Snippet #2274103

~Taran Mortair~

“You,” the coordinator pointed at Taran with a pen. “Get up, you’re next.” He sighed and stood, walking over to the steambots who were guarding the long entryway to the arena. He smiled and nodded at the girl who exited, before entering himself at the steambot’s command. He hated this hallway. It was far too long for his liking. He would have preferred that it was a simple gate from the arena to the waiting room, but instead it was a long tunnel like hallway. Once he exited, he took up his position, and watched at they let out the person who’s life he would end today. He truly pitied his opponent. The thing that was fighting him was so twisted that it was barely human anymore, it spread it's limbs out on the ground, planting itself like an animal. There were several horns protruding out of its body, where the bones overgrew. Its face was long like a dog’s and a bone plate covered from the tip of the nose to the back of the head, leaving holes only for the eyes and nostrils. Taran could not even tell if it was a male or female. It bared its teeth and gave a primal snarl challenging Taran to attack. He wanted nothing more than to end this thing’s life to end its suffering. He knew that it probably did not know how bad its life was, but that did not matter. The problem was, that if he simply put an end to the creature immediately, the audience would be disappointed. If the audience was not happy, then his handlers made sure he was not happy.

He spun the long pole in one hand through his fingers for a few seconds at a high speed before snapping it to a stop by planting it in the ground. The length and placement of the sharp, bone, spike-like horns would make it extremely difficult to fight this thing empty-handed, and would therefore take longer and require him to use his imagination. Two things the audience loved. He deliberately walked forward to the thing, seemingly casually and with his guard down. A thousand strategies were running through his head, a habit that his Master drilled into him in their daily training sessions. He could even hear the old man’s voice telling him his favorite sayings. ”Always calculate, always plan. Go into battle unprepared, then be prepared to lose your life.” Right now, he was judging the creature’s territory boundary. As soon as he crossed the line, the thing would pounce. The key was to accurately interpret the thing’s reactions to his approach. He had to be prepared in case he attacked to early or too late as well. And on top of all of this, he needed to make it flashy. He hated flashy stuff, but it made the audience happy. Ironically, the only person in the audience whose opinion truly mattered to him was the only one who hated flashy fighting even more than he did.

He almost caught the thing's reaction too late, but he was barely able to counter on time. He and the creature jumped off the ground simultaneously, the thing’s mouth open to bite, and its twisted, clawed hands ready to grab him. But Taran was ready. His body was twisting sideways, his feet spinning around at a high speed like a windmill. Before the beast could do anything, his heel came crashing down on the top of its head in a solid axe kick. The creature’s head instantly changed trajectory and smashed into the ground as its body flipped forward over onto its back. Normally, he would follow through with more attacks; however that would end the fight too soon. Instead, he landed on his feet and rolled several feet away setting a new stance. The first was improvised, and he only used it because the crowd would eat up his confidence. This time, he brought himself down to the beast’s level. It looked as though he was mocking the creature, but in actuality, he was using a type of reptile based kung-fu that his Master taught him. The creature rolled over and shook its head, sneezing. It saw him and made an odd noise between a bark and a snarl before leaping at him again. His right leg was out front, so he rested his weight on his left leg, and two front hands, brought his right back, and snapped back out like a whip in a tail kick. His leg looked like rubber in its fluid and powerful movement, and was solid enough to break three of the bone spikes off at the base and throw it off to Taran’s left. It recovered much quicker than the last time, and was pouncing again in a second. Taran crouched down and brought his left arm up, letting the thing bite on. It’s arms wrapped around his waist and shoulders as the thing gnawed on him. He fell back, making it look like the thing caught him off guard. He pretended to struggle as its claws groped at his dougi trying to slice into his skin with no luck. Its teeth tried to tear out chunks of flesh from his arm, but it remained intact. After a few seconds, he stopped pretending, and stood up with the creature still attached. Showing that the thing was not hurting him, he swiped his right arm down, breaking off all the spikes on its back, leaving broken stumps and translucent skin. He grabbed a remaining spike on its shoulder and threw the thing off of himself. He waited for it to recover again -this time a bit longer than the last two- and when it pounced, he caught it underneath its jaw, flipped it over belly up, and threw it against the ground at his feet.

He gave a depressed sigh before looking down and whispering to the creature, “My deepest of apologies, friend. I hate to toy with you so. Please forgive me.” Then without hesitation, he grabbed it by the throat, and threw it high into the air, repelling it farther with his gravitational ability. He then ran over to where he left his Naginata, and in one fluid movement, grabbed it, rolled on the ground, and threw it while upside down in mid roll. It was something that he had been practicing for months. His handlers encouraged him to have a “finishing move” of some kind, and this was the best he could do. Most people liked it, because they could not tell when he threw the Naginata. He hated it, because it was far too impractical, and felt awkward. It flew through the air, and stabbed the creature straight through the back of the head, behind the bone. It was dead before it hit the ground. He walked over to the corpse with the same attitude he did when the fight started, and pulled the staff from the body. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped all the blood off from the blade, and the bit that got on the head of the staff. He always did this as soon as the fight was over. He did it to show the audience that he hated to kill, and nothing would ever change that. The blood on his precious blade was abhorring to him. And he wanted them all to know.

“Congratulations to our victor, Taran!” the announcer yelled over the microphone. He seemed to be scarred to come close to Taran, but he came out anyway for the announcement. “Yet another victory for this long lived Flawed, you all had better enjoy him while you can, this will be his last year!” He said with a clearly fake pity voice. Taran was one of (if not the) oldest of the Flawed, and would be executed in 11 months. He had been in many arena fights, and almost everyone knew who he was. His eyes turned from his combative black and red, to his furious dark green as he looked at the man in the eye. The announcer did not know what it meant, but he knew that there was a reason behind the change, and he could guess what was going through the warrior’s head. Silently, he spun the Naginata around with his wrist, bringing it against the back of his shoulder with the blade up. He bowed to the man respectfully before spinning the pole back to the front of his shoulder relaxed, and turning on his heels to walk back toward the steambots guarding the exit.

Screw all of these people. The words were silent, but he unsuccessfully willed every person in the room to know his thoughts.