The Thean Tale

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You know, I've always known that the Guard are a brutal bunch. Defending the city and keeping order, whooping criminal butt and God knows what other things tend to take a toll on a person. But I'm pretty sure what they did to me counts as torture in almost every way. Sorry, not me. Us. I don't think the Guard has ever had less than 50 new trainees every year. Guard members are some people every kid grows up aspiring to be, even though they've got a different future waiting for them. Heroic tales, bringing exploits to an end, getting it right, keeping people safe. They couldn't get any better.

So I chose them. During our "coming of age" ceremony, aptly named the Selection, I picked the Guard. Fourteen-year old Al Mason was going to master the occupation of protection and butt-kick. It was going to be fun. It was going to be easy.

It. Was. Neither.

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of zero sun, zero contact with old friends or family. Why? Maybe because they decided to train us in dim, damp underground, yeesh. Two stinking years of getting beaten and bruised and cut and scarred. I was very proud of my smooth, copper-coloured skin. But now it's peppered with thin, light scars. Talk about a beauty no-no (cue sarcastic hair-flip). Also, I lost an eye. Yeah, I messed with things I shouldn't have and came out of it half blind. But they fixed me up and now people look at me and wonder whether I suffer from Heterochromia because I traded in one of my hazel eyes for a grey one.

I was barely fifteen! How could I have known what would happen? Ah well, it is what is. Because I'm here now, albeit slightly different than from when I went in. I'm okay with how I'm living now. I got out a little less than a year ago as a full, fledged member of the Guard and I've been doing my job well. I guess those two years were worth it because I'm stronger, I'm faster and I'm a hell-of-a-lot braver.

I wish I could say the same about the young man who walks into a dark alley parallel to the high brick wall that is my perch. He's trembling, but he still carefully picks his way to the alley between all the trash strewn on the ground.

It's one in the morning. Way past curfew and he's out and about? A number of different scenarios run through my mind and I can't see any where he won't end up in trouble. There's a reason we've got this curfew and restriction system set in place. Disappearances have become frequent and, unfortunately, so have deaths.

I jump off from the wall and creep into the alley as he did, probably even more carefully than him so that I wouldn't be seen. I shuffle quietly alongside one wall until I'm close enough to see him look back over his shoulder nervously. And he looks surprisingly familiar.

A strong wave of nostalgia hits me and suddenly the young man looks increasingly similar to a person I was once very, very close with. But it can't be him. How could it be?

I then watch him put a shaky hand into his pocket and he pulls out a device that I've seen more than a hundred thousand times. It's an Arena Key: a small rectangular piece of dark metal with three squares, the middle one an off-white and the other two a glowing green. It allows anyone to get to any part of this huge city through the Arena.

Now, the Arena is a complex piece of work. We were told that during Vaythea's – this city's – youth, it was referred to as the Catacombs. It was here before Vaythea and it's got the structural integrity to outlive Vaythea as well. It's a maze of underground tunnels and halls that stretches out far and wide. I know that we've never come up with a proper theory about the use of the Arena – or maybe we just weren't told – but rumours have spread throughout the city and after sorting through all the baseless conspiracy theories, there are a few viable ones that can justify its use without sounding irrational and weird.