“Welcome to another day of Games, citizens!” It’s a man’s voice. Young. He leaves a pause for cheering, but none comes. To my surprise he laughs. “Shall I get right to it then?”
Now there’s a cheer, but it’s short lived. They’re waiting for something. He’s here to say something important. “I’m pleased to say we have rescued three children from the Spores! One, sadly, had already been infected, but the other two were saved in time. I’ll be sharing the first surname now and the second at the end of the Games.”
The crowd explodes—some cheering, but also desperate chattering. Two forms walk to the center of the Arena. A small boy, escorted by a Roman soldier. Someone from the crowd screams. But a mass of voices hushes them.
Silence.
The announcing voice speaks again. “You know how this works. If the name I call is yours, and you know this child, come out to the sand and claim him with his name.” A pause, then a shout from the speaker. “Surname Whitlock!”
The crowd cheers again, though there’s a tinge of disappointment in it. Two people are trying to bulldoze their way past other spectators. Those around them laugh and give them a clap on the back. They disappear from sight for a few minutes, but then reappear on the sand, sprinting toward the child. A young mother and father.
The boy lurches toward them, but the Roman soldier’s hand holds him back.
The mother screams again and again, “Tory! Tory! His name is Tory!”
The crowd laughs again. A white handkerchief flutters to the sand from wherever the announcer stands out of sight. The mother picks it up and holds it like a lifeline. Everyone cheers. The mother, father, and child embrace.
Of all the things I expected to see in the Nightmare, this was not it. A reunion that puts a lump in my throat. A family brought back together on the same sand on which I’m about to fight for my life.
A war wages inside me as I watch them leave. A desire to rejoice with them, but also an envy that they are free and united and whole while I am about to become entertainment for these same people who seem to cherish family so much.
How can they be so moved by a child finding his family and yet tolerate battles to the death?
Perhaps I’m supposed to see this scene and think, That could be my future. But it won’t be. I don’t have family anymore. I have only myself and I am trying to survive for the good of everyone still willing to fight for life in the Real World.
Anger wins. I turn toward the others in this holding space to see if they share any of the same fury at such a spectacle. The other noxiors don’t even seem to have paid attention. They bow beneath the weight of their puny mistblades and the pressure of fear. Trembling. Thin and hollow-eyed. Pathetic. For some reason that makes me more angry.
Angry that they could allow this Nightmare to cow them so much.
Angry that I’m being controlled by Crixus and his system that takes advantage of those of us infected with the Nightmare Virus.
Angry that the only place I get to experience a pathetic display of false sunlight is while fighting for my life as an entertainment pawn.
Angry that I’m stuck in this holding place while my fury builds. Builds. Builds.
Fine. They want a fight? I’ll give them a fight.
I tighten my fingers around the strange knife. If they don’t open the second gate soon, I might lash out at the guards.
“Let us out,” I grind out to the man on the other side of the gate. The man with the key.
“Soon, man.”
I walk up to the gate and jab my knife through the space, even though it’s a supposedly harmless mistblade. “Now.”
He rolls his eyes. “Always eager. Always dead. Whatever. Burn a bit longer on the sand, then.” He fits the key in, and I feel the click of the lock in my chest, granting permission to unleash.
I am first through the gates.
First on the Arena sand.
First to hear the roar of a crowd from above, like thunder from a storm of bloodlust.
There’s no burst of sunlight. The shadows are wrong, they flicker too much, and the warmth comes and goes. It’s a good try, but it’s not enough. This is a world of darkness.
I take in my audience, hating them instantly. Tiny pinpricks of heads and clothing stretch in rising rings above me. They cheer, but not for any of us. They cheer for the sport. My predicament exists because of them.
I roar back.
Some of them laugh. Their cheers increase. I assess the light-gray wall rising from the sand. On an impulse I bolt toward it. Leap. Plant my feet, one, two—my hands scrape the stone, and I slide back to the sand.
The crowd howls at my attempt to breach the barrier and throttle them. They see me as an animal. I act like an animal. What am I doing, trying to climb a wall to fight people?
Am I that out of control?
A clash of inner voices hits me. One voice saying, This isn’t you. And another voice saying, This is the real you. A tiny echo of Crixus telling me to tamp down the anger tries to wiggle into my mind.
Before I can muddle through any of it, a clang comes from the opposite side of the Arena. Enormous wood doors fall flat, like dropped drawbridges, and a beast bursts forth, but not the type I’ve seen in films. No tigers on chains or half-starved lions.
Instead an enormous black bull charges onto the sand with four horns on its head. Rather than flesh and blood, it seems to be made of smoke and shadow, lacking the true intricacies of color.
The bull snorts and paws the ground, then scans the Arena, aware and bloodthirsty. It spots a clump of three noxiors cowering against the curve of the coliseum wall—two girls hugging each other and crying. A man with a puny mistspear tries to squeeze behind them as though to disappear. A fourth noxior clings to the gates from which we entered, begging the guard on the other side to let him back through.
Are they going to sit there and die so easily? Is there no fight in them?
The bull charges the three.
They scream, and the man splits off from the girls. The bull thunders across the Arena after him. The man turns and fumbles with his spear. He gives a weak throw, but it bounces broadside off the bull’s right flank, then skids in the sand beyond.
