Post by Suji on Sept 30, 2009 1:18:43 GMT -5
Nineteen's backstory.
"Unlike Cassie, unlike Tobias perhaps, I'm ruthless at times. But even I have enough sense to know the words 'we have to win' are the first four steps on the road to hell." - Rachel, The Underground
________________________________________
Nineteen wasn’t liking this match. #003 was strong, definitely a weight class higher than her, and the fact that he was a guy didn’t help her much. His muscles were denser, stronger, and she might be a bit faster, but strength usually beat speed in the end.
She was the underdog in this match, and that wasn’t a feeling she’d grown accustomed to lately. She was supposed to be the reigning queen of the ring, and usually she put down whatever little girls they tried to throw at her with an ease that came with experience and incumbency. They were all still run of the mill gladiators, probably slept in beds that were a bit too cold, rooms that were dank if clean.
She, on the other hand, was a champ. She ate three square meals a day, and more if she wanted snacks. She slept in a comfortable bed. There were bars on her cage, sure, but she wasn’t chained to anything. All the marks of a winner, right?
Except she wasn’t winning now.
#003 struck! Nineteen jerked aside, but too late, some of the powerhouse punch caught her, clipping her temple. The world reeled. Her nose was already busted, and she could taste the blood all the way down the back of her throat. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and it shoved its way into her mind as she slammed, off-balance, against the chainlink cage that surrounded the fighting ring.
No time to grasp the links, no time to think, no time to ponder how the sound itself would be enough to floor most people. She dodged, intuitively, and #003’s fist connected with the chainlink, rattling it so hard that the vibration was sent deep into the ground, past the sand and into the cement where the fence was secured. #0019 tucked and rolled along the dusty, sandy floor, scrambling to her feet at the first chance she had.
Nineteen turned, fists raised—just in time to see the first two knuckles of #003’s hand coming straight towards her jaw. Her jaw pressed against the nerves that sent messages to her brain: the natural human ‘power off’ button. Ah, the art of a knock-out.
Blackness swallowed her.
Nineteen
It was dark, but Nineteen was awake. And she wasn’t alone… she could feel that immediately. No, no there was someone else here with her. Something else with her. And it was also awake. Watching her. It noticed that she came to consciousness, and it smiled: even if she saw no mouth she could feel the tremble that it sent running down her spine, and Nineteen was not scared of very many things as a rule.
“HELLO 19.”
Nineteen cringed. She wasn’t even sure she had a body (where was she? it was all dark, and not just night-time underground dark), but still, she felt herself back away, shrink away from that voice. And then, though it provided no light, there was a red eye: it was enormous, and she could not close her eyes against it. It opened to her, and there could be no choice of hiding; it wanted to see her, and she would be seen, in all her glaring flaws and imperfections.
“YOU’RE AFRAID.” It wasn’t a question.
“F-fuck you!”
The voice laughed, a noise that was somehow inhuman, almost mechanical. But then as it continued it changed, until it was nothing but human, the sound of a crowd jeering her after a loss. And it continued, building, until she thought her eyeballs (did she have eyes?) would pop from her skull from the pressure.
“I HAD EXPECTED NOTHING LESS OF YOU, 19. BUT HUMANS HAVE AN APT SAYING FOR THIS SITUATION: NEVER LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH.”
Nineteen cowered, but she felt herself snarling—or trying to snarl. This wasn’t a dream, but it wasn’t a real place either, was it? That’s what made it all the more terrifying. A dream she could wake up from, be away from this… thing.
Or maybe she was dead. Maybe #003 had hit her harder than she thought. Maybe she’d already checked out, and they’d be feeding her body to the Taxxons.
Maybe this was Hell.
Either way, Nineteen refused to be completely cowed. She was terrified beyond all reason, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life (including the day they’d thrown her in a cage and branded her), but she had long ago begun the process of turning fear into fury, horror into hatred. Even if the posturing, cursing was just an act, it was an act that had become so much a part of her that in a way, it was her.
“HMM. PERHAPS ANOTHER IDIOM WOULD WORK BETTER. AH YES: DO NOT BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU.” The voice said it like one might savor a well-cooked meal; like he’d known that that’s what he wanted to say all along, but had wanted to wait, wanted to prolong her fear.
At this, Nineteen’s expression melted into a look of half-confusion, half-anger. “THAT’S BETTER. AFTER ALL, IT IS A LESSON YOU KNOW WELL, IS IT NOT, 19?” She hated the way he said her name. Of course it wasn’t really her name, hadn’t always been, but she couldn’t even remember her real name after hearing nothing but that for so long. But when he said it, it really wasn’t a name at all: it really was nothing more than a number. “GLADIATORS OF THE PAST FOUGHT TO EARN THEIR FREEDOM. BUT THAT IS A THING YOU CAN NEVER EARN, NOT IN THIS WORLD. INSTEAD, YOU FIGHT FOR TRINKETS. YOU DO BATTLE FOR THEIR ENTERTAINMENT, AND THEY PROVIDE REWARDS, AND YOU ACCEPT.”
Nineteen wanted to rage against him: she might be scared, but he was calling her a coward, which she was not. Who was this? What was this eye—some demon from her subconscious? How the hell could he ever know what it was like? She knew she was a slave; to live comfortably or to mire in some filthy, half-starved state wouldn’t make it any different, and she at least was smart enough to knowthat-
“YES, YOU ARE SMART ENOUGH.” The voice was pure condescension, as if he might as well have been patting her on the head. “WHICH IS WHY I BELIEVE THAT YOU WILL MAKE THE RIGHT DECISION AND ALLOW ME TO HELP YOU.”
