Survivors

Chapter 1: Xain

Chapter 1: Xain

 

          “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”

          Those are the first words I hear from the loud speaker above as I stand on a circular, metal platform underneath the ground, awaiting the lift. I finger the small blade that hangs just off of my hip and make sure all of my armor and weapons are secured. Any moment now, they’ll announce me.

          “Are you ready for this evening's fighters?” The voice booms again. This time, the crowd’s loud roar of excitement makes the ground quake. I loathe them as I begin to shake—either from the crowd’s vibrations or the shakes I usually get whenever I’m angry—and wonder, Do you really enjoy what has become? I know that they have become dumb and hardened.

          The crowd quiets down as the announcer introduces the first fighter, my opponent. Brutus—or Brute—Merikh. I know him—or of him. He’s about 19 and fits his name, needless to say. He’s bigger than I am—much bigger—and weighs about 250 pounds. He’s also about 6 foot 3 inches, give or take. His olive tone skin and long, dark-brown—almost black—hair almost make him look inhuman. No one really knows what color his eyes are. That's his trade mark. There’s a rumor that he has dark brown, but no one—assuming they lived—has ever been able to confirm that. All I can think of is that he could easily crush my whole body in his monstrous hands, but the crowd outside doesn't care—probably cheer more to it.

          The crowd has gone wild—some chanting Brute’s name—as my platform begins to lift and the announcer announces me.

          “Coming in at 5 foot 5 inches and 130 pounds, the 17 year–old swift and dangerous phantom fighter, Xain Austin!”

          The audience breaks out in a roar. I don't dare acknowledge their presence, I know half are only cheering because they want the bloodbath to begin. Most have probably put up bets on who would give out first. A couple have shouted my name, but I don't care.

          The announcer has signaled us over to read us the rules of the game, using “game” as if this is fun and play—then again, the “game” is for the viewer. He explains that this is a level 3 match—meaning no intentional torture, or we are executed, but deaths were still permitted—and then has us acknowledge each other. Brute has on bronze armor that covers his vitals, hands, and legs. The rest of his upper torso is bare. He obviously was just worried about covering up enough so he could fight. It makes my black armor look almost bland and dull, though it does offer just as much protection as it does flexibility. It’s made of a material—a very rare one—called viberon. It’s supposedly able to stop a knife attack, but I’ve taken slashes and been cut before. Brute lifts his weapon, his signature spear with a ball at the end—or one just like it—as a customary sign of respect towards his opponent. I lift one of my swords from my back and acknowledge his gesture. Neither one of us means anything by it. No one does. It's just one of those mandatory things we must do. We hold for a moment, then are taken back to our platforms for preparation.

          My prep team doesn’t do anything but hand me a helmet and a shield. I refuse both offers, despite the pushing, but they still make me take my spear—nicknamed the “Shadow”—saying I’ll have a better chance with “him” than with my blades. I ignore them and take Shadow with me, twirling the weapon as the prep team is carried away on a hover platform. Shadow’s very important to me. I just wait for the cannon to signal the fight. It doesn’t come for another 2 minutes.

          Once the cannon fires, Brute wastes no time trotting off his platform towards me. I lift my spear as I get into defense position, then he quickly hops from side to side in an attempt to confuse me, but I don't budge, and he hops through the air—spear in thrust position. I dodge a split second before it would impact. The crowd cheers wildly, and I smirk—not for them—at Brute's quickness. I never thought someone his size would have that much quick movement. Brute almost immediately turns around and spears at me. I deflect it away with the head of my spear, causing him to stumble forward a little bit. I begin to strafe and back up as he regains footing. He looks at me with this look of anger—one I have never before seen in anyone—and charges at me. A slow jog at first, then a full on sprint.