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Arena 2 - Saga 5, Arena

_*

Lumpin chuckled and shook his head before responding to Vomitus’ query.

“Go fish.”

Vomitus muttered a chosen curse under his breath before digging into the pile of cards, Lumpin only laughing harder. Vomitus sneered, spitting out his next words like a foul poison.

“What’re you laughing at?”

Lumpin continued chortling, slightly lifting his hands in a deigned look of surrender.

Vomitus grit his teeth, nodding in continuance.

“Your turn. Where’d you get these cards, anyway?”

_*

Acid Flux strode forward across the wide field of battle, the vast crowd unrelenting all around with their uproarious noise. The being, still small in his sight, stood perfectly still with arms crossed. Acid smiled, rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles, not having fought in a very long time. If he was to be summoned to mysterious battles for unknown reasons by an anonymous host, he might as well take advantage of it.

The former member of the famed Fellowship then stopped in his tracks, and with dramatic flair, raised his arms upward into the air and his gaze to the spectators around. This drove them into a frenzy, applause and cheering raining down on the grounds as Acid whirled about to their delight.

His opponent remained motionless, patient.

The booming voice returned.

“… and his opponent, Zartock89!!”

Less cheering this time, to accompany an altogether less charismatic presentation. Acid’s robed opponent stood still, excepting for a slight raise of his staff in hand.

The booming voice spoke once more.

“Begin!”

Before the final syllable was even pronounced, Acid Flux had already drawn his custom hand-held mini-crossbow from its holster and fired a bolt. Before the spectators could even process the meaning of the announcer’s words, the projectile had plunged itself halfway through Zartock’s forehead. The force of the shot drove the wizard back a single step in wide-eyed shock before he fell to the ground with a dull thud. Blood began running into one of his eyes.

The minibow was still held aloft at level, its bearer slightly frowning at the rather sudden end to the fight. Acid, on instinctual whim, turned around, being met by the impact of a mage’s staff across his jaw.

Acid Flux grunted, falling back and rolling to a kneel, once again leveling his weapon and firing at his opponent. Another bolt found its target between Zartock’s eyes. A second body now lined the floor of the colosseum.

An enchanted rod was then brought down upon Acid’s skull with brute force, and as Flux cried out in pain, another met him across the ribcage. He kicked a heel behind him, his boot meeting a body and sprawling it away, as he began to throw punches left and right, finding himself in a more close-quartered brawl than he had expected.

His brain, completely attuned to split-second survival decisions, was left with no time to comprehend the unexplainable phenomenon occurring all around. The Zartocks were multiplying, and at an alarming rate. Acid drew a second minibow and snuck a shot behind him, firing at yet another robed figure, only to this time watch the bolt pass completely through the supposed person. It was then revealed to only be an image, now drifting away like dispersed fog.

Flux lowered his body and ran forward, trying to gain some ground away from his multiple attackers. He then pivoted on a heel, turning and firing with both minibows with trained precision. He tried to conserve his ammo, but with every body that fell, there only seemed to appear another to replace it.

Hearing a footstep behind, he turned, gasping as he noticed another dozen cloned combatants behind him. Every robed figure looked exactly the same, all Zartock, or Zartock Eighty-Nine as the announcing voice had titled. Every single face was the same as all the rest, and they all began to grin.

Acid soon got the feeling that they were merely toying with him, not using optimal group-assault tactics. One would lunge in, take a few swings with his staff, and back off. Stick and move, stick and move, over and over. Flux would fire his weapons at a rapid pace, but the identical beings did not seem to care. Corpses began falling atop one another, but the remaining living only kept the blitzkrieg up. Illusions formed and dissolved. Acid_Flux barely found time to reload, while knocking away three attackers with the butt of his left minibow.

He could not figure this out, this entire situation. If these were wizards, mages, spell-slingers, then where were the spells? Why were there not any fireballs? Why not send a lightning bolt coursing through his heart? He knew they were illusionists, but he also knew they must possess some basic knowledge in the area of offensive spells. Yet, here he stood, alive and quick.

He loosed a battle cry and unloaded the remainder of his current bolt cartridges, then rotating the weaponry in his hands. He then began whirling about, savagely kicking and head-butting. His pistols were now small clubs, crushing and breaking the skulls of any who got caught in their violent paths. The bodies continued to fall, the images continued to disperse, the Zartocks continued their assault.