Help her? She was still scared, beyond scared, but she was also interested. Whatever this thing was, it was a powerful. And Nineteen knew the benefit of having powerful friends. Still, there was no doubt in any part of her that this thing was also somehow wrong. Evil, maybe even, though she’d long since been robbed of the fairytale notions of good and evil.
“I don’t need help.” Still posturing. But when the tough-girl thing was the only card in your hand (hell, the only card in your entire deck), and you had to play the hand you had…
The voice didn’t laugh this time. Instead, it pulled her closer somehow, wrapped around her like some sort of jet-black python. It squeezed, enough to show her how easily it could crush her, but not enough to cause her any harm. When the voice spoke again it was almost soft; as much as it could be, though the kindness was false and feigned in every way. It didn’t even try to hide how fake it sounded. “OH YES, 19, YOU DO.” The coils around her tightened a miniscule amount, as if to be comforting. “YOU ARE UNCONSCIOUS RIGHT NOW. YOUR OPPONENT IS ABOUT TO SCORE THE LAST, WINNING STRIKE OF THIS MATCH. YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED FOR THE UPCOMING TOURNAMENT.”
Suddenly, though she could still feel the weight of the creature around her, could still feel its eye, she could see herself. It was right after she’d been struck—a string of spittle and blood was caught, poised in the air after exiting her mouth.
“I HAVE STOPPED TIME-”
“You can stop time?” Nineteen couldn’t help herself from interrupting. Even the creature seemed mildly surprised that he’d be cut off.
“YES. I CAN DO MANY THINGS, 19.” The scales slid over her, and this time she did feel strangely… comforted. Terrified yes, but also intrigued, and lulled by the sheer display of power. “I CAN MAKE IT SO THAT YOU STILL WIN THIS FIGHT.”
Why? Why would this thing, this eye, help her? Nineteen knew better than to trust gifts from strangers. There was no such thing as No Strings Attached.
“What’s the catch?”
The eye laughed at her, both mean and pleased. “THE TIME WILL COME WHEN YOU ARE OFFERED YOUR FREEDOM. THIS WILL ONLY HAPPEN IF YOU WIN TONIGHT’S MATCH. I MERELY ASK THAT WHEN YOU ARE GIVEN THE CHOICE, YOU CHOOSE TO GO WITH YOUR NEWFOUND ALLIES.”
What? What kind of deal was that? He was saving her, and in return, all she had to do was walk out when someone, some unknown saviors opened the door to her cell and told her she was free? That sounded double-good for her, and it wouldn’t be giving him anything in return. Or would it? Who were these people that would save her? Why was it important that she go with them? Was this just some omniscient, all-powerful being’s idea of a joke?
“But… but what does that give you?”
It chuckled at her: as if she was an ant, inquiring about the workings of a god, and he could just as easily crush her into oblivion.
“WHAT WILL YOUR CHOICE BE, 19? SHALL I MAKE YOU THE VICTOR OF THIS FIGHT, WHICH WILL PUT YOU ON THE PATH TO FREEDOM? OR WOULD YOU PREFER TO LOSE, FADING AWAY INTO OBSCURITY AND THE DIMMER REACHES OF SLAVERY?”
Well, when you put it like that… she didn’t really have any choice at all, did she? Or if she did, it was impossible to see past those two options, until her mind was utterly convinced that those were the only possible outcomes.
“I, I-”
“ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK.”
“Okay. Do it.” Nothing. Silence. She couldn’t even feel the weight of the python-grip anymore. She was floating in nowhere-space, dead-space. “Will you help me, please?” Still, nothing at all. Now her fear was spiking again, the terror from before creeping back in, though this time it seemed even more horrible to not have that Eye, that Voice, at all.
“Please! Please help me!” She didn’t know what she was doing wrong. Had it all been a joke? Something teasing with her? Her own mind playing tricks? She might think that, if she wasn’t caught in this in-between zone. Nineteen was all alone in the dark, in a space where something could tear into her flesh, start eating her insides while she was fully aware of it, and unable to see a thing.
“Please!” She was screaming now, frantic, and tears were coming to her eyes. “I can’t lose! I want to win, I want to win, I HAVE TO WIN!”
Then, in the dark, there was snickering. The coils around her tightened a last time, until she felt like she’d pop like a tube of toothpaste squeezed too hard. Still, it was better than that all-encompassing blackness.
“AS YOU WISH.”
The darkness was stripped from her so fast that she was momentarily blinded.
Nineteen
Bright! So bright! Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace; the lights around the pit felt like she was looking straight into the sun after coming out of whatever black-hole she’d been in. Then, instantly, her eyes adjusted: and she saw, in perfect clarity, what would be the last strike of the match. #003 was holding her up by one shoulder, and his other fist was cocked back: ready to drive it straight into her face. She was already half-lying on the floor of the arena; sooner, rather than later, she’d be sprawled down completely.
“I have to win,” Nineteen found the words coming from her mouth, even though she wasn’t consciously forming them. #003 paused momentarily, and she even saw a flash of pity flicker across his face.
And that was the end. The end of rationale thought, the end of any internal dialogue, the moment where her morality was bent to its breaking point… and snapped.
His fist came down but Nineteen launched herself forward, roaring with a sound that was nearly inhuman. #003 obviously hadn’t expected this, and his blow only clipped her shoulder: Nineteen’s skull collided with the bridge of his nose in a forceful headbutt.
