The unnamed’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the aftermath of the fight. He had to get out of this place and away from that arena floor. Somehow, he needed to…

“Move it!” a nearby slaver spat, pushing the unnamed forward. “Your turn now, meat!”

He punctuated that last comment with a hard shove that sent the unnamed stumbling into Naleth’s back. The big brute didn’t seem to notice, but walked forward, following a line of slaves heading back down the stairs and into the bowels of the structure.

As they were led back through the arena facility, the unnamed moved up beside Naleth, speaking urgently, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What was that all about? Why would they show us that? I’m already scared out of my mind. After seeing that I can barely walk! It doesn’t make any sense.”

The big brute nodded, shrugged.

“Maybe make scared for motivation? Make run faster?”

The unnamed considered that. Seeing the giant decapitated was just as likely to send him into a state of paralytic shock as it was to make him run any faster. His mind whirred, trying desperately to latch onto some way out of this. He reached up and grabbed the restraint color around his neck. Once more it zapped his hands, and he pulled them away quickly. The device was locked tightly in place, so running wasn’t an option. If he couldn’t run, there had to be some way to increase his odds of survival, some way to…

He caught sight of the pedestal and bowl he’d noticed when they’d passed through the sparring chamber earlier. The dwarf and elf who had been discussing the problem of mixing liquid with the white powder had left and there was no one nearby.

Shine. That’s what she’d called the powder. It was apparently some kind of drug which helped fighters prepare for battle, but the unnamed wasn’t interested in its energizing properties.

He saw his chance, but he’d have to move quickly and make sure to avoid being noticed by the slavers. The bowl was around ten feet away and he’d have only a few seconds to grab a fistful of the shine before he was noticed. He had to move quickly and, ideally, he needed a distraction.

He looked up at Naleth, tapping the big brute on the arm.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

Naleth frowned, clearly confused. The unnamed pointed to a rack of weapons standing nearby. There were wooden swords, staves, cudgels, and other items all neatly stacked against the rack.

“You reckon you could knock that over for me?”

The big brute turned to face the weapons rack. He nodded.

“Yes. But why?”

“Please,” the unnamed begged. “Look. I’ll owe you a favor, okay? Do this for me and I’ll owe you big. Anything you want!”

Naleth turned from the unnamed back toward the weapons rack. He shrugged, nodded, and then moved a little to the left so that he would be close enough to knock over the weapons when they passed by.

“Naleth will do this, friend,” the brute confirmed.

Unnamed patted him on the arm and moved to the right, his eyes fixed on the slaver walking at the head of the group. There was another one at the rear, but there were enough slaves to keep the second slaver out of view, for the moment.

The moment Naleth’s foot snagged the edge of the weapons rack, the unnamed darted forward, moving out of line and heading straight for the bowl of white powder. Weapons clanged and clattered as they hit the floor, followed by a series of curses and raised voices. The unnamed plunged his hand into the powder, pulling out a healthy scoop and dropping it into the folds of his clothing. He grabbed a second handful and ran back into line, pleased to see that the slaver’s attention was fixed on Naleth.

The ugly man was berating the brute for his stupidity, but Naleth didn’t seem to notice. He simply nodded and smiled as the slaver waved the group onward, leaving the nearby warriors to tend to their scattered weapons.

The unnamed walked up beside Naleth, dumping the second handful of white powder into the folds of his tunic and carefully twisting the fabric together. Once the powder was safely enclosed, he pulled against the fabric, finding that it gave way far too easily, allowing him to rip off a small pouch with the mysterious white powder nestled inside. He held the cloth bundle in his right hand, using his left to brush the excess powder from his clothes and hoping that no one noticed his pilfered prize.

While he was doing this, a little of the powder rose to his nostrils. It smelt acrid, biting his senses with a scent like ammonia mixed with cinnamon. He blew the powder away with short puffs of breath out of his mouth and nostrils, feeling suddenly more alert than he had a moment earlier.

Naleth turned to him, looking down with a wry grin.

“Happy, friend?”

The unnamed nodded.

“Yeah, thanks. Like I said, I owe you a favor.”

The brute nodded, smiling contentedly.

“Yes. Yes.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

They were led back through the area they had already come through, but this time they took a sharp left turn before heading through a different passageway. The slavers called them to a halt in the middle of a long tunnel with a rounded ceiling. The unnamed gripped the cloth bundle with the white powder tightly in his right hand, trying to hide it from the slavers and the other prisoners.

Naleth seemed to notice the young man’s attempt to hide what he was holding, so he promptly lumbering over and stood in front of the unnamed, hiding him from view as the brute casually picked his nose and then examined his finger with mild interest.

“Right,” the slaver leader said, pointing toward the center of the tunnel. “Line yourselves up, quick smart. Time to get them collars off.”

“Excuse me,” one of the slaves asked, earning a withering look from the slaver. “Can I ask what’s going to…”

The slaver’s cudgel split the man’s face apart, sending him crashing to the floor. Blood sprayed onto those standing nearby and the unnamed only avoided the gruesome mess because he was still hiding behind Naleth. The crimson spray was a vibrant splatter against the brute’s bluish gray skin, but the giant didn’t seem to notice what had happened.

The slaver used his sigil tattoo to bring the brutalized slave back to his place as the collar did its work, repairing the wound he had suffered as time seemed to reverse for a few seconds for the slave. The thin man stood blinking, reaching up to touch the collar, eyes wide as he relived the last few moments.

