December 1, 2036
Day 0, Freedom Championships
Alexandria Cortez stood chained in the arena tunnel.
She had a decent view through the metal bars as people died because of her.
Monsters and gladiators, some she knew and had cordial relationships with, spilled the blood of her allies.
The underground railroad was broken.
Friends and strangers, allies all giving their lives for the cause.
The one just cause she had to cling to in this terrible world.
She thought of her life.
She had thought of nothing else during the weeks she had spent imprisoned awaiting her fate.
A lot had changed in a year.
She had sat at the king’s table lending her input for the championships.
Now, she was to become part of it and in a way that no one had expected.
Instead of challenging for glory and power she was now a feeder.
Guilt filled her as it had for a long time.
How many feeders had she bled as an arena champion?
Nameless faces twisted in fear and pain or worse, no emotion at all, flashed across her thoughts.
Your blood… now mine, she thought, it’s just.
Creating the railroad hadn’t been enough to assuage the guilt. She had known that there was nothing she could do to clean the blood from her hands.
No number of people she had smuggled out to Atlanta before they could be collared would ever be enough.
She thought of long ago before the spires had ruined it all.
There existed a college freshman, excited for independence, the sun, the beach, fun.
There existed a junior national archery champion.
‘Mija’ to her doting father, 'my baby' to her proud mother.
They had spared no expense to nurture her talent.
Tens of thousands spent on the best equipment. The best teachers.
After all, her parents had reasoned, if my baby wants to go to the Olympics then what better people to learn from then those had made it before?
She hadn’t realized her life was one of privilege.
Not until it was all ripped away by the spires.
She had chosen Florida because of the beaches and the fun. Her parents had agreed because they had a lot of family there to keep an eye on her.
Uncles, aunts, cousins… all dead now. Most in the early days, some had lasted a few years longer with her, but they too left her alone.
A Junior National Champion Archer had advantages.
In time she became a Champion Archermage. Levels meant strength and years after the apocalypse she was strong enough to make her way back north toward home.
Only to find an empty home torn to pieces.
Blood stains turned brown by age.
Scattered bones.
Her parents.
Her younger siblings.
She had never known for sure.
She had buried them in the backyard.
Burned her home.
Turned her back to forget the pain.
Strength.
That was all that mattered now.
She had returned to Florida after a few years wandering looking for a new place to call home.
She had found nothing else.
Things had changed.
A man she had known as one of the strongest warlords in an uneasy, tense cauldron of simmering violence had become the sole king.
The collars.
The king had used the collars on his enemies first. The ones that were too much of a threat or refused to bow.
After consolidating his power he had looked outward.
Invite those that fit his profile of a proper citizen to the newly formed New American Republic. Make slaves out of the rest.
That name was a joke.
But where else could she go?
What choice did she have?
Too strong and valuable for the collar so long as she knelt and bowed her head.
Better to have a semblance of freedom than being forced to spread her legs.
A pretty face and a hot body left her no doubts what being enslaved would have meant for her.
When did it change?
After all, she had shed innocent blood in the arenas for years. The only thing those people had been guilty off was being born with the wrong skin color or refusing to hold chains.
She had thought she was numb to the violence.
Survive.
That’s all that mattered.
Get stronger.
Always get stronger.
Was that it?
Had she thought that she was strong enough?
She had remembered words from somewhere.
Something about the only thing evil needing to thrive was for good people to do nothing.
And there she was… actively doing evil.
Her parents hadn’t raised an evil person.
So, what else could she do but fight the evil. And in the slaver kingdom there was one great evil.
Slavery.
She thought of her parents.
She shed a tear when she realized that she couldn’t quite remember her parents’ faces, the sounds of their voices.
“Are you watching, Mama, Papa?” she whispered. “I’m sorry… I know I’ve been messing up…”
“Prayer won’t save you now, traitor!” one of the guards spat.
She gave no reaction to the glob that hit her cheek. She merely straightened her bowed head as the last of her allies, friends, gurgled their last under the claws of a reptilian monster.
“I’m sorry… I tried… I know it’s too late and I’m not asking for forgiveness. I did what I did because I thought I had no choice, but I realized that there was always a choice. What I was afraid… and, Mama, Papa… I’m not afraid anymore. See you soon. I love you guys.”
The cheering from the crowd shook the tunnel.
