Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
*****
Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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I'd almost forgotten what it was like to stand at the portcullis, waiting for the grating tick, tick, tick of the rusted chains to start winching and drag up the gate. Greasy light striped my bodice as I triple checked the throwing knives slotted along all the hems of my outfit. Every tiny pommel featured a diamond rose, making the lethal blades look like decorative buttons at a glance.
I didn't hate the flowers as much as I thought I would. Probably because Isaac had complemented them earlier. The cape was also growing on me; it looked and flowed just like mist, never once getting in the way. It was surprisingly chaste compared to the wanton display of flesh underneath it, designed to tantalise the audience with what they couldn't seize on first glance.
I never caught him staring, but Isaac's attention was a palpable force. My cheek was still warm where he'd rested his hand while applying my stage makeup, dabbing silver cream on my waterline and gently blowing it dry. The chemical fumes stung, but I'd endured the tickle of pink eyeshadow and the torturous lash curler, if only for the excuse to be close to him. I found myself revisiting the memory of his breath, which was warm and smelled faintly of pineapple and coconut, at odds with the brooding severity of his outfit.
"Well, aren't you a vision," Isaac said, pulling back to admire his work. "Here, take a look."
We used the front facing camera on his phone as a mirror. I was surprised to find I still looked like myself, only younger; the makeup softened my most striking features, while the black Isaac framed his own eyes with did the opposite, sharpening his expression. He left his lashes white for a startling contrast, and together we made a startling pair.
Black and white. Soft and sharp. A light dusting of snow on sand, where his gentle fingers curled around my shoulder. I smiled as Isaac leaned in to take a picture, bracing my hand against the solid warmth of his upper back. He looked strange without his piercings, almost ethereal, like a faerie prince with moonlight hair.
That giddiness lingered as we applied the temporary tattoos Bjorn left for us in an envelope, one butterfly for each of our wrists. Isaac cooed as it glowed faintly, but his eyes started to glow when Maple came into my room dropped off a couple of packages they'd forgotten to unwrap. The first divulged a stunning half-helmet of black iron, every spire sharp as a razors edge. I handed it over grudgingly, admiring the whisper of pain against my skin, and warily asked if there was any headgear for me.
Maple refused to meet my eyes. "Not exactly, but we did find... this?"
My smile turned into a scowl when she passed me a golden bouquet; no, a sheaf of grain. Certainly not meant to go on my head. I bit down on a groan and accepted the absurd weapon, hefting its weight. It was surprisingly solid; possibly even real gold.
Now my grip tightened on the welded stems as I stared through the gaps in the portcullis, shaking off the past with a shiver of anticipation. The patrons' masks weren't really distinguishable from this vantage, nor their words; there was only a smudge of colour and a restless buzz as they waited for the sand to dispose of the previous contenders.
