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by LordSaladin on Fri Jul 10, 2009 5:43 pm
The arena was old, or at least designed to be old. Despite mould caused by damp upon the sandy coloured walls, the musty smell of sweat, death and stale water was absent. A ruse that many would find themselves succumbing to; the ragged fighter almost walked into the trap too, but his four remaining senses told more than just sight did. There was a thick silence weighing upon the air, adding to the stuffiness of the over-heated building like a near-tangible presence sat upon shoulders.
The corridor was a narrow one, empty, in which each bare-footed step echoed. Like the gentle click-click-clicking of a metronome, Combatant876's movement was slow, meaningful, predatory; yet to the common observer, leisurely. There was no external signification that this poorly dressed, short and - upon first glance - malnourished man would momentarily enter an arena within which he would be fighting for his life. Fighting to kill.
Grey eyes were unfocused, seeing but not. It was almost time, and as with each kill he had performed previously, a strange stillness overcame the fighter: Like the calm before a storm, or a lion laying low in the grasslands, ready to pounce. He was a hunter, though. And despite not yet knowing the quarry, there would be only a short time before it was seen. And at that point, the hunt would begin with the ferocity of a wild beast. No mercy or quarter displayed.
That time was not now. At this moment, calm was being pressed upon by the silent anticipation of the crowds. Through walls far too thin to give authenticity for those knowledgeable, the impatient scuffing of feet could be heard, like the scratching of a bird's feet upon wood. A smile nearly curled the lips of this devoid fighter. Nearly. These poor spectators really had no clue what they were soon to witness. It really would be like the games of old, only this time, the tiger would not be confined to chains.
Shifting too loose clothes still dirty from his journey, Combatant made them a little more comfortable. Then the silence shattered, if only for a moment. The thumping of feet suddenly having to bear the weight of full bodies caused dust to fall to the ground, a light covering upon the bald head and barely covered shoulders of 876. He didn't notice, he knew what would be next.
The crowd roared excitedly, hungrily, with aggression; obviously the opponent had entered the arena and the thirst for bloodshed had overtaken the barbarian crowd. More dust fell as excitement overtook the simpletons, their lives soon to be fulfilled by seeing the inevitable suffering and death of other humans. It was strange to Combatant876 that humans would find such pleasure in death - he had been given no choice: Death was his purpose. And perhaps, just maybe, if he could step away from that... Would he? He wasn't sure: After all, it was his only skill.
A short distance ahead stood a suited man, perhaps a tournament official, just before the beam of bright sunlight that penetrated the dark corridor. The dirty man eyed the other closely, wondering about his purpose, judging if the official would be a threat, hindrance or was there simply to add an unstable variable to the equation of this fight. He made no movement, as though in a trance-like stance. But, as Combatant passed, a short, curt nod was offered. Unreturned.
And it rushed upon our fighter like a wave. The blinding sunlight took more than a mere moment to adjust to - an interesting occurrence. The genetic modifications had given his irises a reaction time as near to instant as could be measured, so adjustments to light levels were generally moot. A hand raised to shield eyes that were in risk of permanent damage, and as it lifted another interesting occurrence took place. Strength. It was less. Reduced to that of a normal fellow. Most interesting.
As the arena came back into focus, there was a hushed atmosphere about the arena. The crowd looked at the bald man, who had not found reason to clean even his face, and wondered if a mistake had been made. There shock was understandable, but, as 876 continued on towards the other, their laughter surely was not. It did bring a smile to the dirty face, though.
Sweeping with the grandeur of ages, no matter how fabricated those 'ages' were, the arena was truly magnificent. The high walls, nearly circular, held countless numbers of laughing spectators, seemed to glow in the light of the early-afternoon sun, and towered above both fighters as though judging their every movement. Oh, how it would have been good to live in the days of true warriors!
Combatant876 felt the grass and sand between his toes with each rhythmic step. A gentle beat that had not changed, constant, unwavering, unending. Well, until he stopped, but within his body, the metronome still clicked. There was the quarry, six feet away, just out of range. The smile had been extinguished long before the... Old man could see it, and the crowd had stopped laughing now.
As though simply waiting in line, Combatant876 stood before the other, arms hung idly at his side, shoulders slumped a little, and looking entirely harmless. The clothes only highlighted the perception of skinniness, and his manner and lack of stance certainly gave 876 away as an inexperienced fighter.
Look a little closer, though, see past what initial impressions and prejudice demanded you see, and a hunter was clearly present within the arena. Sat low in the grass, silent, calm, the lion was ready to take that old grandfather antelope and have lunch. A moment longer, and the hunt would begin. The spring would uncoil.
Please tell me now what life is, Please tell me now what love is... Again, tell me what life is.
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