The mathematics spoke of improbability, the opponents refused to relent, and the situation was hopeless, but Acid Flux did not care. If this was to be his last hurrah, his final fight, then he was make it such an effort as to never be forgotten in the history of Lore.

His battling passion only intensified, to an extent of which the denizens of Anything had rarely witnessed. He was soon fighting with such fervor that the entire gathering of thousands upon thousands of onlookers was soon silenced, jaws dropping with disbelief and tacit respect. His blows were harder and came quicker than seemingly physiologically possible, his body refusing to believe what it was experiencing, not offering any signs of fatigue.

Old bearded men removed their hats, filthy children bit their nails, and lovely wives breathed prayers through clasped hands for this warrior in the arena. They all recognized the human-yet-superhuman spectacle being held at center stage. Acid Flux was doing much more than putting on a show. His Herculean struggle was becoming a symbol of hope.

He stood atop a small hill of Zartock corpses, the magi lining up for death after death. Soon it seemed that they had stopped, and Acid Flux allowed himself a deep breath as bent over, hands on his knees. This was the first sign of weakness he had shown that day.

Several yards away a lone remaining Zartock slowly clapped out his own soft round of applause in mock admiration. Flux soon noticed and resisted the urge to sigh, slowly descending the corpse-laden path to the arena ground below. Zartock merely grinned in waiting.

Soon Acid approached the illusionist, weapons lowered. The mage crossed his arms. After a moment of hesitation, Acid stepped forward, his booted footstep almost audible to the awed, silent audience that had just witnessed an extraordinary fight. It was the hero of the Fellowship who spoke first.

“You could’ve torn me in half with a bolt of lightning, boiled the flesh off my bones or at least rendered me blind, paralyzed, anything. All you’ve done is throw me flesh and smoke to claw through, wasting time for both of us. You are not truly fighting, yet not willing to lose. What are you doing, Zartock?”

The wizard’s grin faded, but only slightly, as he spent a moment considering the words of Acid Flux.

“You will never know how many of me there are. If you could only—“

Acid interrupted.

“You’re held captive here like anyone else here, aren’t you? Forced to fight against your will. Look, if…”

The crowd began to get restless, some talking amongst each other, others standing and walking to whereabouts unknown through the aisles, and still others beginning to boo.

“… if you’re half as powerful as you make yourself look, I know you have better things to do. If you’re just trying to buy time, we can—“

“No.”

“What?”

“I understand your intentions here, and they are noble. But what you have to understand is that I’m after bigger things right now. I won’t help you. There are forces at work you aren’t even aware of. I’ve managed…”

The crowd’s booing became more intense, former ‘fans’ beginning to rise to their feet to announce their disdain for the present lack of carnage.

“… managed to—“

“If you’re not willing to help me, than you’ve nothing to say to me.”

Barely as Acid Flux finished his final line of dialogue with Zartock, he flicked his right wrist, raising his bow pistol sharply upward. He squeezed the trigger, and a minibolt, the last he had, the one he had been saving, tore through the air between them, plunging itself upward through the soft flesh between the magician’s chin and neck.

The small shard of metal ripped through Zartock’s tongue and continued its path of flight, drilling through the roof of his mouth, through that upper palate and screwing itself through layers of his brain. Its angle allowed it to travel through the wizard’s left hemisphere of the brain and through his central corpus collosum, before continuing its tunneling through his right hemisphere. The bolt had slowed considerably before it reached the interior wall of his cranium, causing the projectile to twist and splinter upon contact with his skull. The force of impact, however, was still powerful enough to break the bone, tearing the muscle immediately above the break, and sending a single, perfect sphere of blood shooting out the top of Zartock’s head.

It was now Acid’s turn to grin. He hadn’t killed a humanoid in this manner for a long while, and figured the time had come for another try at it. He watched as, immediately, Zartock’s eyes began to violently twitch in their sockets. A sound emerged from his half-open lips as well, not quite a moan or spoken word, something convoluted and nonsensical. To a lesser man the effect would have been unnerving, unsettling, disturbing; this low, gurgling tone mourning its own way out of the throat. The neck rolled, first one direction, than the other, before the entire body fell to the ground, dust rising around it. Even there, the fingers clenched, the feet turned, the chest heaved of its own accord. Frothy liquid spat past masterless lips, nostrils flared without breath, and teeth broke themselves upon each other. As abruptly as it had begun, the phenomena ended, the eyes settled, and Zartock was dead.

