Chapter 1

My Name is Connor

My name is Connor Grayson.

It hadn't rained for six months.

That was my thought as I shuffled out of the cages. The ground was cracked and parched, a packed house of Yeerks on every side. They were on their feet with excitement, inhuman yowls of Hork-Bajir and Taxxons intermingled with the shouts of humans. It was nothing but flailing arms and talons as far as the eye could see. No sign of resistance, no show of distress. Just another day at the games.

It wasn't as hot as it could have been, but then again, Los Angeles was never known for its cold weather. I could feel the sun beating down on my bare shoulders as I kept my pace towards the center ring, the nearby Kadrona generator making the sky above an orange hue reminiscent of the stormy sunsets I remember seeing down south during high school.

The Astro-Turf in the old stadium had been replaced years ago, sandy dirt taking its place, dusty and loose with the heavy use it received. My feet didn't mind, they had been bare for so long that the calluses served as make shift shoe soles. The jeers from the crowd came to a crescendo as I entered the chalk circle that was the center of the ring, the concrete walls and aluminum seats bouncing the sounds around the dome. In another time the teeth-rattling roar of the crowd would have been a welcome sign of enthusiasm, exciting even, but now it was just the soundtrack to an already bleak sport.

I sized up my opponent as he mirrored my entrance, his own feet bare and dusty, and his hands were wrapped in what looked like torn up wife-beaters. He might have passed for a linebacker back when that was a thing that mattered, thick layers of muscle sitting underneath his dark scarred skin and broad shoulders. He was a good six inches shorter than me, but I came in around six foot myself. His head shone with a thin layer of sweat as he took his starting stance opposite me, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. The Yeerks saved all of their gladiators' heads. I guess it added to the spectacle, and the ease of cleanup.

My own hands were bare; I didn't need the cloth slowing me down for what came later. I was without a shirt too, though they rarely gave us them anyway. It was a wonder they let us wear the tattered shorts considering the way they treated us.

It was then I noticed the Hork-Bajir warriors standing at the floor level walls of the stadium. They probably put there to discourage or put down any would-be-escapees, but what did I care?

We were both dead men anyway.

The match started with what I guessed was a fog horn taken from an old tug boat. Wife-Beater-Hands rushed forward, closing the distance between us to use his weight and strength to his advantage. I'm no lightweight, but I wasn't built like the lug. I'm more on the long and lanky side of twenty-four, so it was in Wife-Beater-Hands' best interest to get in close so he could use his big hams. I noted that and brought my arms up, elbows tucked down to protect my sides.

The crowd roared as he lumbered up the rest of the ground, kicking up dust as he went, his hands up to cover his face. I let him take the first swing, earning me a wide right hook aimed at my head, but he threw too much of his weight behind it. I ducked and gave him two left and a right jabs to his kidneys for the trouble.

I rolled left as he took another wild swing at my head. I tucked it in as I tried to get my feet under me, but my body's momentum didn't cooperate and I ended up skidding to a halt on my side, my back facing my opponent.

I scrambled to stand up, my feet and hands kicking up more dust as Wife-Beater-Hands charged forward. The mob loved it, their sound turning from spectator sounds to a wave of cacophonous noise.

Before I could clear his strike zone however, I felt a cloth-covered hand grab my shoulder just above my collarbone, pulling me upright and holding me in place. He brought a hairy knee up into my gut-and hard. The sound of the crowd wavered as my ears popped with the force of the hit. I let out a harsh sound mixed with a garbled swear, straining to regain my breath before his next strike.

The man hit like a freight train, but he moved like one as well. His punches where wide and his movements, while powerful, were slow. If I could just catch my breath, I could turn the fight back in my favor.

The lug didn't seem to get the memo though.

He kept on, blunted fists hammering down on my head as I struggled to keep my hands up. He switched his attention to my sides, my elbows becoming hard pressed to stay in under the stress. I could hear only a dull ringing now, the crowd all but non-existent to me under the beating. I had to hold out; I had to stay upright just for a little longer.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Right, right, left.

My legs began to wobble. I could feel my right eye begin to swell shut.

Then a sound, barely audible with the pain and ringing.

The hits stopped, and without the stress of the fight providing me adrenaline, I collapsed, and with it the sounds of the stadium came rushing back at me like a hammer. Harsh yells and sounds of alien jeers roared around me.

"KILL HIM!"

"SCREEEE!"

"GHAFRASH!"

I looked up through my one good eye as Wife-Beater-Hands backed away and out of the ring. I noticed dully that the tattered white cloth was now stained red. That was a cheery sight. I didn't bother rising to my feet. It wouldn't help me any in round two. Instead I tried to find my calm and let my heart slow down the best that I could under the circumstances. Round one was really just for show anyway.

Round two was where the real fight happened.