"Trigger Event. Do you know what is it? I'll tell you what is it. It's the end of your life and the start of another, one that you couldn't have imagined in your wildest dreams. It's the stairway to Heaven or a pit straight to Hell. It's the dream, you see. Though the dreamers don't realize that dreams are finicky things, that can turn into nightmares real quick.

The so-called experts will tell you that we understand it. They will list to you things like stress, environment, unusual happenings, psychological and physical dispositions, health history, family and another hundred factors. They will fill your desk with statistics, records and studies, before smiling that self-satisfied smirk of someone who cracked the case.

Bollocks. All of it. Circumstantial data at best.

Want the truth? We know only one thing for certain. The Trigger takes what it's inside and brings it out. Makes it real. Maybe you had pyromaniac tendencies you never were aware of. Just smiled when you saw the fireplace lit. You're splashed by that scary radioactive liquid and boom, now you shoot fire from your hands. Or maybe it will do the opposite, and now you have ice in your veins and every fire in a room will snuff out the moment you enter. Does it depend on the liquid you were splashed with? Not really. It's the Trigger that has decided that to be the best moment to fall on you.

Sure, it's connected. To you, to your life and whatever tragedy can fall on your head. Or not. I saw people exploding with power and the moment before they were reading in their living room. And people splashing themselves with that damn radioactive stuff and come out only with skin cancer. Yes, it's connected. But in the way a moody child could connect it. Grabbing a toy picking his fancy and giving it a new shiny look, just to see what it will do with it. A big cosmic joke, if you want my opinion.

Some people call it the Finger of God."

- Old Finnegan, ex-Union Scientist turned fisherman

He sat in darkness.

It was appropriate, really. It was in his name. Or rather, he was in it. As it should be.

He heard that most people didn't like it. That they were disquieted by it, and wished to avoid it.

He couldn't understand it.

Sitting alone in a small, damp room, the dark pressing against your eyes like a heavy cloth, like curious fingers. Listening to the whispers as they brushed against his ears like a cold breath, as they scraped against his mind. The meaning they carried was always there, barely beyond the horizon of his understanding, so far yet so tantalizingly close. One day, he would manage to reach it.

He stood still, completely. Not a breath, not a pulse. It was necessary. Only cold, still things could be one with the dark. And breathing could be such a bothersome activity, especially when you didn't need it. But that was just the flesh. Always so noisy. So needy. For air, for food, for drink. Limited, a meat suit of two legs and two arms and a head. He didn't need it in the dark. Here, he floated, his limbs were the whispers of Mother, his soul her wafting breath.

Most people would shirk away from this. But he loved it. He loved it all. It was like being in the glass-mother again.

Maybe there was something to that "I am different" spiel after all.

A smell brushed against his nose. An offending intrusion. There was no need for smells in the darkness. The darkness had no need of such a basic thing. Nonetheless, he smelled it.

Sawdust, sweat, blood.

Somewhere far away, he felt a mouth pull open into a toothy grin. A cold, dusty muscle started to stir again, the first beat like it had never truly stopped.

He fell towards it, saying his goodbye to the dark and the whispers. It was only bittersweet. Even the other world, the one that was tethered and limited and curtailed, had something to offer him. Maybe that made him an ungrateful child, but Mother never called him that.

He loved Mother.

Dark returned to himself. The whispers were muted now, background noise at the edge of conscience. The darkness still covered everything, but it had lost its abyssal quality. The smell wafted strongly now, as if he could just reach forward and clench his fist around bloodied dust. There was a sound too, like a low thrum going through his legs.

Cheers. The voice of a bloodthirsty crowd.

Grinning, Dark stood up. The door was already opening, shafts of light piercing through his den. He hated the light, despised it, but the world it revealed was so marvelous that he was ready to squeeze his eyes and wade into it.

The door slammed open, and he did just that.

Colors and sounds and light washed over him like a wave, and for a moment, he was blind, having to blink to put his surroundings into focus.