Dazed, his grip on her shoulder loosened, and Nineteen scrambled out from under him. When he tried to snag her, flop his weight on her, she kicked at the side of his temple. The crowd was going positively apeshit crazy: not crazy as they would be though. No… not yet. The end was still determined now, and no one expected her to win. They did not roar for the underdog’s victory, only for the continuation of the battle.
But still, the noise of it, the power of it, filled her. Her breath came back, and later she would recall a scene from Gladiator, a movie she’d requested mostly out of bitter irony, but had grown to love more than it really had merit for. In it, the Gladiator-owner (and ex-Gladiator himself) held up a sword. “Thrust this into another man's flesh, and they will applaud and love you for that,” he’d said, indicating the bloodthirsty crowd. The next line though, that was the important one, because it was the one that crept up on you in all its implications. “You may even begin to love them.”
And now, now Nineteen did love them. She loved them the way a drowning man could love a mouthful of oxygen, a starving woman a scrap of meat. And in moments, she would feel their true love, their real love, wash over her. Divine power was surging in her veins, the knowledge that she would win, that it was not only ordained (though that was nice too), but that it was true because she was better.
A better fighter. A better Gladiator.
Before #003 could fully get to his feet, Nineteen was on him, a whirlwind of elbows and knees on his ribcage, his collarbone, his gut and throat. She was euphoric, past the pain of her own broken nose, pain the pain of bone hitting bone. Nineteen rode the high of vindication meeting all that unbridled rage stored deep down, spread her mind and soul at the point of their collision, and let it all come crashing through her.
He landed blows but she didn’t feel them. The crowd was reaching that turning point, the point where they realized just what had happened, was happening. And, only a little quicker than them, so was #003. She kept striking, over and over, blowing all of her defense for (faster, harder, stronger) offense. At last he gasped for air, and just as she landed a hit to his throat. #003 staggered backwards, and Nineteen heard the audience screaming even louder, if that was possible. The turning point. No person left sitting in their seat. Bettors had rushed to the sidelines, fingers entwined in the chainlink fencing that began where the cement walls leading to the sandy pit ended.
Nineteen backed away, letting the thrumming, electrifying feel of the sound wrap its ecstatic cocoon around her. She let #003 try to catch his breath. Hell, she even lifted her arms up, a sign of victory, that she had control of the situation, and gave the audience a grisly smile that was caked with the blood that had run down her face. She stared into the beast whose roar welcome her, honored her,worshipped her. And by whatever god you please, it was beautiful.
#003 did not advance on her. He was heavily favoring one leg, the knee cap of which she’d dislocated. His other hand was held out in a warding gesture. His lips were moving, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying over the roar of the crowd. Then, Nineteen heard it.
“MY NAME IS SREFT404. MY NAME IS SREFT404! I AM AN ASSISTANT TO A SUB-VISSER! I AM IN CHARGE OF THIS HOST NOW, AND I ORDER YOU TO STAND DOWN!”
Nineteen was puzzled, and whatever enforcers there were in the crowds, very quickly it became very quiet. He kept on repeating what he’d said.
“STAND DOWN! I’M WARNING YOU, I WILL INFORM THE SUBVISSERS ABOUT THIS, STAND DOWN RIGHT NOW!”
Nineteen
Nineteen watched him, breath held. He must have really been a Controller. This move was way too ballsy for a Gladiator, at least for anyone who made it up to the level where they’d be facing her. If he was just a human, accepting a defeat might mean getting reassigned as some other sort of host, or at worst, being killed. Nineteen didn’t want to know what they would do to a human pulling this kind of stunt.
So no… he was a Controller.
Nineteen was locked inside a cage with one of those whiny, abusive, things that had done this to her planet. To her.
She picked up the baton, feeling the cold metal in her hand. What came next she would only ever be able to remember in flashes.
All but falling onto to the Controller, striking and growling like something they’d keep on a leash even in Hell. Hearing his skull as is fragmented under the blows of the metal baton. His crying shrieks as he tried desperately, but was unable to dislodge her. The chunks of white bone and pink tissue that scattered in the air like confetti, next to the endless spray and droplets of blood.
The way the bone of his cranium, shattered and jagged, cut her hand as she reached inside the skull of still living human being.
The feel of her fingernails biting into the flesh of the slug that had pressed itself as far away from her hand as possible, poking and digging into the mass of #003's brain to consolidate her hold.
Holding the body of Sreft404, its real body, up towards the light, the light that could have been the sun, the light that could have been Heaven for all she knew by now.
The positively deafening roar of the crowd as she threw the Yeerk to the ground below, raised one (bare) foot, and stamped so hard that she nearly slid backwards. The smear of the slug’s insides on the gritty sand, cool and wet against the heat of her skin. The feeling of the enemy oozing up between her toes.
The prick of the tranquilizer dart (or three) that knocked her cold, even while she was still bellowing back at the crowd that was bellowing along with her, a bloody, primal communion.
The darkness that fell on this ritual of hatred and powerlessness: because I’d do the same to any one of you, if you stepped in here, within my reach, her roar had said.
We know, they had called back, full-throated, screaming themselves hoarse with voices that weren’t their own. And we love you for it.
Bryan
Bryan was the only one in the crowd not cheering and he had a feeling that if anyone noticed this he would be turned on and killed just as surely as that controller and the yeerk in it's head had been. He pressed himself into the corner and watched the woman roar and the crowd roar back. She was beautiful. In this moment she was beautiful.
He looked away, looked down, his face hidden in shadows cast by the bright lights of the arena.
That beauty was a terrible thing to see.
Alora
Vanim was grinning wildly, her eyes fixed avidly on the scene before them. Seeing such savage brutality made her heart race.. like falling in love. The carnage the fighter had shown was unlike anything the ring had seen in months. Alora had seen many of the fights since coming to Vegas, having had a natural attraction to such things, but had yet to see anything that sparked her full attention.
