Game of Ash and Bone

Chapter 1 - I rise from the dead

Air rushes painfully back into my lungs as I wake with a sudden and brief panic. A name on the tip of my tongue and yet it's nearly gone.
Lex. As soon as it's there it slips from my mind, frustratingly.
I'm staring at the cement ceiling of—a revival center. So I was dead. Why does that feel in character?
"Is it bad to assume I was murdered?" I wince, trying to sit up. I'm in scrubs and my hands are cuffed. Yeah. Definitely murdered.
"Take it easy," a man is standing at the foot of the bed. He's got a pen and clipboard, clearly checking through a form without properly reading it. So I assume a government employee.
"What's my name?" I ask.
"General global amnesia is common in revivals," he says, glancing up, "Meaning you should know anything procedural but nothing personal."
"I think—," I wince as pain shoots through my head. Warm skin against mine. I feel lips on my cheek. A warm bed with blue sheets. There's water running in a fountain in the corner. Hands curling through my hair. "I think I'm married. Does anyone know I'm here?"
"You're a slave from the Northern districts," the man chuffs.
"You can call it 'Scotland'," I choke.
"You're a slave from the northern districts, see the tattoo?" He turns over my wrist to reveal a tattoo of thorns encircling a sickle. "You got killed, yes likely murdered given the stab wounds, and they sold your corpse."
"Who killed me—stupid question," I breath, wondering briefly if I was married like I thought or my subconscious just wants me to have nice hazy dreams. My arms have a few scars on them that I see. And yes my chest hurts like I was in fact stabbed. I move the scrub shirt. Right to the heart. Thin blade. So that was intentional.
"Yes quite. Name's Festus. I'm a Gamekeeper, do you know what that is?" He asks.
"Game—the Games of Ash and Bone," I breath. Gladiatorial style combat, televised for any of the known world with reception. Participants, in teams, must face various challenges through a labyrinth then fight to the death. Usually they start out in teams, but of course there can only be one winner, who has the fantastic honor of being recycled to the next round. If this sounds disgusting and perverted that's definitely because it is. Primarily participants are the 'revived' which now includes, ah, me. Revival is incredibly expensive and morally questionable but for the Games? Nobody cares. Usually slave corpses are bought or donated to the cause, though sometimes charming people like convicted criminals, or anyone deemed a drag on society like the sick or dying, are entered.
Should be fun. I don't think I got murdered because I'm a peaceful fun loving person honestly this is probably a good opportunity for me. And I wasn't donated because anyone is looking for me.
"You, ah, throw me and assorted idiots into an arena complete with labyrinth, to fight people and whatever genetic monsters the freaks in the lab cooked up, and eventually I die for real doing that," I say, rubbing my chest, which aches. A hand closing on my neck as the blade slipped in, so smoothly between my ribs. My head splits in pain.
"Stop trying to remember. That's gonna hurt worse. And yes you've about got it right. You're my latest team. I picked you because you seem strong and violent," Fetus shrugs. So he's a rich business man. Dealing with me personally? This is this creep's entertainment. This is his weekend. Most people have organized sports, or falling asleep in front of an old movie. These guys have enough money and lack of basic empathy to run teams.
"Who was I?" I ask, hand over the tattoo on my wrist.
"How should I know? You came up for purchase and you're young and strong of course I snapped you up. Look at the tattoo you're a slave," he scoffs.
"Whose life?" I ask, looking around the sterile room. There's another bed, a lump covered by a white sheet. A nurse is fussing, taking off wires. I can hear a faint moaning. For me to come back the God of Death will only take an even exchange of years. Half of the other's lifespan. For those with the money and willing to do it, it's a sweet deal, you get to give some of your life to your hetero-life-partner, and live it out with them. But of course those rich enough would rather just steal a slave's life.
"Your fellow constant. Get them both to the rooms. We go live bright and early tomorrow," Festus says, then he walks out, shoes squeaking on the cement floors.
The nurse shrugs sympathetically, then goes back to fussing with the occupant of the other bed.
"Get off of me—FUCKING FUCKING FREAK—FUCK YOU!!!!" A boy rolls over on the bed, screaming in agony. His face jerks nearly rhythmically into a near tortured expressssion.
"Lions will like that one, get up, you're going to your cages for now," the nurse says, unperturbed.
The boy rolls off the bed, face still jerking, and shoulders twitching. He's maybe twelve? Or was. I wince. Half his life was transferred to me, which considering the kid can't be older than fourteen, is easily twenty to thirty years, if not forty.
"Are you okay?" I ask, coming over.
"Fuck—fuck you," the boy breaths raggedly, face jerking into expressions of obvious pain. It takes me half a moment to realize this is no symptom of my resurrection. On the contrary, this is the reason why he's here. Children who are considered worthless, are surrendered to the fighting pits, prized for the years they can give a fighter like me. I don't know why I assume I'll probably be pretty good at this and am in fact low key looking forward to it but I'm sure it's a bad sign.
"Get up, or we'll get the stakes again," the nurse says.
"Come on," I hold out a hand.
The boy looks at me, shoulders jerking again, dark blue eyes filled with hate. He has shaved short, either light red or blond, hair, and pale skin smattered with freckles. I'm sure my hair was shaved as well. I put a hand up to check. It was. We're in matching grey scrubs.
"Come on," I say, holding out my hand, glancing at the nurse.
He assesses for a moment, eyes flicking to the nurse then to me, as if assessing his torment wasn't my doing. Then he takes my hand. Cold fingers but calloused. No slave tattoo but clearly not wanted or he wouldn't be here. On his wrists I see snaking burns where they had the leads attached. Given the kid's foul mouth I'm sure he doesn't want my sympathy.