He was in a large pit, grimy sawdust shifting beneath his feet. Above him, people screamed and cheered and hollered from behind rusty metal fences. Dark saw well-dressed suits alongside workers still in their factory clothes. A humanoid with a lion head roared beside a man wearing a skull mask. A woman that seemed carved out of glass sipped elegantly on a private stand, shielded by a group of bodyguards armed to the teeth, while vagrants shouted and threw trash from beneath.

Wretches and drug addicts, two-bits villains and metahumans too ugly or fierce for civilized society, rich people with a taste for violence and factory workers come to blow up their savings on bloodsport. Their all cheered harder at seeing him, making trash rain down into the pit.

A bottle splintered against Dark's shoulder, the shards pelting his neck and face.

Huddling inside of a cabin that was more like a bunker than a commentator's stand, the announcer was just warbling his presentation into the mic.

"We all know him, folks! We all love him! The Rising Star of the Bloodfall Arena! The mastermind for an eye for pain! Give it up for… the Pale!"

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Dark raised his arms, showing off how the blow hadn't so much as grazed him. The audience went crazy. Couldn't blame them honestly. Wearing only a pair of shorts, the unearthly pallor of his skin and the spidery build of his body were in full view. With his ratty tophat on his head, he must have cut quite the figure as he stalked out of the dark, whispering den. Like a monster emerging from the night. He loved the image.

Grinning, he basked into the crowd's adoration, into the air made heavy and clogging by so many excited bodies stuffed underground. There just was something about having an audience cheering for you that made his heart race, even if they were only there to see you rip yourself and others apart.

Speaking of which…

"And now, our contender!" The announcer's warbled voice cut through the ruckus. "A ton of muscle! Almost as much single-minded violence! He rips mechs apart and eats them for breakfast! Give it up for… Warthog!"

A door opened into the metal surface of the arena. The man that waddled out of it was a real giant. Three meters tall, he was a mountain of corded muscle and fat, his massive belly taking nothing out of the trunk-sized arms and legs. A brutish head was planted atop a thick neck, flabby lips curled to reveal teeth missing from previous fights. Knife wounds covered half of the man's face. Eyes filled with cruel anticipation fixed themselves on Dark.

He looked right back, his own gaze mirroring that of his opponent.

Power-type, he thought. The size was a ringer, but it was no certainty. There were a surprising number of different powers out there, and body mass was included in a lot of them. But pure power types always had the same features giving them away. The muscle on their neck, back and thighs were always overdeveloped, probably to give the body enough structural integrity to hold itself together. If you gave them a look over with X-Rays, you'd also see that their skeleton was built differently, always for the same reason. For the most part, superpowers didn't follow physics, but there and then you still found these licks of sense.

Good for him, he thought, scanning his opponent as the audience gave the newcomer his own bath of cheers. The man walked heavily, his feet stomping deep into the arena's floor. He waddled as he moved, not a hint of economy or balance as he pulled his bulk around.

This one is easy, Dark thought with disappointment as the cheers died down. Level 2 at best. Tier 2 Super-strength, 3 if he was lucky. Probably some resistance, Tier 1 if he had to guess watching the man's skin. And not an inch of real technique. Just a brawler.

So much to start the evening.

A feverish anticipation fell over the audience as the announcer showed the betting pool.

Dark glanced at the electronic board set high into the arena wall. He grinned, turning back to his opponent. They gave him 3-2. Always like that with the first match, just in case he wasn't in good shape. Sucks for them. He was always in good shape.

There was no bell to announce the start of the fight.

"Let the Bloodfall roar!" The announcer screeched,

"Let it roar!" The audience howled.

Warthog charged, bellowing as he kicked bucketfuls of sawdust in the air with every step. For anyone else, it would have been an intimidating sight, a ton of flesh and aggression barrelling toward you. But he had seen worse, like that water-girl. To him, it was just slow. Warthog didn't even bother to mask his intent, coming at him with all the speed he could muster, hands reaching out for him. With anyone else, he could think of a faint, but that man couldn't stop himself once in motion, not with that build.

