DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone in the WWE. They are owned by the WWE and / or the actors who portray them. This story is tribute only and not intended to infringe on any copyrights.

Of Blood and Sports

I'm standing at the entrance to the arena, mostly because I like to torture myself, but also because I was given "permission" to do this and it's not considered wise to turn down "permission." This is the night, the night my babies are going to die and even though that's exactly what they are supposed to do, and even though I know they won't care at all, and even though I'm not supposed to care, I do. I care a lot.

There's a small hand in my larger one, and it's holding on to me tightly. I'm not sure this small hand should be here, even tucked safely into my hand. These were, as far as I'm concerned, older brothers that are going off to die. Is this the sort of thing a child should be watching? Even a child like this one?

I hear the announcer and I find myself peering out into the arena, I see the other three, the ones that will destroy my babies. They don't look that dangerous, but looks can be deceiving, as that ancient saying goes. They are trained killers. So are my three, but for some reason that doesn't seem to count.

I hear the thudding behind me and turn to see them coming up the hall, my little ones, but they aren't so little anymore. All three of them are over six feet tall, looking as mean as they come. I should be proud of myself, I've done good work. I may not be the one that created them for the bloodsport, but I had a hand in raising them to be what they are now, just as I've had a hand in helping with others before them. Just like I'll help with the one that holds my hand and the two that are at home and the three more I will get tomorrow, their replacements. They will grow up to look exactly like these three, because they all come from the same material. But there will be differences. I've raised up enough of them to know their are differences. At least when they're children. Once the raising is done and they go into the bloodsport though, they all seem to become alike.

I try to stay out of their way, but the entrance is narrow and my boys are big men now and they are insisting on walking three abreast to the entrance. When they get to me, the youngest slams into me and turns to glare. "Who the fuck told you that you could be here?"

"I have special permission," I say, hastily, part of my brain going, recognize me. Recognize me and your sibling beside me. Please, all three of you, know who we are!

For a moment, I think my prayers are answered, because I see a flicker in his eyes, a flicker that might be recognition. I hold my breath waiting and hoping for-

For, I don't know what.

Then he snorts. "Did I fuck you, precious?" he almost croons. "Is that why you're here? I fucked you and you want some more?"

No! I almost scream, but less than a year ago, I held you when you had your nightmares, I wiped your tears away when you cried because the treatments made you hurt so badly you could barely stand it. Less than a year ago, you called me Mom, even though you weren't supposed to, and I never stopped you. I want to shout these things so badly, but instead I shake my head.

"Sure," he shakes his head at me. "You do look familiar, I bet I fucked you. You must have been pretty damned awesome, because I remember you, Hey!" He turns to the other two who are watching this exchange with a look of boredom on their faces. "Do you ever remember me banging this chick?"

The two study me as if I were nothing but an insect. "Maybe we all banged her," The tallest one said. "She's got nice tits, I wouldn't mind taking a few bites out of those." Yes, he's talking about the same breasts he used to lay his head on, while sucking his thumb not so long ago, and listened to me telling stories to him and the others. "She does seem kind of familiar."

"She trying to claim the whelp is one of ours?" The other one said, laughing darkly, the one who slept every night with a stuffed dog, way past his first six months, when in mental years, he was technically too old such things. "She so stupid she doesn't know we all shoot blanks?"

The hand in mine wraps itself tighter around my fingers, almost painfully so.

"Well, sweetstuff," the first one says, reaching over and grabbing me by the shoulders, pulling me to him so hard I almost let go of the hand in mine. "I'd love to say stick around and I'll bang the shit out of you when the show is over, but it's not your lucky day. Our time is up. Too bad, I'd love to have your legs wrapped around me tonight." And with that, he kisses me, hard, bruising my lips. I hear a whimper beside me as I struggle to get away. "Yeah," my "son" says. "Sweet like honey. Clean too. Like you haven't sucked dick in a very long time. It figures we're getting a clean batch of whores, right when our time is up."

"Are you done, Ambrose?" the shorter one of the three asks.

"Aw, leave him be, Seth," The taller one says. "We got a date with death tonight, let him get his last taste of sugar."

"Screw you, Reigns!" Seth says. "The music is gonna start any minute and we'd better be traveling once it does."