Now she couldn't pull herself away. "Fantastic! Too bad it'll be killed for that little stunt. A fighter killing a sub-visser's assistant." She clicked her teeth, shaking her head sadly, "Well it's probably best not to let such a volatile creature live. Don't you agree?"
Nineteen
The sound of a door slamming open, and someone all but charging in, made Nineteen look over. She didn’t move her head though: the nurse was carefully wiping away the dirt and grime from her face. His heads were steady and maybe surprisingly tender, and he remained unbothered by the noise as well, working diligently and carefully. At that moment Nineteen saw Sard115, Junior Executive of the Coliseum.
She did not look happy. Dressed in her usual businesswoman’s attire (though it was filthy now: as if she’d had to drudge through the crowd at some point on her way over…an image that mightily pleased Nineteen) Sard’s dark skin was misted with perspiration. Nineteen wondered if these were the first drops of sweat she’d ever had to experience. Nineteen smiled—only slightly, and only briefly—but the nurse smiled back, slightly raising his eyebrows, as if in silent agreement. Their proximity obscures the short exchange from Sard’s vision.
“I don’t even know why you’re bothering with patching her up!” Sard shouted. “We’re finished as a BUSINESS, and they’ll be COMING for us!” With a huff she threw down a manila-colored folder she’d been carrying, where it slapped against a nearby countertop. A few sheets of paper from within it went flying. “And I’m making damn sure that she’s the first to go!”
But Sard made no moves, not yet. She paced a little, and reorganized her sheets. “Sreft404, Assistant to Subvisser80. Subvisser80 isn’t local, but she was here on a business trip. And now our entire organization is going to be exposed—there’s no way we’re gonna be able to keep what just happened private! There isn’t enough money or favors in the world to buy that much silence!”
Still, the nurse paid her no mind. He did not spend any time touching Nineteen’s face longer than it took him to get off all the blood, and put on a small, thin strip of adhesive over a cut at the bridge of it. Mutely, he held up his hands: ‘where else’? Nineteen held her left hand out. It had sustained many superficial cuts against Sreft’s skull (Not Sreft’s skull, she’d thought once, and then let the thought go), and a couple that were rather deep. With that same steady pace, her nurse began disinfecting the cuts.
There was the sound of panting in the doorway now, and around the corner appeared Ares. Ares was the Senior Executive of the Coliseum, and had been insisting on being called by the Grecian god of war’s name apparently even before the Coliseum had become an established center of illegal pit-fights. Nineteen supposed that if anyone knew Ares’ real name—Yeerk and host—that it would be Sard115. It was all the same to Nineteen one way or the other, though.
Apparently no one had informed Ares’ that the namesake better suited a trim young male host than a female one in her mid-fifties, fleshy and pale in a slightly-overweight, grandmotherly way. That large, matronly figure bee-lined for Nineteen, as if seeing no one else in the room at all. Cheery, flushed, Ares’ bent over and planted a moist hand on either side of Nineteen’s face, and a (sort of slobbery) kiss on her forehead.
Nineteen bore this the way statue bore the goings-on of birds, or a large passive dog the prodding of children. Ares’ seemed to be completely unperturbed by the idea that the statue could topple, or the dog suddenly shift temperaments. The nurse ducked out of the way, but was otherwise still transfixed with caring for Nineteen’s hand. He’d begun to apply local anesthetic via injection, and Nineteen did not so much as grimace.
Sard made several exasperated noises. “W-Whu-” And then, at the top of her voice, yelled, “SHE’S RUINED US!” There seemed to be no other words to express her supreme displeasure, and even those weren’t doing the trick, from how she still fumed.
“She’s made us rich!” Ares’ replied after stepping back. She looked around and then began fanning herself with the folder on Sreft404. Sard look positively mortified.
“We were already rich,” Sard hissed. “Not that we will be after we’re done trying to shut all those damned viewers up, let alone all the schmoozing we’ll need to smooth this over at the gambling office!”
Nineteen, who was generally apathetic about any of what happened outside of the arena and not even remotely intrigued by this conversation was more interested in the fact that an enraged Sard115 had used the word ‘schmoozing,’ and how silly the ooo sound came out when she was so obviously pissed.
“She’s made us filthy rich and famous,” Ares’ crooned, handed clapped together, as if she really hadn’t heard anything Sard had said.
“We were most certainly ‘filthy’ rich before tonight, and maybe even famous, among the right crowds.” Sard’s lips were drawn so tight they all but disappeared. “But ‘famous’ isn’t exactly something that someone in our line of work strives for, unless you’ve forgotten how illegal this all is.”
“Buck up, Sard. Any publicity is good publicity.”
“There IS a difference between fame and infamy, Ares’! We aren’t going to be able to sweet talk our way out of this one! Not this time!”
“You mean trying hopelessly to keep quite the best human pit-fight any Yeerk’s ever seen? Slink out of town in the shadows while backstabbing our fall guys? Nah, in that case, you’re right.” But still, that same insufferable smile. That greedy fucking smile. Nineteen’s fist clenched, only lightly, and for a brief second her nurse patted her knee. Then he went back to the process of stitching the two deeper cuts on her hand. It wouldn’t take many, luckily. Just add to the collective all over her knuckles and wrists.
“Just spit out whatever you’re going to say,” Sard demanded waspishly. “If we’re not getting the hell out of here, or running any kind of damage control, what are we going to do?”
“We, my fine companion,” Ares’ smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “Are going to hold a tournament.”
