Chapter Text
THEN:
The arena is packed as always, the world swirling engulfed by the screams and the cheers. It's a whirlpool of depravity, thirsting for the spilled blood they've been promised for an eternity. This is what it all comes down to: the victor and the loser, finally cast in their roles.
They are the two most dominant, most ruthless, most exceptional fighters this menagerie of carnage has ever seen. Each undefeated throughout their careers, not just survivors but merciless destroyers of each and every foe placed in front of them. Their eventual battle was the subject of endless speculation and anticipation, an inevitability.
It was, as all surviving spectators will proudly proclaim for decades to come, the battle of a lifetime. An event so momentous it would be forever etched into the history books as the greatest match that ever graced those grounds. And really, how could it not be?
It was like they'd been born for this. Like every step in their cruel, glorious lives had led them to this precise moment.
The man who rose victorious stands powerful in his domination, heaving breaths only serving to assert his right to keep drawing them. His hands, trembling with the strength of their grip, draw a perfect perpendicular with his weapon to where it presses against the loser's neck, the pitch black blade drawing bright red blood.
It's the end of an era. The true greatest warrior has been proven irrevocably, and the second best will fall after the performance of a lifetime in the arena.
Gladiators know when it's time for their curtain to drop.
The victor's blade rises to the sky-
NOW:
The halls of this section of the coliseum are usually empty at this hour.
The long hallways feel like they extend to infinity, all sterile white and chloroform smell, partitioned off by rows of identical white doors. This area of it the building in particular, scarce in labeled signs, is the kind of place it's easy to get lost in, if you don't know where you're going.
For the kid currently scurrying around the polished floors, however, this isn't a problem.
He's barefoot, dressed in simple white clothes, disheveled from a day of play and sneaking around. A small plastic tag is embedded in his ankle. Ignoring these details, he looks like a perfectly normal child or young teen, wandering around with a pitter-patter sound. He knows exactly where to turn and what doors to enter, the navigation of the immense facility worn as naturally as his giddy smile.
He knows where he's going.
The door to the observation chamber is supposed to be locked, but he knows it won't be today- the junior assistant in charge of today's recordings always forgets. He steps into the room, grin plastered on his face.
He runs up to the glass in delight. They're fighting right now!
There: the four kids, his same age. Different clothes- sturdier, varied, better equipped for combat of all kinds. The space they're in, behind the glass, is like night and day compared to the sterile white rooms of outside, full of obstacles and distinct environments, multiple levels to move around. Their bodies are, even at this young age, noticeably more toned and battle-ready, like a craftsman's tools.
But they all have tags around their ankles, same as his: each a different color.
The blue one takes a running start, jumpkicks the green one. Blows exchanged, now the green one has the upper hand. They're both so good, rehearsed and fluid techniques. The yellow one watches from behind and chooses his time to intervene with a well placed foot to the face, flawless in execution; the red one punches his way past the closest foe, strength evident in the blowback.
The kid with the orange ankle tag sits down, watching. The one-way mirror gives a fantastic view of their movements, the energy with which they go at each other. And, in glimpses, their expressions, the joy of the battle. This is what it means to be a gladiator.
The kid with the orange tag bounces where he sits.
He comes here every time he can, just to sit and watch them. He's never talked to them, hasn't found a way to do so. All he can do is admire them, taking in their motions. Just watch.
...
He jumps to his feet, energized. Ah, what wouldn't he do to fight with them too! He punches the air, spins and kicks in the air. Clumsy, compared to them. But he's getting better every time he comes here. He practices over and over, mimicking the motions until he gets it right. He might not have the training they do, the rigorous micromanaged schedules designed by specialists to make them perfect killing machines when they grow up. But he has his fists, and he has determination.
And one day, when he finds a way past the glass, they're all gonna fight together.