Chapter 66: Losing Streak
It was strange, putting the mask back on. The armor, the weapon, even the helmet, those were all fine and normal. Quentin had worn them all for thousands of hours while training throughout the years. It was the skull mask that completed his costume. Everything up until then was like reliving an old dream. Putting the mask back on and feeling his breath come out as a hiss made it real.
Gladiators were notoriously vain people, obsessed with glory and image. The locker room had a wall that was one giant full length mirror. Quentin stood in front of it and stared at himself through the eyeholes. Gods, had he really spent hundreds of fights with vision this limited? He twisted and turned and sure enough, the Butcher stared back at him through the mirror. Just a few nights ago he was wearing a nice new toga that made him look like a rich, soft bastard, and here he was looking like death incarnate again. It was absurd.
Once upon a time there may have been joy at this, coming back to his job after weeks of being on the bench. It was hard to feel joy when this wasn’t going to be a fight, or even a peaceful execution. This was a godsdamned tragedy, a cruel farce of the courts. The thought lay in wait, ready to pounce on him any time his thoughts strayed from the horrible thing he was about to do. That dark, cruel, punishment-happy part of him that liked to whisper in his ear would accept no happiness, no relief, nothing short of guilt and misery for days now. Who knew how much longer after the fact it would linger and haunt him?
A couple of the gladiators came into the locker room and slowed to a stop upon seeing him. Their fights were over now, and it was about time for Cervenka to begin. They stood apart from Quentin, distinctly uncomfortable. He nodded politely towards them and headed in their direction. They shifted out of his way and let him leave the locker room without a word. It was better for everyone if he left. It was back to this again. What would his girls think if they saw others reacting like this? How would they react if they saw him like this?
Quentin put that aside and made his way through the corridors, doing his best to ignore the sting of reliving the way people used to treat him. He made his way down to the holding cells and up the ramp that led to the arena. He got there just in time to hear the start of Amicus’ announcements.
“The moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Amicus crowed. “The battles are fought and done, and now it’s time for some punishment. The monsters are hungry, and we’ve got fresh prey for them tonight! Welcome in your favorite executioner as he toys with his food for your enjoyment. Bursting out onto the sand, we’ve got the DEATHHAWK!”
The sound of the crowd erupting with screams and applause was the closest Quentin came to feeling a hint of enjoyment over it all. Things had been so blessedly quiet he’d nearly forgotten what a rush an audience could be, and he wasn’t even out there yet. Then again, if anyone screamed for him and what he was going to do, it would just be sickening. A blur ran across the sands and onto the center stone ring. Quentin blinked and pressed his face up against the bars to get a better look.
Cervenka rotated in the center of the arena, fists held high as he soaked in the adulation. He mimed cupping his ears to hear it all better and even did a stupid little dance. Quentin’s lip curled. What an embarrassing display. Cervenka finished it off by pulling a couple of thin knives from his belt and holding them in both hands, posing as ready for action.
Another dark blob came across the sands, getting more clear the closer they got. It was a woman and two guards. The woman was fighting, struggling to get away while they all but dragged her and threw her down onto the stone and retreated. They were already behind the gate when she managed to get up and run after them. Quentin couldn’t hear her over the sound of the crowd, but he believed she was screaming and probably begging to be let back in. That happened, sometimes. Quentin had a feeling it happened more often now.
“Poor, poor Sara, the child killer. Smothered her daughter when she was just an infant and got caught throwing the body in the river. And now she’s going to die for it. Can we have some sympathetic tears for the poor woman?”
The crowd laughed and booed her. Quentin couldn’t see her very well anymore, but he could well imagine what was going through her head. The slow realization that it was only going to get worse, and there was no hope left. His stomach churned. Had he really taken part in this for years? No. He did it better than this. Amicus was a bastard, but it was always more playful and just showmanship for his matches. But then, this wasn’t going to be a match. Amicus only confirmed it seconds later.
“Our poor little murderous woman neglected to choose a weapon for this match. Good thing the Death Hawk has plenty to offer her!” He paused to let the crowd laugh. “She’ll be able to defend herself if she picks up one of the knives thrown her way, won’t she? On your mark, Executioner! KILL!”
