13 – Half-Eaten Prickly Pear
When the doors open, the light blinds me momentarily. I keep my right hand gripped around Papa’s arm and raise my left to shield my eyes. The guards remove the three men’s collars and shove us all through into the open-air arena. The doors slam with an echoing finality.
The arena floor stretches before us, hard-packed dirt mottled with dark bloodstains. Massive boulders dominate the center, each one large enough to shelter several men. Years of combat have left their mark—broken weapons, shattered armor, and splintered wagon parts litter the ground like grave markers.
The walls soar upward, not insurmountable but daunting. Metal and wood merge in an imposing barrier, held together by bolts thick as my arm. Above, wooden benches rise in tiers, packed with hundreds of spectators. The construction speaks of permanence—the Fat Man built this place to last.
The crowd presses against the walls separating them from us, their bloodlust palpable. Children and elderly alike scream for violence. I catch glimpses of fine clothing mixed with rags—death makes equals of us all in their eyes.
“What do we do now Papa?” I whisper, though the roar of the crowd would drown out a shout.
“Let’s get to those rocks for a better view. Once we see what we’re fighting, we’ll figure it out.”
We move cautiously across the arena floor. The crowd’s excitement turns to jeers. A small boy launches a half-eaten prickly pear at us, inspiring others to follow suit. Rotten fruit and debris rain down.
“What a bunch of puny little plugtails!” someone shouts.
“This is bobblegash,” another voice rings out. “We want to see a real fight!”
An elderly woman raises her fist, hatred burning in her eyes. “Time to die, outcasts!”
The other two prisoners trail behind us as we reach the boulders. From this height, I can see the entire arena—the blood-soaked sand, the weapon fragments, the bones half-buried near the walls. How many have died here for the crowd’s entertainment?
A door groans open on the far side. Four men emerge, but something’s wrong with them. They’re lean and wiry, each wielding twin daggers, but their movements are unnatural. Foam drips from their mouths, eyes bulging and rolling. Their skin bears strange markings—chemical burns perhaps, or the results of whatever drove them mad.
One runs in circles, screaming with unhinged glee, tongue lolling. Another twitches and jerks like a puppet with tangled strings.
“Neeka, honey,” Papa kisses my forehead, his voice thick with emotion. “You remember when we were on the ship and I told you to hold back and not let anyone see your abilities?”
I nod, watching the madmen below begin to focus on us.
“Forget all that. These men are mad. You either kill them all or we don’t survive.”
Braam’s words about survival echo in my mind. The choice has been made for me, just as it was made for these broken men below. We’re all pawns in a more powerful person’s game.
I should feel fear, but excitement courses through me instead. Is this what the mad men feel? This wild surge of energy, this hunger for movement? I reach for my boot knife, the familiar grip steadying my thoughts.
I’m ready.
I launch myself from the boulder, sailing through the air. The crowd gasps at the impossible distance. My feet hit the ground and I explode into a sprint. The knife leaves my hand almost without thought, burying itself in the first man’s forehead. His mad eyes go blank as he crumples.
I flip upward, time seeming to slow. Behind me, I see Papa watching, pride and terror warring on his face. The death wire slides from my hair as I twist, wrapping around the nearest throat. Blood sprays as I land, the crazed man already choking his last breaths.
The remaining two charge with animalistic fury. Their movements are unpredictable—not the calculated strikes of trained fighters but the desperate lunges of rabid beasts. I sweep low, taking one’s legs. As he falls, I push into a handstand, driving my foot up into the other’s chin. His neck snaps with a crack that silences the crowd.
The last man is back on his feet faster than I expect, fighting with desperate strength. His dagger finds my side, drawing blood. I channel the pain into power, driving my kick into his chest.
The sound of ribs cracking and popping vibrates across the arena as my foot buries deep, flinging him back several paces. His arms spasm once around his shattered torso before blood spills from his mouth and his body goes limp.
The arena falls silent. I retrieve my knife, wiping it clean before returning it to my boot. Looking up, I meet Papa’s eyes, then turn to face the crowd. For a moment, they seem frozen in shock. Then they erupt in wild cheers, their bloodlust satisfied beyond expectation.
The arena doors burst open. The head guard leads a squad armed with subjugation weapons and blunderbusses. They surround me, weapons ready. I could take them—my proths still have plenty of power, and they’re bunched too close together. But Papa signals for calm, and I know he’s right. We’ve given them enough of a show for one day.
“Ok girl,” the head guard says, trying to hide his unease behind authority. “Hand over the boot knife and whatever that thing is that was in your hair.”
I surrender the weapons without protest. They don’t realize my body is the real weapon—Papa made sure of that. The guards escort us back to our cell, and I catch whispers among them about “the girl who is faster than a gray.”
Let them talk. They’ll learn soon enough that I’m something far more dangerous—a daughter fighting for her father’s survival.