Even as the body lay still, Acid stared down at it, as if to be sure. Even as the thousands of onlookers erupted in their pleasant surprise, in their bloodlusting applause and cheering, Flux of the Fellowship stared his enemy down with a sneer. Even as the Announcer’s voice echoed throughout the Arena, Acid_Flux stood resolute and victorious.

_*

Archer could no longer stand the tension.

Kelanor was apparently asleep now, his back against the dingy wall of their cell. His eyes were closed, at least, and he was breathing deeply. The troglodyte slowly began to reach across his body, towards the sheath where his Mod blade was ready.

Upon sliding his ugly fingers around the weapon’s handle, he smiled toothily. He then roared, lunging forward towards his former fellow Anything Mod and raising his sword.

At least, that is what he tried to do. He lunged forward in a fine enough manner, but was unable to lift his weapon.

Absolutely confounded, Archer grabbed the hilt with both hands and jerked. He yanked, then pulled mightily, gritting his fangs and growling with effort. Yet it was as if the object weighed a thousand tons.

Kelanor began to stir. Soon he was yawning and rubbing his eyes.

Archer’s vigor renewed, he tried again and again, with no success.

Kelanor chuckled, then spoke.

“Having a little trouble there?”

Archer cried out in frustration, kicking his legs at nothing in particular. Kelanor continued.

“Yeah, I already tried it.”

Archer looked at Kel and grumbled something. Kelanor smiled.

_*

“ll_CrowN_ll, please report to the Arena.”

_*

Denn, the Hunter, and YOYOY sat still and quiet in their cell. The gate to the Arena, the one revealed for Acid Flux to journey through, had closed. Each presumed this was until one of them was called into the colosseum for battle. Denn sat cross-legged, his earth-tone attire somehow appropriately blending into the dirty wall behind him.

YOYOY admired the Hunter’s stillness. He watched as Denn’s eyes never opened, his hands neatly clasped upon his knees. Apparently the guy was in a state of meditation. The Chronicler of Lore sighed, restless. He withdrew his club, scratching at his cuff-bound wrists. He stood to his feet and turned, facing the wall he was chained to.

Abruptly, he struck the stone wall. The eyes of the Hunter opened in query.

“What are you doing, scribe?”

Again, Y hit the rock.

“Do they, or he, or her, or it or whoever put it here really think we’re just expected to sit here and wait until these cuffs magically pop off and we’re ‘allowed’ to fight out there?”

Denn frowned as the writer beat the wall again. The Chronicler had already begun breathing heavily, forcing himself to calm down and deepen his breaths. His head turned slightly to Denn as he continued speaking.

“Screw that. I refuse to sit here and do nothing. Anything is better than that.”

The Hunter raised a hand and opened his mouth to protest. But then he was silenced by a loud crack and the sound of a piece of stone skittering across the floor.

_*

ll_CrowN_ll stood within the widely spanning ring of the Arena in abject bewilderment. The crowds were going crazy again, jeering and screaming and rousing all sorts of rabble in the grand stands. He was not sure whether to enjoy the attention or despise it, to rebel against it and refuse to be pleased, in any form, at his captivity. Neither option silenced the all-encompassing voice of the especially loud speaker.

“Would the Advocate of Lycanthropes please make your way to the Arena? Your opponent awaits.”

Ah, ll_CrowN_ll’s cellmate. More noise from the surrounding spectators. A penguin dude emerged into the sunlight without hesitation, running straight toward CrOwN. Crown’s eyes widened in a sudden realization of fear. He took a feeble defensive stance, watching the angry penguin dash closer.

The mostly avian being leaped and spread its wings, cawing something vicious as it soared. llCrOwNll screamed in horror.

The shock-frozen figure’s head was then neatly plucked off. Blood spurted from the grisly stump of a neck remaining, the rest of his form nothing but a cooling cadaver now.

AoL spat the head out, much to the delight of the ever-ravenous audience. The booming, thunderous voice returned.

“Impressive. Most impressive. I didn’t even tell you to fight yet!”

“Shut up.”

Advocate had crossed his wing arms, staring defiantly upward.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“How dare you tell the very Announcer of this Arena—“

“Cut the niceties, I really don’t care. Get on with it. Do I just wait for the next match against some other winner now or what?”