"Or what?" Reigns counters, staring at him. "They're going to kill us?"

This makes all three of them laugh like loons. Ambrose turns to me again, as if he wants to try to get one last kiss, but then "their" music starts and the turns back to his brothers, and the three of them head out to the main floor of the arena, without even a second glance to me. I am forgotten in the excitement of the Oblivion Rush, as they call it.

The hand in mine is squeezing my fingers so tightly now that it's almost painful. They forget sometimes that they've been enhanced, that they're stronger than us regular folks. I look down at the little face staring up at me. Red hair, green eyes, a face that is both young and old, as if it remembers all all the lives it has lived and maybe even all the ones it will. "I want to go home, Mom," he whispers, and thank god he whispered, and thank god the roar of the crowd is loud enough to drown it out. I'm not even sure if I heard it, or read it off his lips. If anyone official heard that, he'd be taken away from me, he'd be destroyed. "I don't want to watch, please don't make me watch."

He's still sane, he's still normal. The insanity that takes hold of all of them hasn't gotten to him yet. He's still a child. He knows the score, but he doesn't really like it. I should report that tomorrow. He's the equivalent of ten, almost eleven years old. I only have him for a few more months, he should be further along by now. That's probably why I got permission to bring him here tonight. They probably want him to watch his "brothers" die, hoping it will trigger the change, push it along. Harden him up.

I should force him to stay and watch, but I can't. Not this one, not this sweet little boy who seems so different from the ones I usually raise. I will lose him someday to the blood fever, I'll lose him someday to this Colosseum and to the bloodsport, and to the Oblivion Rush, but not today. Today he is still mine. I lean over, not as far as I wished it was, because he's taller than I wish, but I can whisper in his ear, so no one will hear. "Play along with me, Mark." We risked being overheard once, I won't risk it again by using the wrong name. I cover up the whisper by brushing my fingers along his forehead. "You're warm," I say, my voice loud. "Do you feel okay?"

He knows the score. He shakes his head. "No, I feel hot. Treatment didn't go so well."

No one can question that. The treatments often don't "go well." Aching muscles and fever are the more minor of the side effects. Sometimes they're worse. My latest Seth who is out there preparing to be slaughtered had one treatment that made him vomit for eight days straight and we almost lost him before he could enter the bloodsport. I ended up feeding him the same mushy rations I was feeding Mark, who was just a toddler back then, because it was the only thing he could hold down and even then, only a teaspoon at a time. I had never lost one at the growing stage, so I was terrified and heartsick. I'm not supposed to love them, but when they are growing, when they are still young and not taken over, I can't help it, they are my babies.

I take Mark's hand again, and this time I address him the way I'm supposed to and force my voice to be bright and cheerful. "Well, I know you want to see your first death match, but you're too sick, 'Taker. Let's get you home."

He looks at me and doesn't smile, but I see the relief in his eyes. "Thank you, Caregiver," he says. As we leave the Colosseum, he deliberately acts as ill as possible, so no one will question.

When we get back to the compound we go back to our place. Another Caregiver is there too, Sharna. She was able to watch my other two because she's on a six week no cycle we get every once in awhile, where no FC's are given to us to raise. She and I are friends, in as much as Caregivers can be friends. We both can relate, because her kids come from the same coded real time as mine, so our domiciles are set up similarly and the music and we can listen to is about the same. So many touches to make the kids (oh, excuse me, I'm supposed to call them "future combatants," or "FC's", even though physically, they are children) feel more as if they're in the time when their soul lives were happening. The white coats and the creators, tell me that combatants have no souls. You get one soul and that's when you're born of man and woman. Once they started recreating these people, using genetic material at one point taken from the soul life, any one they produce has no soul.

But, when one of my kids is sitting in my lap, eyes shinning as I read to him from a beat up copy of Curious George, I wonder. How can something so alive have no soul? I know the day will come when they grow mean, they all grow mean, they all fall into the blood lust, the desire to kill and eventually to be killed. But is that really now coded into their very being? Or is it something the treatments give to them?

"How are the others?" I ask.

"Sleeping," she says. "I checked on them an hour ago. You're back early."

"M-Taker is ill," I say, hoping she won't get too personal. "Today's treatment did not go well for him. I decided to bring him home and put him to bed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says, and I really believe she's sincere. "I hope you feel better soon, Taker."

