Tevun Krus #124 - SportPunk Game 2: The Rematch

Colours - A Story by @johnnedwill

Colours

By johnnedwill

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

We came streaming out of the metro, a hundred thousand strong. We are all people - black and white, young and old, male and female - all different. And all the same. There is one thing that binds us together. We all wear the same Colours.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

The chant erupts from our throats as we march in lockstep, down the via, towards the stadium.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

Before us, the plebs scatter and hide. But we ignore them. Today is Game Day.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

Rows of proctors line the via between the metro and the stadium. They stand impassive; their expressions hidden behind their bug-eyed helmets; their shock rods and shields at the ready. They ignore the taunts that some of our younger bloods throw their way. The older and wiser among us have felt the proctors' stings before.

Before us is the stadium. Its marble towers and great gates glint in the sunlight. Screens show us the Emperor's face, smiling in welcome.

"Greetings, citizens." His amplified voice booms out from all around us. "Greetings, and welcome to Game Day!"

We raise our fists and cheer.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

"Today your champions will battle for glory!"

The screens switch to show the teams: Blue, Green, White and -

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

From the other quarters of the city we hear our rivals calling out their challenges, cheering on their teams.

"Citizens!" The Emperor's voice is barely audible above our own. "Give thanks to your champions! Give thanks to the gods! Give thanks to your Emperor!"

"Redredred!" we howl. "Redredred! Redredred! Re-e-ed!"

The gates before us open, and we storm the stadium.

Inside the stadium there are seats for almost half a million. They sweep in great arcs from the boxes for the rich and powerful, down to the benches for the poor... We pour out of the vomitoria and along the stairs, filling the stadium with our Colours. Red. Green. White. And, in the Emperor's quadrant, Blue.

Blue. They are the most powerful of the Colours. They have money, power and influence. When He was a young man, the Emperor was one of us - a Red. We sat in the Emperor's quadrant, in the seats around His throne. His voice joined ours in cheering for our Colour, and our flag flew high on holidays. But now we sit opposite to Him, forced to bow to the Blues as they once bowed to us.

From around us there is a fanfare of trumpets and a choir of angels. The screens on the walls light up, showing us the Emperor's throne. As one we rise in homage to Him. Silently we witness His coming. The Emperor and His guards enter the stadium from the passage beneath His throne, and are followed by His retinue. All bear the sign of their allegiance, a flash of colour upon them. The Emperor Himself wears His golden robes of office. As He takes His seat, He throws back His cloak to reveal His true Colour - the most noble shade of Blue.

"Let the Game begin!"

When it is Game Day we want for nothing; the Emperor's beneficence knows no bounds. We do not pay for food or drink or transport. On Game Day we live like princes. All is bought and paid for. We gorge and drink and rut as we watch our champions, urging them on as they vie against each other for the glory of the Game.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

We watch them on the field below and on the screens around us. We celebrate their successes and mourn their failures. We are triumphant in victory, defiant in defeat.

All though the day the passions rise and the tensions mount. The scores climb, the rankings of the Colours changing with each match. At first the honour falls to the Whites, but their celebrations are short-lived as their champions fail. Blue and Green take them down, then vie against each other point-for-point. Through it all we Reds are subdued, awaiting our time.

And our time is not long in coming. Our champions show their true skill. Rapidly Red rises up through the ranks, gaining glory and claiming victories. We soon overtake White, then beat down Green. Our rivals fall quiet, their jeers silenced. Now only the Blues are left, and even their then their bravado fails them. We clamber to our feet and raise our voices.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

Our champions clash with theirs time and time again. The Blues are driven by desperation. We are driven by our hunger for victory. In the end, our appetite is stronger than theirs. Our champion stands victorious.

From our ranks comes the slow chant of victory.

"Red! Red! Red!"

In the Emperor's quadrant, the Blues are silent. Our victory means that Red has won the Game; that the Red flag will fly above theirs. The rank and file of the Blues look at each other in dumb despair, while their leaders whisper and plot amongst themselves. And all the time we chant.

"Red! Red! Re-e-ed!"

The Emperor gets to His feet, his voice and image carried across the stadium. "We would salute the Reds for their victory, but this cannot be. Information has reached Us that there has been treachery. We cannot allow this to bring dishonour to the Game.

"We therefore decree that the Blues are victorious and ... "

But the rest of the Emperor's words are lost. In fury at this slight, we howl in rage and shake our fists. As one we charge, a hundred thousand strong.

"Redredred! Redredred! Redredred!"

That night, the city burns. Redredred, redredred, redredred.