Dark let him reduce the distance and, just as Warthog entered grabbing range, he moved out of the way. Warthog hurriedly swiped at him, but there was no way he could control his momentum now. Sawdust flew in the air as he tried to stop himself. All he managed was to lose his balance. He crashed against the wall with enough force to send aftershocks above and into the fences, a few people in the front row losing their footing.

Dark lifted his hands, the crowd cheering for him. Say what you want, he loved that.

A wall against the wall, Warthog pulled himself up, shaking his head. He threw a glance toward the reserved seats. The glass woman didn't lower her drink, but her eyes were all for him. The big man shivered, then his face become fierce and he turned back to face him.

Dark was intrigued. A patron?

"Face me!" Warthog bellowed, pounding his chest with a ham-sized fist. "You scurry around like a mouse! You're not a man!"

The audience split, with many booing Dark. They were there to see blood in the air, not a damn bullfight.

Dark frowned. Trying to goad me.

Good.

Warthog charged again. Just as Dark was about to move, the big man smirked savagely. He threw himself forward, actually using his own body as a battering ram. The sudden motion broke through Dark's rhythm, and he couldn't get out of the way in time.

Warthog's body slammed against him like a ton of bricks, which wasn't much different from reality. But he didn't fall.

Planting his hands into the man's shoulder and head, Dark struggled to stop that enormous body's momentum. His feet had dragged two trenches into the sawdust when he finally made it.

He almost laughed at Warthog's astonished expression. After him getting out of the way so quickly, the big man didn't expect him to be that strong.

Dark heard him gasp when he grabbed his head beneath his arm, locking it under his armpit.

"It's all about the show," he hissed. "Can't crush you without some of it, you know? What are the customers going to say?"

Laughing, he let him go and pushed him. Warthog stumbled back, eyes boggling, before managing to find his balance again and stare at him in disbelief.

Dark winked at him.

Warthog's face turned red as anger overrode everything else. Bellowing, he charged.

This time, Dark didn't bother dodging. He threw himself forward, slamming himself against Warthog, grabbing at his hands so that they were locked together.

Dark heard the audience's feverish screams as he struggled with the big man, Warthog's reddened face filling his sight. He was strong, Dark would give him that. But not that strong. Not as strong as he had become.

Disbelief warred with anger on Warthog's face as Dark pushed his hands back. His arms shook with the effort, but he still couldn't stop him from forcing them down.

With a cheerful shout, Dark broke the hold, sending his opponent reeling back, then, before he could retake his balance, grabbed him. Warthog's blinked in astonishment as Dark raised him in the air, as the world turned on its head as Dark lifted him up head-down.

The crowd cheered viciously as Dark held the position, his body trembling with the effort.

All for the show.

Dark brought his arms down, slamming Warthog into the ground with all the strength he had, with enough force to make the entire arena tremble.

As the sawdust settled, he had a foot on his fallen opponent, his hands raised to receive the crowd's cheers.

Those didn't make themselves wait, both voices and objects pelting him and the ground around him.

"Ladies and gentlemen! We have a winner!"

A lot of people in the crowd cheered without control. A few ripped their tickets and threw them to the ground, cursing him for the money he had just cost them. The glass-lady was amongst them, her contempt sharp as ice.

Dark grinned at her for a moment, before turning away. He left Warthog with a light kick, spitting into the sand. Not good enough for training. Hell, barely good enough for a warm-up.

He waited in a corner as the mechs of the arena – big, blocky things built out of metal plates that would look good on a tank – carried the still unconscious Warthog out of the arena.

He spat again. Above, the board's number disappeared in a blur, before settling into a 4-2.

Now they were starting to talk. But he wanted at least a 6 before the evening was out. Not for the money. He didn't care about that. But higher stakes meant harder hitters, and he looked forward to a good fight. He needed it for his training.

He scanned the crowd, smirking a bit. Now that their tongue had been wetted, they were truly starting to kick into gear. Before the evening was out, they'd be throwing their blood-soaked hearts into the pit.

That was emotion. It was crooked, it was blood-hungry and vicious, but he wouldn't miss it. The darkness, for all its unfathomable depth and silence, could do with a little more shouts and stamping of feet. With a bit more of show.

Maybe he truly was an ungrateful child.