Mark keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, and says nothing, as all good combatants do when dealing with another caregiver, or a white coat, or a creator, or anyone who is supposed to be their superior, which is pretty much anyone with a soul. It isn't until you go from being a future combatant, to an actual combatant that you have any rights, and by then, it doesn't mean anything to them. They don't want conversations and interactions with others, they want whores to fuck and people to kill, that's it.

They are allowed to look me in the eye though, because I am their caretaker. They are not allowed to call me anything but, Caretaker, but that often falls apart. I know I'm not the only one this happens to either. The other day Sharna, Vila and I were in the courtyard and I know I heard Randy call Vila "Mom" when he fell off the swings and scraped up his knee. I should have reported her, had her FC's removed and destroyed, but I would never do that. Besides, my FC's call me Mom too. I don't ask them to, it's like the title is coded into them and can't be removed.

"I'm all set, Sharna," I comment. "If you want to go, you can."

Sharna nods and leaves, heading back to her domicile, that must seem pretty big and empty being on the no cycle. She claims to love no cycle, as we all do, but secretly we're all much happier when we have our FC's. When the door closes behind her, I look at Mark. "Let's get you to bed."

He nods. I can tell tonight affected him more than he is letting on and that both worries and pleases me. It worries me because if he can't get it together, shake off whatever it is that is keeping him from turning into a true combatant, he will be destroyed before he ever gets to The Colosseum. But it pleases me because he's physically ten, perhaps eleven years old and the meanness hasn't started in him. At this point, even if he was a normal FC, he wouldn't be that bad, but he should be having ragefits once in awhile, perhaps even terrorizing his younger brothers. By the time the Shield boys who died tonight were at his click on the cycle, they had semi regularly attacked Mark and a few times I even had to bring him to medical to get healed. Mark hadn't done anything to his two youngers left. Even when they acted out, this boy was more likely to leave them to go off somewhere where he could be alone, rather than crush tiny fingers or break little legs. The last Mark I raised hadn't been nearly so nice. The last Mark had nearly choked the Roman who died tonight, as well as broke bones and even removed a couple of his fingernails with pliers when I wasn't looking. The last Mark had hated Roman, I didn't know why, but he did. This Mark could be doing the same types of things with his youngers, but he wasn't.

I help Mark into the dorm room. Fresh gray "Pajamas" are lying on the bed, as they are every night and he changes into them without a word. They are made of a heavy material that is not soft, but durable. I would love to buy my FC's proper pajamas, but it's not allowed. When I have questioned that, I have been told that it is for security reasons, that if they escape the compound and the arena, that they won't be able to blend into the crowd, but I know that's a lie. If any FC escapes, security will just activate the trace destruct system and they'll be instantly killed. Not to mention, I've never had an FC that wanted to escape, or maybe it was that they didn't realize they could even try. That there was a "world behind the gates." Mark is the first I've ever had that I feel would try to get out of here. I think they make these little ones wear uncomfortable pajamas and clothing because they want to give them very little in life to love, to look forward to. They are supposed to only look forward to the day they go and live in the apartments under the arena, where it's party, fuck, and sleep all day, and then bloodsport at night. Kill or be killed, entertain the masses by showing them how much pain two human beings can inflict on each other in a most spectacular fashion. Wait until you're told you "qualify" for the Oblivion Rush and go eagerly to your death. It doesn't matter, because the next day after you die? Your Caretaker will get your replacements who will look just like you, because you both came from the same genetic stock material, grown in the same lab. And you'll have one year to grow up, one year where you go from baby to adult, thanks to "treatments" that accelerate your growth, both mentally and physically. And, I suspect, break down your humanity and turn you into the bloodsport combatant you're meant to be.

While Mark changes into his pajamas and slides into his cot, I check on my other two. As usual, they are sleeping together, this time in Kofi's bed. I can't keep the two of them away from each other. They're the equivalent of four year olds and they are devoted to each other. I admit, I don't try to hard to keep them from each other, I don't see the harm of them being that close. My Shield boys are often that close too and I rarely try to stop that. But, just in case they do a random sweep while I'm getting Mark all set, I scoop Punk up and put him in his own bed, which is right next to Kofi's He yawns and makes some small, slurping noises, but he doesn't wake up as I situate him in his own bed. I wonder if Sharna saw them together and if so, why she didn't move them. Maybe she lied about checking on them, it wouldn't be beyond her.

