“Make him suffer, make him suffer, make him suffer!” the crowd chanted.
Tinus peeled off his chest armor and dropped it to the floor, revealing his own bulging muscles and a scar that ran down the length of his back.
Behind him the dazed Samoan rose to his feet. He raised a hand to the gash on his face and spat out a broken tooth. The gaping wound dripped, adding to the puddle of red on the floor, and his vision swam. It was the first major injury he had sustained in the ring, and it shocked him into motion. He yelled something in a foreign tongue and rushed forward, his face streaked with blood like war paint on his skin.
The immigrant was dangerously skilled with the axe, and although he appeared careless, the power behind his strike was what his opponents feared the most. He had decapitated several of his victims with one swift swing in countless previous matches. But his next swing went wide, allowing Tinus to swing with his own blade. The sword clipped the Samoan’s back and sent blood spraying into the air. He grunted in pain but recovered quickly, turning and swinging his axe with all of his strength.
Tinus moved hastily and much faster now without his armor. He spun around in time to meet his opponent’s axe with his own blade. The metal connected perfectly, sending sparks into the air. For a split second the two warriors stood, their legs firmly planted on the ground, neither yielding ground to the other. Their eyes locked, revealing a combination of pain, fear and anger.
It was at that moment both men knew neither of them was immune to fear. They both felt it. And they both knew the obvious. The fight would be to the death. Both had killed many men, but this battle was different. This battle was to determine whether the Council of Royal Knights would remain undefeated in the arena against the best the immigrants had to offer. Tinus was a man of honor, a man who had spent his entire life defending his country. His scars, his medals, they were parts of him now, telling the story of his career as a Knight.
Tinus, trusting his instincts, pulled his blade out of the stalemate and slid back to the chain fence to regain his footing. He planted his right foot back into the floor and gripped his sword with his left hand.
The Samoan remained in the middle of the arena, snorting and beating his chest with his free hand to tempt the Knight back into the battle. But Tinus was too smart to fall for his mind games. He was used to being taunted, and each time he waited patiently for his opponent to lash out with a careless blow.
The Samoan grew angry and taunted Tinus more, waving at the Knight and motioning him back into the middle of the arena. “What? What waiting for?” he yelled.
Tinus stood, his stance unchanged, gripping his sword with both hands now. He expected that it would be only seconds before the refugee charged him, but both warriors stood their ground. The crowd began to grow impatient. They had come to watch a battle that had been advertised for months as the, “The Fight of the Century.”
There wasn’t supposed to be a stalemate. There would be no truce. The crowd wanted blood. And they didn’t care from whom, as long as it was plentiful.
The crowd’s boos aggravated the Samoan. He wiped the blood off his chin and switched hands with his axe. Seconds turned into minutes, and the Samoan’s patience began to lapse sending him into a fit of rage. He rushed Tinus once again, swinging his axe horizontally, aiming for the Knight’s torso. Tinus simply took a step back, narrowly avoiding the axe. He took in a short breath and struck his sword at the Samoan, slicing a big chunk of flesh out of his leathery back.
The Samoan screamed in pain, sprinting back to his corner, holding his fresh wound with one hand and gripping his axe in the other. The weapon was heavier now, his muscles weaker, his breathing deeper. He was in trouble and he knew it, but it wasn’t his first brush with death, and victory was still in sight. His freedom could still be turned into a reality.
He regained his composure and rushed Tinus again, swinging his axe with a speed that no ordinary man would have been able to match. Once again the Knight danced around the blade and swiftly stabbed the Samoan in his back, opening another deep wound.
Rage. It was painted on the Samoan’s face. The crowd grew silent, watching Tinus cut the man over and over. Blood flowed from the Samoan’s open wounds, staining the floor a bright red. The weaker spectators turned away.
Alexria sat gripping Roni’s hand tightly, but she did not turn away. “How much longer can this go on?” she whispered.
“I’m afraid not much longer; he will bleed out if his wounds aren’t dressed,” Roni replied, his eyes fixed on the warriors below.
What had been promised to be the fight of the century was turning out to be one of the worst slaughters in the history of the arena.
On his fifth attempt the Samoan fell to the ground, his wounds too severe to go on. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, looking up at the great round lights of the arena, watching his chance at freedom slip away.
Tinus approached the fallen warrior, his sword gripped tightly in both hands. The Knight would not be taken off guard. He approached with caution, knowing the savage was like a wounded dog and could still have bite left in him.
“This is it,” Roni whispered to his wife, squeezing her hand tighter.
The Knight stood over the Samoan, raising his sword to finish the man. His hands raised the sword directly above the Samoan’s neck. The crowd was completely silent. No screams of bloodlust, no requests to punish the warrior any more. And as the Samoan looked up into the eyes of Tinus, something unexpected happened, something never done in the history of the arena.
Alexria stood up, dropping her husband’s hand. She cupped her hands and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Mercy! Show him mercy, Royal Knight Tinus!” The words traveled through the packed arena rapidly. State employees stirred, many trying to see the woman who made such an odd request. Even Tinus, who usually remained completely focused on the fight, looked into the dark crowd for a few seconds before peering back down at the savage, who was slipping in and out of consciousness. His hands did not tremble, and he prepared to strike the final blow with his sword.
