’d hoped my gladiator training could serve me well, but these guys are tough and they’re in gangs—safety in numbers.
Looks like my life just got stamped with an early expiration date.