The rumble of their stamping feet was like an earthquake above her head.
“There you go,” the guard sneered, “see what happens to traitors,” he yanked the chain leading to her wrist and dragged her back down the tunnel.
The guards handled her roughly as they shoved her into an old trainer’s room.
Two men awaited her.
One stood tall and strong with an easy smile.
“Malcolm, congrats,” her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “New King’s Champion. You must be proud and happy,” she sneered.
The smile vanished. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he chided.
“And they call me a traitor,” she smirked. “Are you colorblind, Malcolm? Do you see something different in the mirror? Different from the vast majority of the people we slap those collars on?”
The tall, muscular man swallowed.
“Slaves, Malcolm. Like your ancestors. Funny how history runs in a circle. I forgot how that worked,” she laughed bitterly. “Did you forget?”
“Enough, traitor bitch!” the second man slapped her.
“Eric,” she sneered. “Barely felt that. What are you doing here? One last look? I saw you watching eagerly when they were beating me last week. You hid in the back, but don’t think I didn’t see your hand down your pants.”
“She’s lying. I was there, but that wasn’t—” Eric stuttered to Malcolm.
“Your kinks are your own, but there won’t be any of that here,” Malcolm grunted. “Alexandria was a champion of the arenas. Once a champ always a champs. Plus, the king ordered she was to be kept in top physical condition for the fight.”
A spark of hope blossomed in Alexandria.
The way Malcolm had said that. The look he gave her.
A fight?
Not an execution or squash match or a feeding.
Eric sputtered. “I know that!” his face turned red all the way to his balding head. “Bitch! If it was up to me all I’d give you was one night then in the morning you’d get a long rope and a short drop!”
“How long have you been practicing that?” Alexandria smirked. She eyed Malcolm. “3 out 10 and that’s me being generous.”
“2 out of 10,” Malcolm grinned. “He should’ve gone low and menacing for the first half. The second half should’ve been loud, angry and ended with a sneer. He would’ve maximized the heat.”
“He’s right, Eric. You sounded like a shrill woman there. Pathetic and not at all threatening. I’m more sad for you than anything.”
Eric raised a hand and struck.
He yelped in pain.
Malcolm had his wrist in vise-like grip.
“C’mon, man…”
“Let go! You’re new, you jumped up nig—” Eric sputtered as the grip tightened.
“Best be moving on old man,” Malcolm growled. “I’m new, but I’m the champion.”
Eric practically ran out of the room as soon as Malcolm released him.
“Straight to daddy to complain,” Alexandria said.
Malcolm shook his head. “The king’s getting ready.”
“Ah… I understand.”
“Oops,” Malcolm shrugged. “You know. I always admired you. You did whatever you wanted. No noble too big to take down a peg. Everyone knew that there was only one person you didn’t give crap too. I always figured that’s why you were always alone. No family. Didn’t make friends. Nothing to give them leverage.”
“Careful there, champion. We both know there are always eyes and ears around.”
“Just making an observation on a dead woman,” Malcolm shrugged. “Nothing for anyone to get their panties in a twist over!” he gazed at the ceiling. “Anyways, that might’ve been an uncharitable assessment of you. It seems that you did have friends after all. I heard that no one gave you up. You might have been able to get out of this had you kept quiet and not tried to free them. You killed two Level 40’s, seven 30’s and two dozen other fighters. An entire company of essential soldiers disabled, but not killed. Took the king himself to stop you.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“And it looks like I’m about to have my rematch.”
“I’ve watched the recordings dozens of times. You were great, but… you weren’t close to the king,” he sighed.
“I knew he was over Level 50. We all knew that.”
“You pushed him though. Further than I’ve ever seen in one of his monthly exhibitions.”
“In your professional opinion. How would it have gone if it was the two of us? Together?”
“Right,” Malcolm nodded. He strode over to the cloth covered table and unfurled it with a flourish. “Your gear. Repaired. The ones that couldn’t be fixed replaced by good quality stuff.”
She regarded the weapons and armor.
A pang washed over her at the absence of her bow. She supposed that she shouldn’t have expected to see it. Not with the way the king had broken it into a half dozen pieces.
“I’d wish you luck, but that’s bad luck. So, the only thing I can do is to tell you this.” Malcolm grasped her hands in his mitts. Surprisingly gentle. “Die well. I’ll be watching closely. We all will. Give it 110% champion. Leave it all out on the floor.” Malcolm unlocked the cuffs, removed the chains. “Why?” his eyes searched hers.