“Mercy!” Alexria yelled again. This time, Roni grabbed at her hand and hushed her, “What are you doing? Sit back down!” he pleaded.
But Alexria would not be deterred. She repeated her request. “Mercy, Royal Knight Tinus, show him mercy,” she yelled. And then another State employee, a man who Roni and Alexria did not recognize, stood up and yelled the same request. One after another, the crowd began to stand, pleading for the Samoan’s life. They had watched the Samoan fight bravely for his freedom, and many of them had watched him fight many times before. He deserved his freedom, and they would not stand to watch him be executed. Not like this.
As the crowd began to protest, louder and louder, Tinus stood back, his sword dropping to his side. His chest heaved up and down, baring the scars he had suffered in so many fights before. He looked down at the savage, who had slipped into unconsciousness. He had no idea why the crowd was trying to save him. What a pity, Tinus thought, waiting for the announcer to calm the crowd.
Within seconds, a dozen Knights came rushing into the arena. They were dressed in full regalia, their armor shining brightly under the intense spotlights.
“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” the crowd chanted. Some began to throw items at the cage as they grew more enthralled with saving the Samoan’s life.
The announcer, who hadn’t appeared since the beginning of the fight, stepped back onto his platform outside the hexagon cage. He raised the microphone to his mouth. “Citizens! Calm yourselves. There is no mercy in the arena. You do not come here to see mercy. You come here to see blood. And now it’s time for Royal Knight Tinus to finish the savage. Kill him, Tinus!” the announcer yelled.
The crowd erupted into pandemonium and began to throw whatever items they could find at the announcer. They grew louder as they ran the man off the stage, prompting more Knights to rush into the arena, assault rifles drawn.
The crowd finally quieted, watching cautiously fr
om their seats. They knew the Council of Royal Knights would not hesitate to kill civilians, even State employees. They should have known mercy was not an option. With the crowd nearly silent, Tinus raised his sword again.
“There is honor in this death,” he muttered under his breath, bringing the sword down on the Samoan. The last hope for the immigrant cause ended with the blade parting the warriors head from his body, sending a fresh red splatter onto the ground. A tear crawled down Alexria’s cheek, but she did not turn away. She watched, her heart throbbing with anger as Tinus dropped his sword and shook his head at the crowd.
It was over. The TDU was finished, and so was the Samoan. The State had further secured its iron grip. She knew no immigrant would ever gain their freedom as long as the Knights remained the gatekeepers.
Chapter 12: The Betrayal
“To the betrayers, liars and the thieves; your fate will be waiting in the dark of night, burrowing like a snake. And it will come for you when you least expect it. It always comes when you least expect it.”
~NSS
Time: 11:09 p.m. February 22, 2071.
Location: Abandoned Apartment Building. Rohania, Tisaia
Lana rushed inside the apartment and hugged Spurious forcefully, knocking the wind out of him.
“Lana!” he huffed. “Are you all right?”
“It was so awful, Spurious. I wanted to tell you at work, but I just couldn’t. Varius was watching me all day.”
“Calm down,” he said, brushing her frizzled hair back around her ears.
“I was so afraid I lost you,” he whispered into her ear.
“It was Varius. He came to my flat and forced his way in.”
Spurious took a step back and caught Lana’s gaze for the first time in days.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked scanning her body for bruises.
Lana shook her head and buried it back in his chest. “He said he wanted to talk, but quickly it turned into more. He touched my leg and told me he had something for me,” she said, holding out a small bracelet.
Spurious stiffened, his face turning bright red. “I’m going to freaking kill him.” he said venomously.
“No, Spurious, I think he is beginning to suspect something. I can’t hold him at bay much longer.”
“It’s going to be all right. I have a plan to end all of this,” he replied.
Lana looked out from behind her curtain of hair, her eyes searching his with curiosity. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Spurious rubbed his eyes. “I’ll tell you in the morning. The past couple days have been a whirlwind and I need to get some rest,” he said, hugging her before crashing onto the mattress.
* * *
Spurious gazed at Lana’s sleeping body, watching her eyelids flutter as she slept. He reached over to her, touching her face softly so he wouldn’t wake her. He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine what Lana had encountered the other night, but his thoughts quickly betrayed him, slipping into his mind against his will.
Spurious sat up and rested his back against the wood wall, running his hand through her thick hair. Touching her calmed him, putting him at ease. He sat and watched the shadows from the dying candle flame dance across the ceiling.
An hour of silence passed, reminding him of the countless nights he had laid awake as a child in the same room, wondering why his parents were not home. Now he knew. They were attending secret TDU meetings.
He looked back down at Lana, trying to forget his past for the night and ran his fingers through her hair again, waking her by accident. She let out a soft moan, her eyelids fluttering and her eyes struggling to open. A half smile rushed across his face. “Well hello, beautiful,” he whispered.
“Hi,” she said, her own smile interrupted by a small yawn. “Are you going to stay awake for a while and talk with me?”