“LINE YOURSELVES UP!” The slaver boomed, turning away from the man he’d just clubbed as the rest of the slaves quickly shuffled into a rough line. “And let’s get you dressed!”

The brutish slaver went down the line, unlocking the collars one by one. Standing beside Naleth, his right hand behind his back, the unnamed tried to look as obedient as possible, staring straight ahead and begging whatever gods existed in this brutal afterlife simulator to let the slaver pass on quickly without noticing the small package he held behind his back.

He waited patiently as the slaver moved from person to person, bypassing Naleth and moving onto the unnamed while the ugly slave driver looked up at the towering brute. The slaver shook his head, a twisted grin on his face as he considered Naleth.

“They got somfin’ mean planned for you, boy,” he said, chuckling to himself.

The collar around the unnamed’s neck clicked open, and its weight shifted, seeming suddenly much lighter. Thick hands pulled it from his body as one of the other slavers walked over and collected the device. Neither of the thugs noticed the unnamed or the package he was carrying in his right hand. Instead, their attention stayed fixed on Naleth during the encounter.

“Ya got one job,” the thickset slaver boss with the machete announced, pointing toward the tunnel opening and the roaring crowd beyond. “That gate opens, you go runnin’ out. Ya don’t walk. You don’t turn around and come back, ’cause if ya do…”

He slid the machete out of its sheath, grinning wickedly as he held the blade near his cheek and ran its flat edge against his grimy flesh.

“I’ll cut you, understand?”

The slaves nodded and the he chuckled to himself, spat on the floor, then jabbed the weapon toward the tunnel exit.

“Ya ain’t gonna survive this, so get that thought outta ya head right now. Ya job ain’t to survive, it’s to die good. Run around a bit. Make a fool o’ yourself. Jump up and down and try not to get killed right away. Do a dance if it helps. Anyfing. Just don’t stand there and do nuffin’, got it? These people paid for a show and that’s what you’re gonna give ’em.”

Some of the prisoners nodded. Most stood numbly, trying to digest his words, still unable to comprehend what was about to happen.

“Last one dead,” the boss went on, “automatically gets another round. Ya also get first shot at the slop bucket when we get back to the compound, so keep to ya toes and stay alive as long as ya can.”

A sickly sensation crawled up the unnamed’s spine as the slaver sheathed his weapon and called out to one of the other guards, signaling for him to open the gate at the far end of the tunnel. Already, the unnamed could hear the sound of the crowd outside cheering and shouting. It drifted down the tunnel like a flood, filling him with dread.

He looked up at Naleth. The brute was staring out at the bright light coming from the end of the tunnel, his face remarkably serene given the circumstances. The unnamed imagined the brute swinging those giant fists in anger and found himself wondering what kind of monstrous foe they would be sending against him.

A favor.

He owed Naleth a favor.

The truth was, however, the unnamed was rather hoping he might be able to get more than a simple distraction out of the towering brute. If they were facing anything like that Darksteel woman, the chances of survival were less than nothing. She’d taken apart hardened warriors far more capable than any of the prisoners milling about in the tunnel. Naleth might have a chance though. A chance of lasting longer than a few seconds at least.

That was the play here. Get behind Naleth and let the big man take the brunt of the attack. That was his only way of surviving long enough to put on a good show, as the slaver had insisted they do. The unnamed hadn’t completely given up on fleeing, either. The collar was off, so that meant there was a chance. If he could somehow climb the walls or get Naleth to throw him up into the stands, maybe he’d have a chance.

To his surprise, one of the slavers was walking from person to person, handing out plain white robes and demanding that each of the prisoners disrobe and put on new clothes. The robes look freshly laundered, pristine white in comparison to the grubby, tattered rags they were currently dressed in.

The unnamed did as he was told, stripping out of his rags and swapping them for a white robe, hoping that the guard wouldn’t notice the rip he’d made in the fabric to fashion a pouch for the white powder. As it was, the guard barely noticed his existence, moving on without even looking at the unnamed.

The roaring of the crowd increased, rising to deafening levels, and the unnamed heard the unmistakable sound of the announcer above the din. He couldn’t hear the words being spoken, just the fuzzy mumbling of the loud speaker.

Within a few moments all of the prisoners had put on the robes. The unnamed looked down the line of slaves and, at that moment, understood why they were all dressed in such absurd white outfits. Freshly laundered and stark white, the tunics would make for a better spectacle for those watching from the stands. Bright crimson splashing against pure white—visible from even the cheapest seats in the house.

What kind of monsters would watch something like this?

Once more, the restraint collars were fitted around each slave’s neck and the unnamed felt his hope of running vanish. That was quickly followed by another realization. Without the collars, death in the arena would probably be permanent. While he didn’t relish what was coming, at least with the collars in place, he’d come back from whatever horrible death awaited him.

“Alright, rats!” machete-slaver yelled once all the collars were back in place. “Die well and make it entertaining. One way or another, ya gonna be back at the compound in a few hours, but some of ya will eat, and some will starve. So die good, rats!”

It might have been the malice in his voice or the simple movement of the herd, but the unnamed found himself suddenly running toward the jaws of death, carried along by his fellow prisoners. His mind was screaming, legs shaking in response to the deafening chant coming from beyond the tunnel, and yet he still ran.

Other lost souls jogged along beside him, some crying, some wearing expressions of grim determination or blank acceptance. They ran like a proverbial colony of lemmings, hurtling into the abyss and the open arms of certain death.