"Unlike Cassie, unlike Tobias perhaps, I'm ruthless at times. But even I have enough sense to know the words 'we have to win' are the first four steps on the road to hell." - Rachel, The Underground
________________________________________
Nineteen wasn’t liking this match. #003 was strong, definitely a weight class higher than her, and the fact that he was a guy didn’t help her much. His muscles were denser, stronger, and she might be a bit faster, but strength usually beat speed in the end.
She was the underdog in this match, and that wasn’t a feeling she’d grown accustomed to lately. She was supposed to be the reigning queen of the ring, and usually she put down whatever little girls they tried to throw at her with an ease that came with experience and incumbency. They were all still run of the mill gladiators, probably slept in beds that were a bit too cold, rooms that were dank if clean.
She, on the other hand, was a champ. She ate three square meals a day, and more if she wanted snacks. She slept in a comfortable bed. There were bars on her cage, sure, but she wasn’t chained to anything. All the marks of a winner, right?
Except she wasn’t winning now.
#003 struck! Nineteen jerked aside, but too late, some of the powerhouse punch caught her, clipping her temple. The world reeled. Her nose was already busted, and she could taste the blood all the way down the back of her throat. The roar of the crowd was deafening, and it shoved its way into her mind as she slammed, off-balance, against the chainlink cage that surrounded the fighting ring.
No time to grasp the links, no time to think, no time to ponder how the sound itself would be enough to floor most people. She dodged, intuitively, and #003’s fist connected with the chainlink, rattling it so hard that the vibration was sent deep into the ground, past the sand and into the cement where the fence was secured. #0019 tucked and rolled along the dusty, sandy floor, scrambling to her feet at the first chance she had.
Nineteen turned, fists raised—just in time to see the first two knuckles of #003’s hand coming straight towards her jaw. Her jaw pressed against the nerves that sent messages to her brain: the natural human ‘power off’ button. Ah, the art of a knock-out.
Blackness swallowed her.
Nineteen
It was dark, but Nineteen was awake. And she wasn’t alone… she could feel that immediately. No, no there was someone else here with her. Something else with her. And it was also awake. Watching her. It noticed that she came to consciousness, and it smiled: even if she saw no mouth she could feel the tremble that it sent running down her spine, and Nineteen was not scared of very many things as a rule.
“HELLO 19.”
Nineteen cringed. She wasn’t even sure she had a body (where was she? it was all dark, and not just night-time underground dark), but still, she felt herself back away, shrink away from that voice. And then, though it provided no light, there was a red eye: it was enormous, and she could not close her eyes against it. It opened to her, and there could be no choice of hiding; it wanted to see her, and she would be seen, in all her glaring flaws and imperfections.
“YOU’RE AFRAID.” It wasn’t a question.
“F-fuck you!”
The voice laughed, a noise that was somehow inhuman, almost mechanical. But then as it continued it changed, until it was nothing but human, the sound of a crowd jeering her after a loss. And it continued, building, until she thought her eyeballs (did she have eyes?) would pop from her skull from the pressure.
“I HAD EXPECTED NOTHING LESS OF YOU, 19. BUT HUMANS HAVE AN APT SAYING FOR THIS SITUATION: NEVER LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH.”
Nineteen cowered, but she felt herself snarling—or trying to snarl. This wasn’t a dream, but it wasn’t a real place either, was it? That’s what made it all the more terrifying. A dream she could wake up from, be away from this… thing.
Or maybe she was dead. Maybe #003 had hit her harder than she thought. Maybe she’d already checked out, and they’d be feeding her body to the Taxxons.
Maybe this was Hell.
Either way, Nineteen refused to be completely cowed. She was terrified beyond all reason, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life (including the day they’d thrown her in a cage and branded her), but she had long ago begun the process of turning fear into fury, horror into hatred. Even if the posturing, cursing was just an act, it was an act that had become so much a part of her that in a way, it was her.
“HMM. PERHAPS ANOTHER IDIOM WOULD WORK BETTER. AH YES: DO NOT BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU.” The voice said it like one might savor a well-cooked meal; like he’d known that that’s what he wanted to say all along, but had wanted to wait, wanted to prolong her fear.
At this, Nineteen’s expression melted into a look of half-confusion, half-anger. “THAT’S BETTER. AFTER ALL, IT IS A LESSON YOU KNOW WELL, IS IT NOT, 19?” She hated the way he said her name. Of course it wasn’t really her name, hadn’t always been, but she couldn’t even remember her real name after hearing nothing but that for so long. But when he said it, it really wasn’t a name at all: it really was nothing more than a number. “GLADIATORS OF THE PAST FOUGHT TO EARN THEIR FREEDOM. BUT THAT IS A THING YOU CAN NEVER EARN, NOT IN THIS WORLD. INSTEAD, YOU FIGHT FOR TRINKETS. YOU DO BATTLE FOR THEIR ENTERTAINMENT, AND THEY PROVIDE REWARDS, AND YOU ACCEPT.”
Nineteen wanted to rage against him: she might be scared, but he was calling her a coward, which she was not. Who was this? What was this eye—some demon from her subconscious? How the hell could he ever know what it was like? She knew she was a slave; to live comfortably or to mire in some filthy, half-starved state wouldn’t make it any different, and she at least was smart enough to knowthat-
“YES, YOU ARE SMART ENOUGH.” The voice was pure condescension, as if he might as well have been patting her on the head. “WHICH IS WHY I BELIEVE THAT YOU WILL MAKE THE RIGHT DECISION AND ALLOW ME TO HELP YOU.”
