3MA

3MA | Chapter 22

22
ROCK N' ROLL

I've seen the Iron Cauldron transformed into a den of unbridled chaos plenty of times before.

But this is ridiculous.

Amaris and I stand at the end of a long aisle that leads from the arena's thundering underbelly, through the audience and directly to the gated entrance of the Octagon.

Typically, the iron railings on either side of this path keep it clear for the fighters to safely make their dramatic entrance into the arena, but tonight it's teeming with the amped, restless bodies of fans.

Red-faced security guards wielding cracking static batons try in vain to maintain control of the frenzied crowd. But not even all the static in the King's Spire could hold back the crowd's energy. Tonight is their night, and no one else's.

I turn to Amaris with a scowl. "Looks super fun out there. Who am I even fighting tonight?"

"About that. I was just going to explain the new set-up."

I squint my eyes shut. I knew something felt off. "What new set-up? And don't sugarcoat it, Amaris. What exactly am I getting into here?"

"In the past, Bloodbath was structured like a traditional 3MA match," Amaris says. "Two fighters in the Octagon at a time. Losers are eliminated. Winners fight winners, until only one champion remains. But that was the old system."

"What the heck is the new system?"

"Everyone fights at the same time. All sixteen fighters. One limitless round. Last man standing wins."

I laugh out loud. "That's not even a sport. It's...

"A bloodbath," Amaris says. "Yeah. I know. You can blame the Mayor. Apparently it was his idea."

"LeMorte? But why?"

Amaris shrugs. "Guy's one of those blood pervs, I guess."

A break in the rustling audience finally gives me my first clear view of the redesigned Octagon; same rusted eight-sided gate, same freshly stretched canvas floor, three times the size.

My attention is diverted away from the newly enlarged stage and falls on a single red baseball cap bobbing in the sea of spectators.

Fisher's wide eyes fall on me. "Are. You. Insane?" he mouths.

Before I can answer, a familiar amplified voice makes both Fisher and my head whip to the center of the Octagon.

"Cretins, harlots and savages of Camelot!" A pool of crimson light illuminates a small portion of Soggy Dempster's substantial frame as the portly ring announcer shoves the microphone onto greasy lips.

"Hold on to your stomachs. Shield your children's innocent eyes! And behold! The last! Chance! For glory! Welcome to 3MA's...

The audience screams in unison: "Blooooodbaaaath!" and erupts into a red-faced spasm of sick delight.

The spotlight abandons Soggy and darts across the Octagon to drench a figure standing in an impeccable three-piece-suit.

Mayor LeMorte himself.

The audience falls silent as LeMorte brings the microphone to his lips. "You toil. You break. You sweat. You ache. You sacrifice. You bleed. For Camelot you do all of this, day in and day out. Well tonight it is Camelot's turn. Camelot's turn to toil. To break. To sweat. To ache. To sacrifice. And of course, ladies and gentlemen, to bleed," LeMorte points a pale finger into the darkness of the audience, "for you!"