Apparently, the voice had taken pause. While the penguin lord stood, a fingery feather of his rested over a concealed controller latched under his belt. He smoothly caressed a certain tiny red button, waiting for possible necessitation. The voice returned.

“Yes. Retreat through the newly opened gate and, once through that portal, you’ll find your new cell in which to wait.”

The Advocate tersely nodded and began plodding towards the door, ignoring all else.

_*

Malexin gave Matrim a sturdy punch across the jaw.

“Back off.”

Matrim winced—then turned back to Malexin with an altogether lusty gaze.

“Hit me harder, big boy.”

Malexin tried not to gulp in dismay.

_*

Someone ordered some stuff from a concession stand. Probably nachos.

_*

DarkKnightZach continued sitting with his face cradled in his hands between his knees. The creature on his shoulder seemed to sap all light from the room, a swirling sort of darkness now surrounding the pair, not unlike a hazy fog at night, yet thicker and more penetrative.

“He has to be somewhere out there, ya know.”

The Deverenian knight supreme shook his head, which seemed to be swimming, though in a sea of what, he could not tell. He wondered if he was going mad, finally, or he always had been. Maybe this, this, this thick new thing, maybe this was actually sanity. Maybe all along he was off his rocker, bananas, completely over-the-top nuts and now was finally coming back together. But, no, everything else made sense. This didn’t. This only made him feel like a screwjob all over.

“… Lund… Lund… Lundy Lundy McLunda Lundooooo…”

The dodo, or was it vulture, continued its murmurings and mutterings and whisperings. Its words, none soothing, all too familiar. How long had he endured this, how long had he put up with existence?

“The General must be around. Hark! Lo! Oh my! Oh my Lorund. The Jen! Ze tahhg!”

A tear began forming, albeit concealed under his black steel helmet. He tried to recall the last time he had removed it, but could not remember.

“Kill him, Zach. Kill the one you’re meant to. Eeny meeny miny mentos meant to mentagrammakillathonnihilate.”

Maybe he had never actually killed General Lund. Maybe all those times were a mistake. Maybe it was all a big mix-up. Even the ones who all-too-brashly declared themselves to be General Lund, and died so many hundreds of times, so many millions, maybe they were all imposters. Perhaps he still hadn’t yet found the real Lund. Maybe this familiar, maybe this wretched, cursed thing on his shoulder was right. Maybe such a thing that was unfathomable for all these years was true, true to every word and deed. Maybe he still felt the fire, his reason to live. Maybe it still made sense.

“We have to work to do in the killing fields, lad. Git to choppin’.”

The tear emerged.

“Somewhere out there, he’s breathing. Doesn’t that make you sick? Doesn’t it make ya just wanna hurl?”

Maybe he still retained sanity.

“The macky daddy’s heart still beats! It’s terrible! He’s still pretty and having a ball or two!”

Then again, maybe not.

_*

Haplo awoke with a gargantuan yawn, smacking his lips and squinting the remaining sleep out of one eye. He rolled over, only to gasp, startled.

Normally when he rolled out of bed in the morning, his feet swung off the bed and soon hit the floor below. This time, though, his feet kept sliding sideways, as if his bed had, in the middle of the night, increased in width.

Confused, he frowned, and sat up. He jumped, jolting forward and squealing with pain. He had tried to put a hand behind him and push off with it, but as he put weight on his wrist, it felt as if it would break.

He raised his hand and tried to look at it in the darkness. To his horror he then noticed it, an iron ring, a heavy steel loop that had now slipped onto his upper arm. Apparently, when he had leaned back, this cuff had awkwardly gotten in the way of his flexing, and he was applying force against it.

Still somewhat unsure of himself, he thought maybe he was dreaming. So he stood there, shrugged, nonchalantly noticing the other cuff on his other hand. He shrugged this off as well, waiting to wake up.

… But he did not, and found this to be rather odd.

This was not his castle! His beloved castle of an incomprehensible, innumerable, immeasurable, unfathomable, infinite size! This was not the renowned House of Haplo, the Friggin’ Big Fortress, renowned throughout the entirety of Lore, famous amongst the other Attractions of Anything, Chronicled in the Chronicles!

No, this was not, not at all.

In a final effort, he pinched himself, and hard. It hurt. He still did not awake. Perhaps in a panic by now, he began to sing something thoroughly silly and nonsensical He was approaching the second verse of his strange song when he was told to be quiet.

