The Games

The stench of sweat hung in the air like perfume, laced with undercurrents of blood. The people seated around the colosseum roared, pounding their feet at the stone beneath them like wild animals. The games brought out the bloodlust that everyone tried so hard to hide. Lyra found the whole process morbid, the fact that people would pay to see their fellow men be mutilated in front of them, but she couldn’t complain. Without the games she would have died long ago.

A scream ricocheted through the stone passageways, finding its way to Lyra’s cell. She hardly noticed, instead focusing on fastening her ankle guards, tightening the leather straps until they bit into her skin. She would be rubbed raw tomorrow, but it would be worth it if she was still alive. Lyra heard footsteps as the next contestant rushed to the field, screaming in a rageful delirium.

“FOR ROME WE FIGHT! FOR ROME WE DIE!” The phrase was familiar to Lyra as it had become a kind of mantra for the willing contestants before they ascended to the roaring crowds of the colosseum. For the prisoners of war forced into the games, like Lyra, there was no such saying. Only the knowledge that their survival today would bring them no closer to freedom.

“You’re up next,” the guard huffed, motioning impatiently for her to follow.

“Y’know, if the games are so set on death and blood you should give the contestants guns. It’s not like we’re living in 100-something B.C. anymore,” Lyra muttered sarcastically, motioning to the pistol at the guards belt.

“It may be 2084, sweetie, but the games are only interesting because the deaths take time. With guns the fun ends too early. Besides, you can’t say that we haven’t given you decent tech,” he snapped, walking away. Lyra shrugged, looping her electrum whips around her wrists as she made her way to the battlefield. Two left turns, then a right, up a half flight of stairs and around the medical unit and Lyra was there, a few feet from the endless expanse of sand. It had been white the morning before but was already marred with countless brown patches, the newer ones still glistening red.

“Can we welcome to the pit FOXX!” The crowd bellowed as a black-clad man entered the ring, cords of muscle glistening in the harsh sunlight. Lyra grimaced, noticing the silver insignia across his breast. He was a sponsor. She hated sponsors. Sponsors volunteered for the games and had the support of billion dollar companies, the likes of which equipped them with the finest weapons money could buy. If they won even once they were awarded more money than Lyra would see in her entire life.

“FOXX will be facing WIRE this evening...” The announcer drawled on about the stats of each contestant but at the mention of her alias Lyra blocked him out. With a single breath she released every thought tearing at her mind leaving nothing but a sense of emptiness, save for a single word vibrating through every cell in her body. Survive. When she walked onto the field there was no roar of applause but rather the slamming of feet onto cool marble. THUMP. They wanted blood. THUMP. Someone would die. THUMP.

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, easing the whips from her wrists into her scarred palms. The starting pistol fired and her eyes flicked open, finding her opponents across the field. It struck her as sad that she didn’t know the boys name, only the dramatic title the announcer had slapped over him, but such thoughts quickly faded from her mind. He grinned maniacally, spinning a double bladed sword in front of him fast enough that it became a blur. Lyra didn’t need to see the weapon to know that it was a StunBlade, coated with enough tranquilizer to kill a horse. The second the blade met her skin she would be as good as dead.

Lyra should have been terrified by this realization, but she only felt a cool numbness. One touch and she would die. The solution was easy enough, she supposed. She couldn’t let the blade touch her. With a sudden effort she extended her whips at either side of her body, listening to the buzz of electricity as they illuminated a soft blue. The electricity coursing through them was wild. Unpredictable. She smiled, loving the rush of adrenaline that coursed through her veins.

She struck at Foxx with her whips but he easily batted them aside, spinning his blade faster. She felt its breeze as it passed within inches of her neck and she instinctively ducked, spiraling away before the poison could touch her flesh. She lashed out again, twin whips falling short of their mark before they could make contact. The smallest tendril of fear wrapped around her heart, crushing it in a vice-like grip. He lunged at her, sword poised to strike, but Lyra threw herself desperately at the ground before his blow landed. She rolled to her feet with a practiced motion, shuffling backwards as she folded her shoulders in, the posture of one who knows their death is coming. Foxx’s grin deepened at this and he stepped forwards, within inches of claiming his victory. He didn’t know it yet, but that one step would be his downfall. Lyra struck out with her whips one last time, managing to wrap the metal tip around his blade, ripping it out of his hand. His eyes widened in confusion for a moment and she was upon him, tackling him to the ground before he had the chance to gather his bearings. Tenderly she allowed one of her whips to caress his cheek, spitting sparks onto his exposed skin. His body trembled violently beneath her, his eyes rolling back in his head as he took a last rattling breath.

The crowd was silent, every mouth agape at this stranger who had the nerve to take their champion from them. Lyra turned her whips off with a flick, coiling the metal around her wrists once again. The silence gave way to outcries of rage and distant sobbing. Lyra stepped away from the carcass at her feet, letting the numbness envelop her heart. She felt guilty, of course. It may have been the only option for her own survival, but that didn’t mean this man’s death was justified. None of this was.

Anger dissolved the numb wall that Lyra had tried so hard to build around herself and for the first time in far too long rage blossomed inside of her. Lyra glanced upwards at the camera broadcasting her image to the crowd and smirked. There was fire behind her eyes and she would not stop until the world around her lay in ashes.

She returned to the same cell she had spent every night for the past five years in, a pawn of the games returned to her place. But even the weakest pawn can end the game if they reach the other side of the board. The games would end. Not today. Not for awhile, she supposed, but when they did, she would be the one that ripped them apart.