Help her? She was still scared, beyond scared, but she was also interested. Whatever this thing was, it was a powerful. And Nineteen knew the benefit of having powerful friends. Still, there was no doubt in any part of her that this thing was also somehow wrong. Evil, maybe even, though she’d long since been robbed of the fairytale notions of good and evil.
“I don’t need help.” Still posturing. But when the tough-girl thing was the only card in your hand (hell, the only card in your entire deck), and you had to play the hand you had…
The voice didn’t laugh this time. Instead, it pulled her closer somehow, wrapped around her like some sort of jet-black python. It squeezed, enough to show her how easily it could crush her, but not enough to cause her any harm. When the voice spoke again it was almost soft; as much as it could be, though the kindness was false and feigned in every way. It didn’t even try to hide how fake it sounded. “OH YES, 19, YOU DO.” The coils around her tightened a miniscule amount, as if to be comforting. “YOU ARE UNCONSCIOUS RIGHT NOW. YOUR OPPONENT IS ABOUT TO SCORE THE LAST, WINNING STRIKE OF THIS MATCH. YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED FOR THE UPCOMING TOURNAMENT.”
Suddenly, though she could still feel the weight of the creature around her, could still feel its eye, she could see herself. It was right after she’d been struck—a string of spittle and blood was caught, poised in the air after exiting her mouth.
“I HAVE STOPPED TIME-”
“You can stop time?” Nineteen couldn’t help herself from interrupting. Even the creature seemed mildly surprised that he’d be cut off.
“YES. I CAN DO MANY THINGS, 19.” The scales slid over her, and this time she did feel strangely… comforted. Terrified yes, but also intrigued, and lulled by the sheer display of power. “I CAN MAKE IT SO THAT YOU STILL WIN THIS FIGHT.”
Why? Why would this thing, this eye, help her? Nineteen knew better than to trust gifts from strangers. There was no such thing as No Strings Attached.
“What’s the catch?”
The eye laughed at her, both mean and pleased. “THE TIME WILL COME WHEN YOU ARE OFFERED YOUR FREEDOM. THIS WILL ONLY HAPPEN IF YOU WIN TONIGHT’S MATCH. I MERELY ASK THAT WHEN YOU ARE GIVEN THE CHOICE, YOU CHOOSE TO GO WITH YOUR NEWFOUND ALLIES.”
What? What kind of deal was that? He was saving her, and in return, all she had to do was walk out when someone, some unknown saviors opened the door to her cell and told her she was free? That sounded double-good for her, and it wouldn’t be giving him anything in return. Or would it? Who were these people that would save her? Why was it important that she go with them? Was this just some omniscient, all-powerful being’s idea of a joke?
“But… but what does that give you?”
It chuckled at her: as if she was an ant, inquiring about the workings of a god, and he could just as easily crush her into oblivion.
“WHAT WILL YOUR CHOICE BE, 19? SHALL I MAKE YOU THE VICTOR OF THIS FIGHT, WHICH WILL PUT YOU ON THE PATH TO FREEDOM? OR WOULD YOU PREFER TO LOSE, FADING AWAY INTO OBSCURITY AND THE DIMMER REACHES OF SLAVERY?”
Well, when you put it like that… she didn’t really have any choice at all, did she? Or if she did, it was impossible to see past those two options, until her mind was utterly convinced that those were the only possible outcomes.
“I, I-”
“ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK.”
“Okay. Do it.” Nothing. Silence. She couldn’t even feel the weight of the python-grip anymore. She was floating in nowhere-space, dead-space. “Will you help me, please?” Still, nothing at all. Now her fear was spiking again, the terror from before creeping back in, though this time it seemed even more horrible to not have that Eye, that Voice, at all.
“Please! Please help me!” She didn’t know what she was doing wrong. Had it all been a joke? Something teasing with her? Her own mind playing tricks? She might think that, if she wasn’t caught in this in-between zone. Nineteen was all alone in the dark, in a space where something could tear into her flesh, start eating her insides while she was fully aware of it, and unable to see a thing.
“Please!” She was screaming now, frantic, and tears were coming to her eyes. “I can’t lose! I want to win, I want to win, I HAVE TO WIN!”
Then, in the dark, there was snickering. The coils around her tightened a last time, until she felt like she’d pop like a tube of toothpaste squeezed too hard. Still, it was better than that all-encompassing blackness.
“AS YOU WISH.”
The darkness was stripped from her so fast that she was momentarily blinded.
Nineteen
Bright! So bright! Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace; the lights around the pit felt like she was looking straight into the sun after coming out of whatever black-hole she’d been in. Then, instantly, her eyes adjusted: and she saw, in perfect clarity, what would be the last strike of the match. #003 was holding her up by one shoulder, and his other fist was cocked back: ready to drive it straight into her face. She was already half-lying on the floor of the arena; sooner, rather than later, she’d be sprawled down completely.
“I have to win,” Nineteen found the words coming from her mouth, even though she wasn’t consciously forming them. #003 paused momentarily, and she even saw a flash of pity flicker across his face.
And that was the end. The end of rationale thought, the end of any internal dialogue, the moment where her morality was bent to its breaking point… and snapped.
His fist came down but Nineteen launched herself forward, roaring with a sound that was nearly inhuman. #003 obviously hadn’t expected this, and his blow only clipped her shoulder: Nineteen’s skull collided with the bridge of his nose in a forceful headbutt.
Dazed, his grip on her shoulder loosened, and Nineteen scrambled out from under him. When he tried to snag her, flop his weight on her, she kicked at the side of his temple. The crowd was going positively apeshit crazy: not crazy as they would be though. No… not yet. The end was still determined now, and no one expected her to win. They did not roar for the underdog’s victory, only for the continuation of the battle.