Lana sat up, pulling her long hair back and tying it into a ponytail with a small wrist band. “I don’t want to wait until the morning Spurious, I want to know what you are thinking now!” she said, poking him in the stomach.
“Hey,” he laughed playfully before his smile faded and a serious tone washed across his face.
“No more talking,” he said, placing her hands in his and leaning in to kiss her. Her lips met his, the warmth sending a chill down his back. They kissed deeper and he pulled her on top of him, his hand finding its way down her thigh and working its way up. He could feel the blood moving inside of him as his heart beat faster. Her shirt came off easily and he stared at her beautiful skin, leaning in to kiss her neck softly, slowly making his way back to her lips.
“You have gotten good at this,” she laughed.
Spurious smiled. “I’ve had a good teacher.”
“You know that isn’t true.” Lana said, blushing.
He climbed on top of her, looking into her eyes.
“I love you, Lana. And I’m going to make sure nothing happens to us.”
“I love you too. Now come close to me,” she whispered, pulling him onto her.
A small poof from the suffocating candle sent a trail of smoke into the air. Darkness washed over them, sending another chill down his spine. But it wasn’t a chill of passion—it was a chill of fear. The same feeling he had before he lost his parents.
Spurious ignored it and leaned back in to kiss Lana deeply. She would not suffer the same fate as his parents. He would not let that happen.
Time: 10:02 a.m. February 23, 2071.
Location: Market Area. Rohania, Tisaia
Leo sat perched against an old light pole, staring into the crowded market. People watching was his job now; he gave up on making a living as a black market smuggler and instead survived off the charity he could manage to squeeze out of people. He was too old for a life of crime. Besides, his age and ragged appearance provided him a unique advantage over the other beggars.
He watched the crowded market, narrowing down his options and paying close attention to a tomato stand attracting several customers. The vendor had arrived minutes before with a fresh harvest, some dirt still present on the skin of the tomatoes.
Leo licked his lips. He hadn’t eaten for a day now, his last meal being a half-loaf of bread an old friend gave him the night before.
Rohania was full of people just like him, waiting for a handout. There was normally a beggar on every corner. In fact, many of the panhandlers worked the same corner every day. People got to know them and most would avoid them. His strategy was different. He had brains; sometimes he waited an hour in a crowded market before approaching a customer or vendor with a sob story. It worked almost every time.
After much deliberation, he selected a young man who was in the process of purchasing two bags of tomatoes. He didn’t recognize this man and was quite positive they had never met. This was step one. Find someone he didn’t know, someone who had never given him food before. Next, he would approach them when their hands were full and they were preoccupied. Finally, he would quickly spout out a story explaining why he was in desperate need of a meal. There were countless stories he had used in the past. His favorite was the CRK narrative; it was something all Rohanians could relate to.
“Sir, do you have a moment?” Leo asked, approaching the man from behind.
The customer turned slightly. “What is it?” the man asked, his gaze falling on Leo’s tattered clothing.
“Sir, the Tin Cans, they took everything. My last credits, my food, everything. I have nothing left. Can you please spare a few tomatoes?”
The man stiffened. He scratched his small nose uncomfortably. “Why did they do that?” he asked curiously.
Leo paused. No one ever asked why. “They… uh… they thought I was a TDU sympathizer. And when they found out I wasn’t one they kept all my belongings anyways,” Leo said, stuttering.
The man raised a brow. “Are you a TDU sympathizer?”
“I’m hungry, sir. That is all. Can you please spare a tomato or two?”
The man looked over Leo’s shoulders
into the crowd, clearly growing annoyed.
“I need to get going.”
“Just one tomato, sir, please?” Leo pleaded.
The man let out a huff. “Fine, if you get out of my way you can have a tomato,” he said, grabbing the two bags from the vendor and placing them on the ground. He scanned the produce and grabbed the smallest tomato off the top.
Leo took it graciously. “Thank you sir, thank you,” he said, backing away and disappearing into the crowd with a grin on his face. The ripe tomato exploded as he bit into it, the juices racing down his chin. He brought his hand to his chin, wiping away the excess juice and licking his fingers clean. In the distance he could see an empty park bench, the perfect place to find his next customer.
It was almost noon and the crowd was thicker, common for the lunch hour. People were searching for a quick bite to eat between shifts and looking for a bargain. It was the perfect time to get his next meal.
The cold metal of the park bench sent a chill up his damaged back. His ragged coat was full of holes. It was on his ‘to replace’ list, but a warm coat was hard to come by in Rohania, and he didn’t expect to get his hands on a decent one this winter.
He bit into the tomato again, scanning the crowd for another unsuspecting shopper. In the center of the market there was a bronze statue of a middle-aged man, sitting on a chair and reading a book to a young boy on his lap. Leo didn’t need to see the worn engraving at the bottom to know it read Lincoln and Tad. It was an artifact from the old world, a surviving clue from before the Biomass Wars, when education was an investment and books were valued.
Leo could only vaguely remember his own childhood now. It was so long ago, before the oil wells dried up and the nuclear tipped rockets sailed across the oceans, a time when men marveled in their creations and resources were plentiful for all. But it was simply not to be. Men had become experts at building, producing and manufacturing, but sadly, they were better at destroying these creations.
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