“I didn’t want to be selfish anymore.”
He gave her one last nod before leaving her to prepare.
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The stadium, the arena shook with the stomping and jeering of over 70,000 people.
Music accompanied the highlight package of the ex-champion up on the scoreboard screen and the other giant screens around the rim.
Cal only had eyes and ears for the two people standing within punching distance of each other in the middle of the dirt field.
“Right at the fifty yard line, like a damn coin toss,” he muttered.
He was alone in the luxury box. Lord Don Wynn’s luxury box.
He had brought only enough of the noble’s men to guard the door to keep up the sake of appearance.
The Slaver King didn’t look remarkable.
A white man with dark hair.
Somewhere between 40 and 50 year’s of age.
In great shape.
Which made sense since the man wasn’t shy about making sure everyone got to view his long catalog of fights. Everything from arena exhibitions to fights against wandering monsters, encounter challenges and spawn zones was easily available.
The prideful moron just gave away hours of tape for anyone wanting to scout him out.
The ex-champion was a woman in her 30’s.
Quite attractive.
Fit.
An athlete. A fighter.
An heir to Harriet Tubman and abolitionists from long ago.
And he was going to watch her die.
Sacrifice her on the altar of the greater good.
The thought sat heavily on his mind and left an ugly feeling.
She didn’t deserve to die.
None of those people he had watched get torn apart by monsters and cut down by gladiators did.
They did the right thing and he let them die for it.
The promises on his tongue rang hollow.
And so he had watched.
Committed every single one of those brave people to memory.
Marked the way they ended their lives for their righteous cause.
They deserved more, but that was the most he could do… for now.
Oh, he’d carry out their legacy, but that too felt like too little, too late.
He watched and listened as the king conversed with a lost woman that had found her way.
“Rebel Champion Archermage,” the Slaver King remarked, “bit of a mouthful, clunky… I wonder how we missed that.”
“Took you a long time. I got that little addition 6, 7 months ago.” Alexandria regarded the crowd. “The irony is that this is why.”
“Oh… please explain. We’ve got time,” he gazed up at the scoreboard, “you’ve got a long, storied career to get through. Am I not generous? It wouldn’t be fair if they didn’t know exactly what you’ve meant to our republic. Your legacy is only second to mine, after all. I couldn’t have built this without your power.”
“A great regret in my life. It might have taken me longer to realize hadn’t it been for these ridiculous, self-fellating championships. You woke me up. The rush to expand and steal more people to enslave for this!” she spat. “I have to thank you, really, for leading me to where I stand right now. Even one life spared from the collar or death in this arena is worth mine. And we helped hundreds escape this past year.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, but I knew. Sure, I’ll give you about a month or two before I caught on, but the rest. I let you do that,” he grinned. “What’s a few hundred dregs lost in exchange for completely cutting the rot out of my republic. Root and stem. It did hurt to learn that you were behind it. Had I not treated you well? We’ve fought together. Leveled together. Defeated encounter challenges, cleared spawn zones. You saved my life against that demon.”“
“One of my greatest regrets in life.”
“Yeah, well, to be accurate. If I had died there, then you would’ve been next. Really, you saved yourself,” he smirked. “Because that’s what you were all about. Saving yourself. This whole time. Your whole life. You cared for no one, but yourself. Really, this is like a deathbed confusion. You suddenly finding a conscience. Well, Alex, bit too little, too late.”
“You always talked about building a future. Better, bigger, more prosperous. Then you stumbled ass-backwards into the collars,” Alexandria spat.
The Slaver King bristled at the glob at his feet.
“You’ve gone backwards. Embraced an evil legacy. The evil legacy of our past. Nothing good ever came from slavery.”
“Hypocrite. You lived a good life for years on the backs of our essential soldiers and workers.”
“C’mon, King, use the real word. Call them what they really are. Or did you forget?” she locked eyes with the taller man. “I know what your real class is.”
“This is your last fight. Your last act on this world. I don’t know and I don’t care if there’s something for you after, but I’d suggest you make this count,” he gave her a feral grin. “We’ve sparred before, but I’ve always wanted to go at. I mean, really go at you. No holding back. Strength against strength. Life or death.” He shivered. “The thought… excites me.”