Cervenka ran at the woman, who turned around and screamed. She took off away from him, and Cervenka let her. Even Quentin could see he was faster than her, but he stayed on her heels as she fought to put distance between them. She pivoted and crossed the stone ring. That was when the executioner threw the first knife. It sunk into the soft meat of her arm. She clutched her arm to her side and made the mistake of pulling it out. Blood poured freely from the wound. She was on a timer now.
Quentin wanted to look away, but found he couldn’t. This was what he did, it would be cowardly to turn away from it. Cervenka may have been crueler than he was, but that didn’t mean Quentin wasn’t cruel as well. He thought of one of his final executions, Antonio…Something. Gods, why couldn’t he remember? He’d taunted and tormented him and taken joy in his fear before beating him to a pulp and stabbing him. Cervenka threw another knife into the woman’s other arm. She pulled it out and this one she kept, turning around.
“Ooh, look at this. Is the poor child murderer going to stand her ground and fight?”
Sara knew she was going to lose, and this was the point where she realized she had nothing left but the minuscule chance to fight. She swung the knife in a wide arc at Cervenka, who just leaned back out of the way. She advanced on him swinging wildly. He pulled a hatchet from his belt and swung it into her arm. The knife clattered to the ground. Cervenka yanked the ax out and held it up for the audience’s approval. The woman fell to the ground screaming.
She looked up at him, and although Quentin couldn’t see her face clearly he could picture the fear and loathing. His hands gripped the bars tight enough to hurt. This was the point where the fight would end. This was when the fight should end. Cervenka disagreed. He slammed his foot into her face and sent her sprawling backwards. The prisoner slowly, weakly rolled onto her front and crawled away. Cervenka flung the hatchet at her. It landed in the small of her back, too small and too shallow to kill her but enough to keep her down.
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“What’s it going to be, DeathHawk? A fast, clean kill, or…Oh no, he doesn’t look like he wants it fast. He’s going to make it hurt!”
Cervenka pulled another knife from his belt. He sauntered over to the woman, every movement exaggerated for some sick sense of comedy. Once he got to her, he grabbed Sara by the hair and pulled her head back. The knife went to her forehead. Quentin realized what he was about to do right as Cervenka sliced into her scalp.
Quentin looked away. He couldn’t do this. He may have been a killer, but he wasn’t a torturer. Not even on his worst day would he draw out someone’s suffering like this. The very thought made him want to throw up. The crowd screamed again, but Quentin pushed it out of his head. He focused on his breathing, fighting to keep it slow and even, fighting to avoid freaking out or giving into his anger. He closed his eyes and breathed.
Dimly, he heard Amicus again, but the words were muffled and unimportant. The crowd was unimportant. Were they always this bloodthirsty, or did Cervenka bring out the worst in people? Quentin certainly felt like a worse person around him. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t him. Not anymore. He didn’t have to let it be this way. This would be one last awful kill and then he could go back to his girls.
The gates shifted, startling Quentin back to the present. He stepped out of the way as they swung outward. Cervenka came strolling his way, hands and armor covered in blood. Quentin leaned against the mural of the Darkstar, staring ahead and trying to keep his head on straight. Cervenka headed straight for him.
“I cannot believe how fun this all is!” he gushed.
Quentin said nothing.
“You’ve really been hogging the job for too long. It was definitely getting boring before I came along. Did you hear how the crowd went nuts? They LOVE me!”
A group of slaves came up the ramp with a stretcher to collect Sara’s body. Quentin stayed silent, keeping his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes down. He wanted nothing more than to grab Cervenka by the neck and squeeze until the bastard felt even one tenth the fear his victims did. He smiled. That would be a better ending to the night. The slaves came back down and Quentin strode up into the arena before Amicus could even announce him.
“Oh, and look who we brought back, ladies and gentleman! Gone but not forgotten, the Butcher has returned for a very special event. You all remember the fire last week that burned down a block of homes down in the lower east side? We have the responsible party, and tonight they die. A gift to the most depraved, insatiable killer the Colosseum has ever seen.”
Gods, was he really going to act like Quentin was worse than Cervenka? Of course he was. Quentin put his hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting. The crowd cheered for him, but nothing about it brought him any sort of pleasure. The unpleasant truth was they were always this bloodthirsty, and they would’ve maybe loved him more if he was crueler. How could he ever want the approval of people like that? If he wasn’t wearing this stupid mask, Quentin would’ve spit on the ground.