But still, the noise of it, the power of it, filled her. Her breath came back, and later she would recall a scene from Gladiator, a movie she’d requested mostly out of bitter irony, but had grown to love more than it really had merit for. In it, the Gladiator-owner (and ex-Gladiator himself) held up a sword. “Thrust this into another man's flesh, and they will applaud and love you for that,” he’d said, indicating the bloodthirsty crowd. The next line though, that was the important one, because it was the one that crept up on you in all its implications. “You may even begin to love them.”
And now, now Nineteen did love them. She loved them the way a drowning man could love a mouthful of oxygen, a starving woman a scrap of meat. And in moments, she would feel their true love, their real love, wash over her. Divine power was surging in her veins, the knowledge that she would win, that it was not only ordained (though that was nice too), but that it was true because she was better.
A better fighter. A better Gladiator.
Before #003 could fully get to his feet, Nineteen was on him, a whirlwind of elbows and knees on his ribcage, his collarbone, his gut and throat. She was euphoric, past the pain of her own broken nose, pain the pain of bone hitting bone. Nineteen rode the high of vindication meeting all that unbridled rage stored deep down, spread her mind and soul at the point of their collision, and let it all come crashing through her.
He landed blows but she didn’t feel them. The crowd was reaching that turning point, the point where they realized just what had happened, was happening. And, only a little quicker than them, so was #003. She kept striking, over and over, blowing all of her defense for (faster, harder, stronger) offense. At last he gasped for air, and just as she landed a hit to his throat. #003 staggered backwards, and Nineteen heard the audience screaming even louder, if that was possible. The turning point. No person left sitting in their seat. Bettors had rushed to the sidelines, fingers entwined in the chainlink fencing that began where the cement walls leading to the sandy pit ended.
Nineteen backed away, letting the thrumming, electrifying feel of the sound wrap its ecstatic cocoon around her. She let #003 try to catch his breath. Hell, she even lifted her arms up, a sign of victory, that she had control of the situation, and gave the audience a grisly smile that was caked with the blood that had run down her face. She stared into the beast whose roar welcome her, honored her,worshipped her. And by whatever god you please, it was beautiful.
#003 did not advance on her. He was heavily favoring one leg, the knee cap of which she’d dislocated. His other hand was held out in a warding gesture. His lips were moving, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying over the roar of the crowd. Then, Nineteen heard it.
“MY NAME IS SREFT404. MY NAME IS SREFT404! I AM AN ASSISTANT TO A SUB-VISSER! I AM IN CHARGE OF THIS HOST NOW, AND I ORDER YOU TO STAND DOWN!”
Nineteen was puzzled, and whatever enforcers there were in the crowds, very quickly it became very quiet. He kept on repeating what he’d said.
“STAND DOWN! I’M WARNING YOU, I WILL INFORM THE SUBVISSERS ABOUT THIS, STAND DOWN RIGHT NOW!”
Nineteen
Nineteen watched him, breath held. He must have really been a Controller. This move was way too ballsy for a Gladiator, at least for anyone who made it up to the level where they’d be facing her. If he was just a human, accepting a defeat might mean getting reassigned as some other sort of host, or at worst, being killed. Nineteen didn’t want to know what they would do to a human pulling this kind of stunt.
So no… he was a Controller.
Nineteen was locked inside a cage with one of those whiny, abusive, things that had done this to her planet. To her.
She picked up the baton, feeling the cold metal in her hand. What came next she would only ever be able to remember in flashes.
All but falling onto to the Controller, striking and growling like something they’d keep on a leash even in Hell. Hearing his skull as is fragmented under the blows of the metal baton. His crying shrieks as he tried desperately, but was unable to dislodge her. The chunks of white bone and pink tissue that scattered in the air like confetti, next to the endless spray and droplets of blood.
The way the bone of his cranium, shattered and jagged, cut her hand as she reached inside the skull of still living human being.
The feel of her fingernails biting into the flesh of the slug that had pressed itself as far away from her hand as possible, poking and digging into the mass of #003's brain to consolidate her hold.
Holding the body of Sreft404, its real body, up towards the light, the light that could have been the sun, the light that could have been Heaven for all she knew by now.
The positively deafening roar of the crowd as she threw the Yeerk to the ground below, raised one (bare) foot, and stamped so hard that she nearly slid backwards. The smear of the slug’s insides on the gritty sand, cool and wet against the heat of her skin. The feeling of the enemy oozing up between her toes.
The prick of the tranquilizer dart (or three) that knocked her cold, even while she was still bellowing back at the crowd that was bellowing along with her, a bloody, primal communion.
The darkness that fell on this ritual of hatred and powerlessness: because I’d do the same to any one of you, if you stepped in here, within my reach, her roar had said.
We know, they had called back, full-throated, screaming themselves hoarse with voices that weren’t their own. And we love you for it.
Bryan
Bryan was the only one in the crowd not cheering and he had a feeling that if anyone noticed this he would be turned on and killed just as surely as that controller and the yeerk in it's head had been. He pressed himself into the corner and watched the woman roar and the crowd roar back. She was beautiful. In this moment she was beautiful.
He looked away, looked down, his face hidden in shadows cast by the bright lights of the arena.
That beauty was a terrible thing to see.
Alora
Vanim was grinning wildly, her eyes fixed avidly on the scene before them. Seeing such savage brutality made her heart race.. like falling in love. The carnage the fighter had shown was unlike anything the ring had seen in months. Alora had seen many of the fights since coming to Vegas, having had a natural attraction to such things, but had yet to see anything that sparked her full attention.
