The Colosseum

Introduction

Kova

Minutes after Ten was taken, a pair of strangers in bizarre outfits creeped into Doc and Val's office. Doc, who had been reading a magazine. Val, who had tenderly been taking care of the mace wound in my side. I almost felt guilty for thinking that Val, this nearly complete stranger, was more motherly than the woman who birthed me. But truth was truth, and when I was ordered to cooperate and go to my beautification, I found myself missing Val's calming presence. Before I left, I managed to ask her the question I now found myself needing a quick answer to: could I trust Ten?

Alarmingly, Val's comforting smile faltered, her eyes sliding to the ground for a brief second. "He's crafty, but I think we all get that way from the Colosseum." It wasn't a direct answer. In fact, it had nearly nothing to do with what I asked. But that in itself told me enough: she either didn't know, or she knew I shouldn't put all my eggs in his basket. The bottom line was that he never outright displayed a set of upright ethics in his 200 days, and that's what I wanted to know.

The pair who claimed me dragged me through the underground tunnels, passing hair salons, nail spas, and wardrobe storages. They made no effort to whisper about the things I already knew about myself: my hair was choppy and knotted, my nails were dirty, my body was unnaturally thin, my skin was tan from the sun but still somehow sallow, I was caked in dirt even before my fight with The Ripper. I killed someone today, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. Another voice offers, I didn't die today, which pushes my nausea aside.

We stop in front of a Colosseum bathhouse, where steam from the pools wafts out of the doors and floats in the muggy tunnels, carrying scents of roses. "Roses are the king's flower," one of them notes when they watch me inhale. "His hair is red, blood is red, and roses are the key to getting to the clocktower at the palace garden. You've heard the legend, right?"

I'm ushered inside, naked men and women getting scrubbed down all around me. My eyes shift to and fro, uncomfortable no matter where they settle. Meanwhile, the stylists are completely unfazed. Well, this is their job, after all. "I haven't," I answer, focusing on my feet. "And unless the clocktower will help me survive the next one-hundred days, I'm not very interested."

"Oh, but you must know," stylist #2 butts in, guiding me to a private room and taking my clothes off. I let her, understanding that the more I comply, the faster this will go. "If you can get to the clocktower, then it means you're chosen to fulfill an important destiny. In other words, you probably won't die here."

I wrinkle my nose when I'm completely naked and when I hear her comment. "What's so hard about finding a clocktower? They're huge, aren't they?"

Stylist #1 turns on a showerhead, gently washing my hair at least five times before running a brush through it. She can't make it an inch before she finds a bird's nest in my strands. Though I've kept my hair bobbed, it takes her at least 30 minutes to get it untangled. "They are, but the clocktower is amongst the garden labyrinth. Nobody's found it before."

For a moment, I fantasize about going to the palace to march to the clocktower and get freed of the competition. However, when I image entering the king's home, I find my daydream-self going in the direction of his bedroom so I can tell him off and punch him in the face one or ten times. I find my spirits lifted at that thought, and cling to the vague feeling of bliss while I can. I know that in the Colosseum, there will most likely be few times where I'll be able to smile or feel content.

Snapping out of my reverie when my skin is aggressively exfoliated, I bark, "Well, how the hell would I even get to the clocktower? I'm locked in the Colosseum, why would you even tell anyone about that? You just fill people with false hope."