The gates opposite him opened and the same two guards brought up a small, dark haired girl. Normally the prisoner’s names were happily read to the public, but as this was a child with a surviving relative, they didn’t. It was as close as the courts and Colosseum came to kindness. Quentin hadn’t even seen her name. Part of him wished he knew it, if only so someone could honor her life. The other part was grateful. Maybe he could bury this deep and never think about it again.
“The worst fire we’ve seen in years, all started because of a stupid child playing with fire. She…”
Quentin tuned him out. The girl was crying her eyes out. She had messy brown hair, and dirt smudges on her cheeks. Did she even really understand what was about to happen to her? Could she? Life must’ve been one relentless nightmare since the accident. And here Amicus was going to make it worse by drawing it out. Quentin took a deep breath. Well, fuck that.
Amicus was still speaking when Quentin drew his sword. The girl saw him and flinched, closing her eyes as if that would protect her from the big bad monster. That was as good as it would get. He strode forward, picking up speed until he was running. The guards released the girl and scrambled away from him. By the time Amicus realized what was going on, Quentin swung.
She fell backwards as blood spurted from the wound in her neck. The impact of hitting her spine without cutting through traveled up his arm, a sick lingering reminder of what he just did. It was over in just a few painfully long seconds. Blood pooled around the girl as she struggled to take in her last few breaths. The Colosseum fell silent. Even Amicus was speechless as the girl died to an audience of twenty thousand silent spectators.
Suddenly, anger flooded him, and it was all he could do to avoid screaming until he had nothing left. Quentin drew his arm back and flung his sword out into the crowd, who gasped and ducked out of the way. He turned on his heel and stormed away from the arena. Cervenka waited for him there with his mask off. Quentin ignored him and walked out.
Back to the locker room, he washed away the blood that had splashed onto his hands and got changed back to his nice new tunic, colorful and luxurious. Quentin would look as close as he got to good while feeling like the scum of the earth. He collected his belongings and left, ignoring the people who dodged out of his way, ignoring everyone. He was out of the Colosseum before most of the audience started to leave.
Upon reaching the great desert, Quentin broke out into a jog. Anything to put distance between him and the damned place that ate up ten years of his life and turned him into the monster that he was today. He kept going, putting on speed until he was sprinting, reveling in the movement and the burn and the way it felt to just push his body so he didn’t have to think or feel.
Getting back to the city made it difficult to keep moving at that speed, but Quentin didn’t care. At seeing his quick approach, people got out of his way, just like they did at the Colosseum. Quentin sped past them, running down the streets with his cloak billowing out behind him. The streets passed him by as he made a beeline for home, wanting one thing above everything else.
Razia couldn’t fix this for him. This was one mess she hadn’t dragged him into and the one mess she couldn’t clean up. But she could be there. She could listen and hug him and tell him he wasn’t as bad as he felt, that this was necessary. Or maybe she could do the opposite and confirm his worst fears and punish him the way he deserved. If he hadn’t already earned the fate of a mindless shade before, he did after tonight.
It was still early enough that the Boulevard was still crowded, filled with merchants who hadn’t yet packed up and gone home for the night. It was here he finally slowed, heart pounding relentlessly. He tapered off into a walk, panting for air. The people around him stared at him as if he had a second head, but for once in his life Quentin didn’t care about that. They didn’t matter. He swallowed hard and forced himself to be calm. To be numb. This could hurt more later.
When he turned down the street that led to home, he froze in his tracks. In front of the Garden was a mass of blurry lumps standing there. He crept cautiously forward and those blurs became Watchmen and some of his girls. Anger and bitterness were pushed aside in favor of sudden anxiety. He ran the rest of the way, stopping only when a Watchmen turned to him and held his hand out.
“We’re dealing with this sir, please turn around and give us some space. You can find some other place to get some pussy for the night,” he said in a tired, bored voice.
“What happened?” Quentin demanded. “What’s going on here?”
“None of your business,” the Watchman scoffed. “We’ve got this under control, and we don’t need some pale-ass fre--”
“I own this place,” Quentin barked, making the man take a step back. “What. Happened. Here.”
“Oh gods, Mr, Q!” Lucy pushed past a couple of Watchmen and ran up to Quentin, throwing her arms around his middle. “They took her!”
His blood turned to ice. The world wobbled and he asked, knowing the answer, “They took who?”
“Razia! They took Razia!”