When the stands are brimming with citizens, vendors, rubberneckers, spies, gamblers, and enterprising journalists, the Militiamen begin to move with a purpose, hovering around all entrances and exits, the air in the Arena taking on that of a cinema when the feature is about to begin.
A cadre of high-ranking agents file into the master of ceremonies box, unhooded. Their leader is the now-familiar Captain Argo, tall, fair-haired, and strong-jawed. He cuts an imposing figure, easily a head taller than all of his peers. He calls for silence in his booming voice, enhanced by some unseen enchantment.
“People of Baedal. We have fought hard in these past weeks to protect you from those who would tear our city down from within. We have worked even harder to uncover those responsible – and you, our valiant citizens, have aided us. Today is a victory for all of Baedal. Here in this Arena, in the presence of the Twelve, we have brought you the gears of the machine that would see us all broken. These are criminals, who spread propaganda and dissent, who stir violence, who perpetuate the thoughts that corrupt our society, and who hide the living weapons who terrorize our city.
Those vigilantes – those terrorists – that they have kept quiet to defend, have left them now here with us. Abandoned them, despite their supposed radical faith. But we are just, Baedal. All of us are. And though they have been abandoned by their figureheads, we will give them one more chance. A fair chance. To which you will all now bear witness.”
That speech inspires genuine cheers in many, but a surprising portion of the audience only applauds with vigor because it's expected of them, and it certainly can't be a good thing to fail to react properly to something so ominous-sounding. Murmurs of curiosity and foreboding surge through the stands, and people stare down at the Arena floor, transfixed. Some are excited. Some are disbelieving. One woman clings to the edge on the lowest rail, eyes desperately scanning the far-off holding cells, praying she sees no familiar faces.
From within the prisoner cells, a man is dragged out. He's belligerent, argumentative, and refuses to pick up any weapons or armor provided to him in the shoddy ready-room the prisoners are being afforded. The Militiaman escorting him takes an air of suit yourself and shoves him in on his own, before retreating. Across the Arena, a great hulking humanoid carrying a broadsword stalks forth. He bears no brand, but to any regular spectators, he'll be known as a fierce, bloodthirsty combatant. He raises his arms, and the crowd cheers. For many, reality hasn't settled in.
The gladiator goads his unarmed opponent. He waits. A sporting chance, for a moment. And then, with a look from the stern faces above him, he takes a massive swing, and slams his sword down on the prisoner's shoulder and neck, cleaving him clear down to his solar-plexus. The prisoner gurgles, the audience gasps – more than one person shrieks – and the gladiator rips his sword away, blood flowing free. The prisoner, blank-eyed, staggers; the sword comes down again. His head rolls away. His body collapses.
From the far side of the Arena, another prisoner is thrown out onto the floor. A woman this time – Tasia Vinter, CAMB member – and she's taken the liberty of picking up a mace for herself, hastily strapped-on breastplate seeming so small against this enormous opponent. Steel clashes, brief, then the gladiator kicks her, driving her to her knees. He jams his sword into her stomach, then again down directly into her chest, through her clavicle.
In the span of mere minutes, two political prisoners have been murdered. The crowd is in a frenzy – screaming, in outrage and in bloodlust, sobbing, cheering.
THE MAIN EVENT:
A cadre of high-ranking agents file into the master of ceremonies box, unhooded. Their leader is the now-familiar Captain Argo, tall, fair-haired, and strong-jawed. He cuts an imposing figure, easily a head taller than all of his peers. He calls for silence in his booming voice, enhanced by some unseen enchantment.
That speech inspires genuine cheers in many, but a surprising portion of the audience only applauds with vigor because it's expected of them, and it certainly can't be a good thing to fail to react properly to something so ominous-sounding. Murmurs of curiosity and foreboding surge through the stands, and people stare down at the Arena floor, transfixed. Some are excited. Some are disbelieving. One woman clings to the edge on the lowest rail, eyes desperately scanning the far-off holding cells, praying she sees no familiar faces.
From within the prisoner cells, a man is dragged out. He's belligerent, argumentative, and refuses to pick up any weapons or armor provided to him in the shoddy ready-room the prisoners are being afforded. The Militiaman escorting him takes an air of suit yourself and shoves him in on his own, before retreating. Across the Arena, a great hulking humanoid carrying a broadsword stalks forth. He bears no brand, but to any regular spectators, he'll be known as a fierce, bloodthirsty combatant. He raises his arms, and the crowd cheers. For many, reality hasn't settled in.
The gladiator goads his unarmed opponent. He waits. A sporting chance, for a moment. And then, with a look from the stern faces above him, he takes a massive swing, and slams his sword down on the prisoner's shoulder and neck, cleaving him clear down to his solar-plexus. The prisoner gurgles, the audience gasps – more than one person shrieks – and the gladiator rips his sword away, blood flowing free. The prisoner, blank-eyed, staggers; the sword comes down again. His head rolls away. His body collapses.
From the far side of the Arena, another prisoner is thrown out onto the floor. A woman this time – Tasia Vinter, CAMB member – and she's taken the liberty of picking up a mace for herself, hastily strapped-on breastplate seeming so small against this enormous opponent. Steel clashes, brief, then the gladiator kicks her, driving her to her knees. He jams his sword into her stomach, then again down directly into her chest, through her clavicle.
In the span of mere minutes, two political prisoners have been murdered. The crowd is in a frenzy – screaming, in outrage and in bloodlust, sobbing, cheering.