By the time I have Kofi and Punk sorted out, Mark is in bed. He's the oldest now. I'll get three infant boys tomorrow, a new Roman, a new Seth and a new Dean. Life will be normal, or at least what we call normal in this compound.

I go to my own room, a privilege of being a caregiver, and get into my own bed. Being a caregiver, I also have access to history bits about the past when my boys were soul-beings instead of future combatants. I open my nightstand and pull out the tablet and turn it on.

The bits tell me about how it was back then, those many years ago in the late 20th and early 21st century. The narrator, a nameless female voice, tells me how bad it was back then, how there was war, poverty, how people died from violence, from illnesses that have been eradicated now. She shows me scenes of violence, of soul-beings performing unspeakable acts of hate on each other. She tells me how much better the world is now that we have the bloodsports to satisfy the primal soul in everyone. The bits show me the sport my FC's come from, Wrestling, and tells me how it was fake, how everyone knew it was fake, so it didn't satisfy the blood lust, it was a useless joke. The only purpose it served was to supply the future with a stock of genetic material from these people, material they could clone and manipulate until they had the combatants they have now.

She even tells me how much better it is having soulless combatants who have been engineered not only to be the best fighters they can, but to love fighting, to love killing, the bloodier the better, and even more important, to love and look forward to the day they die, the Oblivion Rush. Her voice is sweet as honey as she shows me what these bloodsports have supposedly done to make our world a better place. No war, no violence, no crime. Once you're twelve years old, it's mandatory to attend the bloodsports at least twice a week to get your violence fix.

One of the reasons I became a Caretaker was because I didn't want to go to the bloodsports and Caretakers have immunity. I never told anyone that was the reason, everyone I knew assumed I did it because Caretakers are taken care of well, paid well, and have a place to live, and those were good reasons, but the main one was because the bloodsports didn't fix me like they did others. They made me feel sick inside. Even watching soulless beings tear each other apart, scream at each other to die, rush to be killed, bothered me.

The bits show me pieces and parts from those old and supposedly useless, terrible, wrestling matches. I see combatants with souls in a big square with ropes running along the side. I see leaping and jumping and hitting, I see falls and spills and all of that, but I don't see blood, or if I do, there isn't much. I don't see broken bones. No one in the audience is getting sprayed with blood or brain matter. I do not see any of the common "tricks" I have seen other combatants perform, such as ripping out another combatants intestines and then trying to strangle another with them. I don't see an audience watching in rapt attention, knowing they have to watch every bit of this, that if they don't watch it, study it, let it cool down the blood lust inside them, they will be in serious trouble.

Instead I see brightly colored signs in the audience and people who cheer and for all the leaping, jumping, punching, everyone seems to be there because they're happy. The combatants don't seem angry or driven by violence, instead they seem to be having fun. The narrator continues to tell me how lucky I am to live in the time I am now, and not in this one.

But, as I watch this so-called horrible wrestling, and I think of how my babies, my kids, ran out tonight, eager to be ripped to shreds, manipulated to the point where they forgot about me. When I think that I have three kids in the other room and I'll get three more, destined for the same fate, I don't feel so lucky.

The End?

Author's Notes: Yeah, I have no idea where this came from. Yes, I wrote it, but I was doing a writing exercise where I just write whatever I want to write, who cares if it makes sense. And normally, I write gibberish, but it can help the thoughts flow. But this time I wrote pretty much the first paragraph to this story. And I kept continuing, going, "Can I write another paragraph? How about another one?"

This is not my usual style. I'm not a sci-fi writer. This is way out of my comfort zone. Part of me says it should stay just how it is now, part of me says it's not complete, it's just a beginning. And, a third part of me says, "WTF is going ON in this story? I wish I knew and I WROTE it!"

Please, if you've read this far, take the time to review it. I don't care if you loved or hated it, I just want to know so I know if I should consider trying to find the voice to keep writing this, or just give it up and call it a "weird experiment."

And no, I don't take drugs, despite what this story might make you think.

Thank you