Now she couldn't pull herself away. "Fantastic! Too bad it'll be killed for that little stunt. A fighter killing a sub-visser's assistant." She clicked her teeth, shaking her head sadly, "Well it's probably best not to let such a volatile creature live. Don't you agree?"
Nineteen
The sound of a door slamming open, and someone all but charging in, made Nineteen look over. She didn’t move her head though: the nurse was carefully wiping away the dirt and grime from her face. His heads were steady and maybe surprisingly tender, and he remained unbothered by the noise as well, working diligently and carefully. At that moment Nineteen saw Sard115, Junior Executive of the Coliseum.
She did not look happy. Dressed in her usual businesswoman’s attire (though it was filthy now: as if she’d had to drudge through the crowd at some point on her way over…an image that mightily pleased Nineteen) Sard’s dark skin was misted with perspiration. Nineteen wondered if these were the first drops of sweat she’d ever had to experience. Nineteen smiled—only slightly, and only briefly—but the nurse smiled back, slightly raising his eyebrows, as if in silent agreement. Their proximity obscures the short exchange from Sard’s vision.
“I don’t even know why you’re bothering with patching her up!” Sard shouted. “We’re finished as a BUSINESS, and they’ll be COMING for us!” With a huff she threw down a manila-colored folder she’d been carrying, where it slapped against a nearby countertop. A few sheets of paper from within it went flying. “And I’m making damn sure that she’s the first to go!”
But Sard made no moves, not yet. She paced a little, and reorganized her sheets. “Sreft404, Assistant to Subvisser80. Subvisser80 isn’t local, but she was here on a business trip. And now our entire organization is going to be exposed—there’s no way we’re gonna be able to keep what just happened private! There isn’t enough money or favors in the world to buy that much silence!”
Still, the nurse paid her no mind. He did not spend any time touching Nineteen’s face longer than it took him to get off all the blood, and put on a small, thin strip of adhesive over a cut at the bridge of it. Mutely, he held up his hands: ‘where else’? Nineteen held her left hand out. It had sustained many superficial cuts against Sreft’s skull (Not Sreft’s skull, she’d thought once, and then let the thought go), and a couple that were rather deep. With that same steady pace, her nurse began disinfecting the cuts.
There was the sound of panting in the doorway now, and around the corner appeared Ares. Ares was the Senior Executive of the Coliseum, and had been insisting on being called by the Grecian god of war’s name apparently even before the Coliseum had become an established center of illegal pit-fights. Nineteen supposed that if anyone knew Ares’ real name—Yeerk and host—that it would be Sard115. It was all the same to Nineteen one way or the other, though.
Apparently no one had informed Ares’ that the namesake better suited a trim young male host than a female one in her mid-fifties, fleshy and pale in a slightly-overweight, grandmotherly way. That large, matronly figure bee-lined for Nineteen, as if seeing no one else in the room at all. Cheery, flushed, Ares’ bent over and planted a moist hand on either side of Nineteen’s face, and a (sort of slobbery) kiss on her forehead.
Nineteen bore this the way statue bore the goings-on of birds, or a large passive dog the prodding of children. Ares’ seemed to be completely unperturbed by the idea that the statue could topple, or the dog suddenly shift temperaments. The nurse ducked out of the way, but was otherwise still transfixed with caring for Nineteen’s hand. He’d begun to apply local anesthetic via injection, and Nineteen did not so much as grimace.
Sard made several exasperated noises. “W-Whu-” And then, at the top of her voice, yelled, “SHE’S RUINED US!” There seemed to be no other words to express her supreme displeasure, and even those weren’t doing the trick, from how she still fumed.
“She’s made us rich!” Ares’ replied after stepping back. She looked around and then began fanning herself with the folder on Sreft404. Sard look positively mortified.
“We were already rich,” Sard hissed. “Not that we will be after we’re done trying to shut all those damned viewers up, let alone all the schmoozing we’ll need to smooth this over at the gambling office!”
Nineteen, who was generally apathetic about any of what happened outside of the arena and not even remotely intrigued by this conversation was more interested in the fact that an enraged Sard115 had used the word ‘schmoozing,’ and how silly the ooo sound came out when she was so obviously pissed.
“She’s made us filthy rich and famous,” Ares’ crooned, handed clapped together, as if she really hadn’t heard anything Sard had said.
“We were most certainly ‘filthy’ rich before tonight, and maybe even famous, among the right crowds.” Sard’s lips were drawn so tight they all but disappeared. “But ‘famous’ isn’t exactly something that someone in our line of work strives for, unless you’ve forgotten how illegal this all is.”
“Buck up, Sard. Any publicity is good publicity.”
“There IS a difference between fame and infamy, Ares’! We aren’t going to be able to sweet talk our way out of this one! Not this time!”
“You mean trying hopelessly to keep quite the best human pit-fight any Yeerk’s ever seen? Slink out of town in the shadows while backstabbing our fall guys? Nah, in that case, you’re right.” But still, that same insufferable smile. That greedy fucking smile. Nineteen’s fist clenched, only lightly, and for a brief second her nurse patted her knee. Then he went back to the process of stitching the two deeper cuts on her hand. It wouldn’t take many, luckily. Just add to the collective all over her knuckles and wrists.
“Just spit out whatever you’re going to say,” Sard demanded waspishly. “If we’re not getting the hell out of here, or running any kind of damage control, what are we going to do?”
“We, my fine companion,” Ares’ smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “Are going to hold a tournament.”