"Arthur," he says, letting me tug him up.
"I don't know who I am— hey what's my name?" I ask, the nurse. I get that.
"Cosmo," she says, disapprovingly, which is justified I guess? Not like I picked my name. "Abandoned at birth, name self registered." Or I did.
"Cosmo, then," I say, nodding.
The boy refuses to smile, shoulders jerking furiously. That's why he was given up? I feel like that's a neurological thing that can happen.
"Come along," the nurse says.
We obey, following her to the door. Hm, a cement bunker, how chic. Why does that nearly make me laugh? I mean I'm hysterical but my impulse was to tell someone that. A friend I guess. Presumably I had friends. Hopefully they'll know this is totally in character and I'm having an okay time.
"I'm a slave—I ah don't remember anything at all about who I am but—I'm pretty sure I can keep us alive a while," I offer, as the boy stares off.
"I'm not going to die. Even with half my life," he growls, voice seems perpetually angry. I realize I met him five minutes ago and half his life was drained away. But still I'm standing by that assessment.
We're walking through what is clearly a series of cells, future and maybe some current contestants? I know up to ten or twenty teams can be in the labyrinth at a time, we enter one at a time though. Get picked off pretty easily as I understand.
"Okay then," I mutter, I'm trying to be nice, "Look I don't really have a lot to talk about considering I don't remember anything that hasn't happened in the last ten minutes but I'm trying to be nice here."
Arthur says nothing, jerking his shoulders again and looking around, "I don't like you right now."
"Yeah that's fair," I mutter.
We're led to a cement cell, with four bunks. Two are already clearly occupied. Two are set up with folded linens, and backpacks sitting on them ready to go. Well, Festus (what kind of name is Festus?) said that we'd be rolling out bright and early into the labyrinth.
The occupants are a couple of girls (because gender equality in this fight to the death?). One looks my age, fellow former slave, a bulky tall thing, currently in a white tank top that shows off thick arms. She has short brown hair in two tight braids. She's kneeling next to a girl, maybe nine? Clearly crying her eyes out. I wince, definitely another victim of resurrection year stealing creepy necromancy stuff. She's got puffy fat cheeks and tipped eyes, Down Syndrome. Most such children are 'discarded' at birth.
The nurse unlocks the cell and ushers us in.
The older girl is comforting the younger one as best she can.
"Cosmo and Arthur," I say, as the boy walks to the lower bunk which I guess he's claiming. He curls up, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth.
"Tove," the older girl gets up oh she's taller than me, "Tove Spell."
"He's Cosmo Nyx. I'm Arthur Flynn. I heard them talking. You wouldn't die. It was like you were holding on. They kept waiting for you to go but you wouldn't," Arthur says, rocking back and forth hugging his knees.
"I don't do well with directions," I say.
Tove smiles. She's got light green and brown eyes, and crooked teeth. The tattoo on her wrist is identical to mine, "Twins."
"Yeah, so I'm not very fun because I just got back, don't know anything," I say, leaning against the bars, "Except we get to go have some fun tomorrow? Am I right?"
"No," Arthur says.
"I'm scared," the little girl sobs, tears running down her cheeks, "I'm really scared."
"This is Lyra Rey," Tove says, gently going back to sit with the little girl, "It seems we both have nightmares after my, 'return'."
"You do?" I ask, interested.
"I got murdered," Tove says, moving her shirt a little to show clearly fresh bullet wounds.
"Same!" I laugh, showing the scar where I was stabbed.
"Don't know how, they sold my body so, nobody wanted me back," she says.
"I—," I frown. I can feel hands on my arms, gripping me. Hot breath on my neck. "I think—someone found me. Or something. Tried to save me. Well. Failed."
"You didn't want to go," Arthur whispers, his head on his knees.
"We just got done today, so," I shrug a bit.
"Yeah—ah, bit painful for them apparently, and us, death wounds aren't fun to heal," she says.
"Well best be in fighting shape tomorrow," I say, cheerfully, rubbing my hands together.
"We're not fighting tomorrow! We just get pictures all that so people can bet on us—we both have to heal," Tove says, quickly.
"Oh," I was looking forward to it.
"Sponsors pay Festus, that sort of thing. He runs good teams—the guards say—we should get decent weapons," she says.
"Right—," I struggle to remember. "They like, sponsors pay him so we can get better stuff that sort of thing?"
"Yes," she nods, "Drum up interest."
"Boldly speaking if Festus wants the best team —," I look over at the kids.
"We're fucking bait," Arthur says, face jerking again, "Get it? We're bait so the crowds can watch you kill something and they see a little blood."
"Fetus always sends the life donors in too—to create a bond so we try to save them. It's a whole thing—the guards told me," Tove admits.
"Well, you are not bait, I don't think I got delicately stabbed through the heart because I follow the rules," I say, folding my arms.
Lyra looks up, tears staining her chubby face.
"And how do you plan on doing that?" Arthur asks, face on his knees.
"I don't know, yet," I admit. I feel like someone smart should be jumping in with a plan here. I just do. Like I do not think I was the ideas guy. I'm the stab things ask questions later guy there should be someone more smart, with a spreadsheet, sipping a martini and telling me what to stab. Like that is how I feel it should work.
"We're going to do our best," Tove says, nodding at me. I dip my head in thanks.
"Fucking—fucking pricks," Arthur says, jerking again.
"We'll come up with a strategy, of sorts, and last as long as we can right? Might as well make the best of it," I say, resolutely., and with as much cheerfulness as I can muster.
Because I'm mad now.
Lock me in a cage to fight to the death?
I'm going to fucking win. They have no idea what I'm capable of.