The Ditches

Chapter Twenty

My forehead rests against a chilled metal door. Behind this door the crowd awaits, and the ring too. The announcer calls my name, wrangled boos and derogatory jeers slip through the gap between door and floor. I laugh, the crowd always was a fickle beast.

I swing the door open, ready to face my fate. A pathway stretches before me, through the audience, to the ring. A narrow strip of black. Spotlights in the floor, now cracked and broken used to illuminate the way, but the shadows embrace me.

People loom on either side as I stalk past. Faces contorted in drunken rage and shouts that spray spittle. Clammy hands slap my skin. Bottles hit my flesh and clatter against the floor. The crowd have picked their champion, tonight, that's not me.

I stand in the ring. Nothing fancy, nothing grand. Nothing like the manicured fights the upper classes like to enjoy. Just black tape and the oppressive stare of the audience to mark this ring. But this was never intended for the elite. The Ditches doesn't want to elevate itself, it's for the people who live in the gutter. It's relief for the poor. A safe place to divert their anger. It's for people like me. It's illegal, but it won't ever be shut down.

Shouts combine like the mangled roar of wounded hounds. Snarling scavengers, they'll feed off my remains, alright. Banden's name is shouted over the speakers. Cheers and woops erupt. The wounded hounds transform into well fed pups. Their derogatory entra insults are mopped away like the spots of blood on the floor I stand upon.

Banden approaches. A full head and shoulders above the crowd. A head and shoulders above me. People edge away to give him room to pass. The black strip barely containing his width. How did any prison, any cell secure him? But I already know the answer, entra are not weak of body, we're weak of will.

Money changes hands, wads of cash, slick with sweat, as Banden steps into the ring. He stares at me, and I stare back. His body ripples with muscle, like he spent the last ten years honing himself for this fight. What does he think of me? Does he recognise my scars as The Trials of Jarem? Do they give me an edge? Probably not.

Bandan's old. Older than me. I see it in his height and bulk. The announcer verifies the rules, shouting charismatically. No weapons. No armour. Winner is the last one breathing. Banden was made in an era when Haroc was not so desperate, a time when quality trumped quantity. I on the other hand, I was never supposed to possess his bulk or height. Entra like me, we were made compact to cut down on production times. We were manufactured to die.

The crowd quiets. Tension and anticipation grow, I can taste it in the air, it scrabbles at the ceiling. Bandan's black eyes stare me down and I wish for a drink. What was I thinking? It's only the biggest fight of my life and I'm staring it down sober. Fuck.

Banden remains still. Is he scoping me out? Is he waiting to see what I have? A lone shout erupts from the crowd. My muscles hunch and tense, Banden's in luck, I'm an impatient little shit.

I rush forward, speed and poise my most faithful allies. The crowds screams, their faces blur into one. I crash into Banden, hitting him full shoulder in the stomach. My arms constrict around his waist as I push my weight into him, as I attempt to force him back. But Banden does not move, his feet planted like the roots of an ancient tree. His fists raise, they pelt my back in an avalanche of unmatched fury and I retreat, staggering back, to my side of the ring.

His black eyes find me again. Familiar and empty. Unmoving and yet they draw me in. He crash landed here ten years ago. Why? How? Entra don't get left behind, not alive. He makes not a move, still and silent like a mountain that's seen the world evolve. Like an entra elite. He's more composed than Haroc, more composed than me. What's he got to lose or love?