“I said shut up! I don’t care if you’re finally awake, stop singing for Todd’s sake!!”

Haplo shrieked. Apparently he was not alone.

“Who are you?”

Haplo, in his funny hat, leaned forward, trying to discern a figure in the darkness. He was actually getting used to the dim lighting, almost seeing a being ahead of him.

“… Haplo?”

Haplo did not bother with reply, for just a moment longer, as he finally recognized the form of his cellmate, and laughed.

“Manji! What’re you doing here?!?”

“Oh wow, Haplo! It’s certainly been a while.”

“Yeah, so, what’s up?”

“… This is it.”

“What?”

The samurai’s head dropped as he sat across from Haplo. He had never known the man to be anything but good and just. In Anything they had been comrades, reluctant allies of loose sorts. He did not wish to reveal any bad news that might break his usually positive and encouraging spirits.

Manji had been sitting there for what seemed like days now, staring at the limp form opposite him. He knew it could only really have been a matter of hours, but he also knew the hours were many in number. He had begun sitting after figuring out everything he could, though that was not much. He knew he was imprisoned. In all the time he had been sitting, he had been trying to figure out what he would tell his cellmate, when he awoke.

In all that time, he never came up with anything satisfying.

“Something wrong, Manji?”

_*

CardinalFang coughed up a hairball encased in bile-soaked snot. He then grabbed it, stuck it in his maw, and began chewing noisily.

“Ugh. Disgusting. How can you stand to be in the same room as such a creature, Ter-Soth?”

“Hmph. Anythingers.”

BreathWeapon and Zechnophobe collective stuck their noses skyward and turned, talking privately, as Ter-Soth and CardinalFang remained several feet away from them.

Ter-Soth was seething, clenching his fist at his sides, knuckles whitening in a class-yet-clichéd manner.

“Useless Generals… think they’re better than us…”

“Yeahmmff!”

“… Fang, c’mon. Swallow first.”

“Okaymmf.”

A gulp ensued. Loose stool began slithering out of one of CardinalFang’s many bodily buttholes. In his latest state, he was more disgusting than ever. Soon enough he grunted, with an odd arm gesture to accompany it, and a perfectly spherical ball of crap plopped onto the polished marble floor.

Even Zech and BW noticed it from afar, briefly offering dirty looks and swearing under their breath in rather spiteful fashion.

That is when CFang picked up the ball of fecal matter, odd maggoty things oozing out of it and all, and threw it across the room.

It smacked into the side of BreathWeapon’s head with a wet, altogether ghastly sound. Brown poop juice began flowing down the elaborate, expensive garb of BreathWeapon. His jaw dropped as he slowly turned to the denizen pair, arms raised in that odd fashion people do when something spills onto them that does not help the situation at all but somehow its just instinctual for us.

Ter-Soth tried to hold back a snicker, but failed miserably.

“That is it. I have had enough.”

Zechnophobe was actually first to draw a weapon, a rapier, and begin striding forward towards the Anythingers.

Ter-Soth raised his fists, striking a functionally epic pose.

CardinalFang growled and… BreathWeapon took a second to try cleaning up as best he could, also trying not to scream as he ran his now-filthy fingers through his turd-encrusted hair.

Before either side could meet, on the wall to their side, right about the middle, a hidden panel slammed open in violent fashion.

The foursome, as a group, froze and turned to the figure in the opening.

It was YOYOY.

Ter-Soth pivoted on a heel, his other foot stepping back, turning his body more towards the scribe.

“YOYOY, just in time.”

CFang squealed like a pig, or a dog, or, something else dirty but adorable in its own loving way.

The two General guys eyes the Chronicler carefully. BreathWeapon drew a broadsword.

YOYOY strode forward between the two facing groups. The situation was extremely tense and stuff. The Chronicler of Lore looked to each person, already holding his club. He patted the weapon’s sweet spot against the palm of his other hand, slowly, rhythmically, dramatically. He turned slightly to the General warriors, each of them taking proper combative stance, each one calculating and ready with optimal tactical response for any situation. YOYOY slowly, slowly, slowly raised his metallic club. It glint in the moderate light.

Cardinal was practically hopping with joyful anticipation of the forum-factional fight about to ensue.

Then YOYOY whirled and smashed his brutal club through Fang’s face, the wretch rolling across the room, blood spattering against the wall behind.

Ter-Soth took a step back, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

“What the hell…”

_*

© Eric Bailey

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