“That much, we have in common,” she said flatly
He turned and walked to the other end of the arena as did she.
The highlight package soon ended and the announcer’s booming voice took over.
“And there you have it ladies and gentleman. The greatest traitor of our young nation. The greatest champion to have ever graced the arenas. Alexandria Ortega Cortez!”
Cheers and jeers as the spotlight fell on the ex-champion. The abolitionist. The last of a brave group of people that tried and failed to defy the odds at the cost of their lives.
“Now she faces her just punishment. Now she faces the sole arbiter of justice. Our sovereign ruler! The one and only, King!”
Cheers as the fit man remove his shirt to reveal a bare chest underneath the bright light.
“Am I not merciful!” the king threw his arms out wide. “Traitors deserve nothing and yet have I not been fair? Have I not given them hope?” he bowed his head solemnly, “slim as it is. As it was.” His head rose suddenly. “And thus, witness! How I stand across from my old friend in the distance. The distance at which she is unparalleled in dealing death. And yet, here I stand! Am I not fair?”
The cheers were deafening.
The luxury box shuddered.
Cal rose before he remembered what he was here to do. Who he was pretending to be. He sat down with a sigh. A heavy thud.
The judge’s gavel had fallen on the ex-champion long ago and the sentence was death.
And yet, she had been a champion.
She understood the show. Had a Skill or two to enrich the experience for the fans.
“My adoring fans!” her voice boomed out to every ear in the stadium.
The king scowled was faint thing. Gone in an instant.
“You have watched me. You have cheered as I bled, as I made others bleed. I have made your hearts race. I have brought you to the unsurpassed heights of joy in victory such that you could do nothing else but cheer and smile. How long have I entertained? How long have I given you something to look forward to? The monsters that terrified your every thought? I have slain them. The raiders and marauders that once preyed on you? I have slain them.” She bowed her head a moment before looking back up at the crowd. They each all felt as though she was looking only at them, speaking only to them. “Have I not driven away the nightmares?”
Yes! the crowd thought.
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
“That is all that I’ve ever done,” she sighed. “And so it is that I continue to do so. I fight to slay my greatest monster. Your king… your Slaver King. We’ve lied to ourselves long enough! Listened to lies! ‘Essential workers’, ‘essential soldiers’. They are slaves in all but name. It is time you remove the blindfolds. See your home for what it is!”
The crowd’s cheers dampened.
Murmurs began.
The ex-champion spoke what they all knew.
A thousand different rationalizations and justifications rushed through their heads.
A third of the crowd didn’t care. The New American Republic only followed the natural order of things. Some people were simply superior to others and so it was right that the latter served the former.
The rest feared the collars and liked the safety, the comfort.
Better them than me, they thought, besides, aren’t the slaves happy? That’s what makes the collars so good.
The king smiled with sadness. “My people! Our champion has fallen. Her mind twisted against us. Do not listen to her words. She seeks to drag you down with her. Are not our essential employees happy? Ask one yourselves. They are in our homes, our stores, our restaurants. Do they serve with a smile? Have I not brought happiness to all of us? The older among you will remember how different it used to be in our old country. Is it not better now that I have brought the collars?” he spread his arms to encompass the crowd. “I love you, my citizens! I dedicate my performance to you!”
A wave traveled through the crowd.
Cal felt it the moment the energy had emanated from the Slaver King.
A Skill? A spell? A mixture?
The effect was quick.
The crowd turned on the ex-champion they had just cheered a moment ago. Had genuinely given their support. They booed and cursed her name.
Alexandria’s face gave nothing away. She only had eyes for the king over a hundred yards across the dirt field from her.
“It was a good try,” Cal sighed.
“Any last words, old friend?” the king said.
“I give my blood, my life so that no man, woman or child will live in chains!” Alexandria roared.
“Let the countdown begin!” the announcer boomed.
A magical projection appeared above the stadium.
One minute.
The Slaver King exhorted the crowd. Bouncing around and shadow boxing. He held no weapon, bore no armor. He would face his opponent bare-chested.
45 seconds.
Alexandria strung her bow.
The ex-champion was lightly armored, thin chain over padded cloth. An open-faced helmet. Several quivers of arrows. A machete and a tomahawk at her belt. Several smaller blades hidden on her body.
30 seconds.
She drew an arrow and nocked it.
15 seconds.
