Stanley cracked his eyes open, and debated whether it was worth it to get up. He had long since lost count of how long he had been in this hell, but a cold edge was creeping in at night. While the days and nights blurred together in a haze of training and pain, each fight he had won stood out in stark relief. Four fights. Four wins. Four deaths. All by his hand. One punched to death, two strangled, and one stabbed. Each death was like an iron weight strapped to his shoulders, dragging him down.
I should just give up. I'm not worth this.
But… I can't do that. I need to see Ford.
Groaning, Stan stood and stretched. His body ached and his stomach cramped, the harsh exercise and little food making their impact obvious. No fat lingered on his body anymore, replaced by harsh muscle and bone. If given the chance to see his reflection, Stan doubted he'd recognize his face. Noticing that nobody was in the training field, he headed towards the mess hall. Inside, there was an unusual buzz in the air.
"Did you hear?"
"Fresh meat."
"New fighters…"
"Think they'll last?"
More? I wonder how many. Guess I'll find out.
A few hours later, while Stan was training, the newbies were dropped off. Three new faces, new numbers.
They all look pretty young. My age at the most.
"48! Show this one the ropes."
The smallest of the new faces, a young man, was shoved towards him. His fresh brand showed his number, 51. 51 lost his balance, and Stanley caught him before he could fall.
"Hi. I'm 48. Let's sit for a sec."
"O-okay. W-what's going on?"
Flashing back to his own introduction, Stan made the decision to be gentler with 51 than 40 was with him.
"Well, uh… we fight. For entertainment. People pay to see us fight-"
"WHAT? That's SICK."
"You must not have been sold before."
"No. I ran away, got caught by the wrong people."
"Mh. Anyway, we fight. In a ring. Each fight is to the death-"
"What?"
51 looked devastated, cradling his injured arm and staring at Stan with tears in his eyes.
"It's no joke, kid. First fight is usually about a week after drop-off, so I suggest training. And, personal tip: don't get close to anyone. They might just be your next opponent."
"I-I can't kill…"
"That's what I said, kid. Four matches ago. It's funny, what desperation will do to you."
With that, Stan got up and walked into the barracks.
He looks so young… probably still a teenager. But I can't be soft with him. He's small, weak. There's no way he'll make it long. Hell, the three I was bought with are already dead. And 40 died in the most recent match against 46.
Stan sighed, and laid down on the hard floor to stare at the ceiling.
It's starting to get cold at night. I wonder if it'll end up snowing. Guess I'll find out, if I make it that long.
And with that thought, Stan slipped into a deep sleep.
Stan, sweating from a harsh training session, was taking a quick break in what little shade the barracks offered. He was watching the others train when…
"Hi."
"Hello, 51."
"My name-"
"Your NUMBER is 51. Names aren't allowed here. What do you want?"
"Someone to talk to. I'm bored."
"Train, then."
"That hurts!"
"Might save your life."
"Why do they make us do this?"
"S'fun for them."
"Why?"
"How the fuck would I know? Listen, kid, I know this is hard. I was in your position not too long ago. But it's kill or be killed in that ring, and I can't afford to get attached to anyone. Neither can you. Now scram."
"O-okay."
51 scrambled off, looking hurt. Stan watched as 51 found a dummy to practice on, and finally started training.
Huh, he's got a few moves. Might make a couple matches.
Stan got up and once again began training, reaching first for the staff. While he had improved with the weapon, he still needed to hone his skills with it the most. Besides, it's not like there is much else to do.
Pretty sure they deprive us of entertainment on purpose. Constant training probably means longer fights.
Stan trained until he physically couldn't anymore, muscles straining and lungs burning. Shortly afterward, the group of fighters were summoned to the mess hall for food. He ate mechanically, no longer caring that his food tasted bad. It just was the way it was, and it was all anyone got. So it faded into the background, along with everything else.
Days passed in monotony, a blur of training, eating, and sleeping, until the date of the next fight.
Guess I ain't up, I would have been grabbed already if I was. Looks like 51 is gone, though. And…47. 47's probably the most even match for the brat, she's small. Wiry and fast though, I've seen her train. Guess I'll see who won tomorrow.
Stan disposed of his trash and trudged to the barracks, grabbing a blanket and laying down to sleep.
He was awoken some time later, with the door of the barracks opening. Squinting at the figure entering, his eyes widened when he realized that it was 51 walking in, looking defeated and broken.
Hot damn, I thought he was toast. Guess I was wrong.
Stan rearranged his blanket to better cover himself, and once again dropped off to sleep.