The king bounced lightly on his toes. His mouth moved in a whisper.
10 seconds.
The ex-champion spoke softly. Skills activated.
0:00.
The fight began.
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“MIRV Shot: Explosive.”
She loosed an arrow into the sky.
The crowd lost it in the clouds.
“Leading with that? Seems desperate,” the king smirked. “King’s Decree: Cheer your loudest.”
Arrogant ass, Alexandria thought.
The louder and more fervent the fans cheered the better she performed, the better her performance the louder and more fervent the fans cheered.
A feedback loop that all arena fighters understood to some extent.
It didn’t matter if they cheered against her.
It only mattered that they were emotionally invested in the contest.
Her hands blurred.
Nock, draw, loose.
Three arrows in quick succession.
She roared with each release.
“Sticky Arrow! Flash Arrow! Fatal Piercing Arrow!”
She didn’t need to speak, but that was what the crowd expected.
The first arrow stuck the king’s feet to the ground in white goop. The second blinded him for an instant. The third hit his chest and sunk all the way down to the fletching.
Each shot perfectly placed.
Skills made a mockery of her skills.
The king winced as he pulled the arrow free.
She had punched straight through thick steel plenty of times in the past.
The wound closed in a second.
The crowds cheers deafened her. Invigorated her. It had been a while since she had last fought in front of them.
“My turn!” the king grinned.
He burst toward her with a great cloud of dirt.
Too fast.
A second to reach the halfway point to her position.
She had already nocked another arrow, raised her bow to the sky and loosed.
“Arrow Rain!”
She dashed to her right.
Greater Enhanced Reflexes.
Ankle bracelets enchanted with the Haste spell.
The Slaver King’s punch left a small crater where she had been.
A hundred arrows identical to the one she had just loosed poured down from the sky.
The Slaver King was caught right in the center of the storm.
“Classic, Alex!” he resembled a pincushion. His white pants turned red and pink by his blood.
She moved with supernatural alacrity in a bid for distance to avoid what was about to—
Her first arrow lanced down from the sky like the fist of God. It whistled and screeched as the arrowhead split into multiple pieces to impact the king.
When the dust cleared he stood burned inside a much larger crater.
“Haven’t seen that one in some time,” he coughed. His wounds healed as rapidly as before. “You’re really making me work for this, Alex. I love it!” he taunted. “Let’s give my people a real show!”
Alexandria ran and dived as the Slaver King hurled a hand full of dirt at her back.
She grimaced at the stinging pain.
Like being sandblasted or shot.
The damned bastard could throw projectiles at a speed just shy of a gunshot.
She picked herself up, turned and loosed blindly.
She hit the charging king in the chest.
Spell Arrow: Slow.
She had cast the spell silently. Didn’t have enough time to do it verbally.
Give the crowd a show. Give them what they expected.
The king slowed.
Their speed closer to equal.
She bought time.
For whatever reason, the king couldn’t shrug off magical effects and wounds as quickly as he could purely physical ones.
She backpedaled, nocked, drew and loosed.
“Spell Arrow: Immolate!” she smiled with feral joy.
The king roared with genuine pain as he went up like a dry Christmas tree wrapped in string lights stripped of insulating rubber by age and use.
“Your Slaver King burns at my just cause!” she pumped her fist to the crowd.
The burning king dropped to the dirt and rolled.
Magical fire is a bitch to put out without other magic, isn’t it? she thought as she ran as far away as the arena’s massive space allowed.
“Yes, king,” she sneered allowing her voice to reach the crowd. “You wanted a show? Well, I was the greatest champion for a reason.” She regarded the crowd and projected majesty with all her experience, skill and Skills.
Give the crowd what they want. Make them eat out of your hand like a flock of chipmunks, she thought, feed them and they feed you in turn.
Her heart pumped liquid fire through her veins.
Yet, her mind remained cold as the snow that covered her old family winter vacation home on the slopes of the mountain.
Hmm… that would be a good next shot, she thought.
The Slaver King finally succeeded in smothering the flames out. “Seen that before,” he rasped.
Charred, blackened pieces of skin flaked off only to be replaced by the pink of brand new skin.
“Then you’ll be disappointed. I don’t have anything new to show you,” she pouted with feigned sadness.
Well, that was a lie, she thought, I do have one new thing. Just the one, but it’s a good one, my best and I hope you like it.