Jack awoke with a start, finding himself sitting in a very comfortable chair in a strange, cavernous room. The last thing he remembered was the tiny grey cell. The Stumpy Blond had left him there alone for many hours, after providing a bottle of water and a bowl of tasteless gruel.
Another scene change, he thought. He really hated the way the Ashorans could switch his conscious mind on and off whenever they pleased. And that was one of the Collar's less offensive capabilities.
"Remain seated!" warned the man standing in front of him. The man was naked except for a Black Collar. His waist-length hair was colored a metallic bronze, and arranged in several plaits bound with strings of black diamonds. His large, brown eyes were heavily made up with black eyeliner and bronze eye shadow, and there were patterns of little black diamonds pasted in the center of his brow, and at the corners of his eyes. The man's pubic hair was metallic bronze, too – and there were dots and swirls of bronze paint on his genitals, stomach, and pecs. There was also some sort of clear paint all over his olive-skinned body, giving it a subtle sheen that emphasized the contours of his muscles.
Jack was so taken aback by the Bronze Guy's appearance that he didn't immediately start trying to stand up – so the big, black guy in the chair to his left beat him to it. The big guy jumped to his feet – and, with a strangled cry of pain, promptly fell back into his chair.
"I warned you!" said the Bronze Guy. "Remain in your chairs, or you will be Punished."
"Fine," said Jack. Now that the other guy had confirmed that standing would bring Punishment, he didn't have to confirm it himself. He leaned back casually. The chair seemed to accommodate itself to his body, and had a velvety surface that felt good against his bare behind. "Nice chair," he said. "But does it recline? Can't really get comfy unless I put my feet up."
Even as he spoke, Jack was quickly taking in his surroundings. The room held ten of the large, luxurious chairs, arranged in a row. Only two of them were occupied: the one Jack was sitting in, and the one that held the big guy to his left. The room wasn't very deep, but had a high ceiling that slanted up higher toward the back. The ceiling, the chairs, and most of the walls were garishly decorated, with lots of shiny gold and shimmering, rainbow colors. The exception was the wall behind the Bronze Guy, which was plain white.
The Bronze Guy wasn't thrown by Jack's apparent nonchalance. "It does recline, actually," he said. "That chair does just about everything, from giving massages to mixing drinks. Just not for you." Despite the Bronze Guy's bizarre get-up, there was something about the way he held himself that Jack found very familiar. This man was a soldier – or had been.
"What manner of place is this?" cried the big guy on Jack's left. Like Jack and the Bronze Guy, he was naked except for a Collar. He had a physique that reminded Jack of Teal'c. And there was a certain aura about him that was also reminiscent of Teal'c. Jack had a feeling this man had military training, too, but of a somewhat different sort. Not a soldier, but a warrior.
"I know not how I came to be here," continued the big guy, looking around him with wide-eyed confusion. "I was on my way to the practice field, to spar with my brother warriors, when I was struck by a strange flash of light. I awoke in a white room without windows or doors. I was alone there, but when I awoke again, I was in a grey prison cell, and my jailer was a demon in the shape of a woman. It cast many spells upon me, tormenting and shaming me. And then, it sent me here."
Yep, thought Jack. Definitely very Jaffa-like. And definitely from a low-tech world. It was clear the poor man had no clue how to interpret what was happening to him.
The big Warrior Guy looked at the Bronze Guy. "Are you a man, or a demon?" he asked. A strange expression came over his face. "Am I dead?" he whispered. "Is this the Underworld?"
The Bronze Guy gave a bark of humorless laughter. "That's right," he said. "You're dead now. We're all dead here. Welcome to the Underworld."
The Warrior Guy's eyes bulged, and his mouth slackened in horror.
"He's lying!" said Jack, his voice snapping with annoyance. He gave the Bronze Guy a disgusted look, and then turned to the Warrior Guy and told him, "You're not dead, and this isn't the Underworld. It's just a world that's ruled by women. And that," he added, gesturing toward the Bronze Guy, "is not a demon. Though he's not much of a man, either." Turning toward the Bronze Guy, Jack put on a puzzled expression and said, "Where's your owner, anyway? How come she let you off your leash?"
The Bronze Guy's jaw clenched, and pain flashed through his eyes. Strangely, he didn't contest Jack's insult. He gave a twisted smile and said, "My owner is in the luxury box on the other side of the Arena, along with all the other Trainers. They're entertaining an important visitor. But since no one paid extra for a premium seat today, she thought you two might as well get a ring-side introduction to your new lives." With that, the Bronze Guy held up a small device he'd been holding in his hand, and touched a control on it.
The white wall behind him seemed to vanish.
Jack found himself looking out onto the sands of the Arena. It was maybe twice the size of a boxing ring, but oval in shape. The sands were surrounded by two-storey walls, and at the top he could see three or four rows of stadium seating filled with women. Jack was at the same level as the Arena floor, in the middle of one of the long sides. He realized he was located under the stands, and was looking into the Arena through the now-transparent Arena wall. The wall was now letting light through, but still blocking sound. He could see the women in the stands talking and laughing, but couldn't hear them.
The Arena was indoors. Above the women's heads was a ceiling that covered the whole thing. Bright lights shone down, making the sand of the Arena sparkle. It was a pale gold color, but had mirror-bright specks mixed in. Two naked men in Collars were raking the sand. Like the Bronze Guy, they were all painted up, but the colors and patterns of body paint were different on each man.
Jack couldn't see the luxury box the Bronze Guy had spoken of. He wondered if maybe it was behind the white wall on the other side of the Arena. Maybe both walls could become one-way transparencies, allowing people to look out into the Arena without being seen themselves.
"Is this a place where warriors spar?" asked the Warrior Guy. He frowned. "Why is it surrounded by women? A woman should not enter the Men's Domain."
The Bronze Guy snorted. "Sorry, buddy. You have now officially entered the Women's Domain."
"When are we going to see the boss ladies?" asked Jack. "Can't wait to meet your owner."
The Bronze Guy gave him a weary, defeated look. "Don't worry. You'll meet Elal soon enough." He considered Jack for a moment, then said, "You fought with guns back home, didn't you? Not swords."
"Maybe I didn't fight with anything," said Jack. "Maybe I'm a peaceful kind of guy."
The Bronze Guy laughed at that – a genuine laugh, not a humorless bark like before. "Yep," said the Bronze Guy. "You fought with guns. People who fight with swords don't have that kind of attitude. And don't worry, you're not giving anything away. The Syndicate has all your records."
Jack was revising his opinion of the Bronze Guy. He'd thought the man was some kind of ass-kissing collaborator, since he'd been entrusted with chaperoning the new arrivals. But he was beginning to think the man was just beaten down. "What syndicate?" asked Jack. Raising his brows, he gestured toward the Arena. "And what's with the whole Coliseum setup? I thought the Ashorans were totally against men fighting and being mean and all that."
"Oh, they are," said the Bronze Guy. "Male violence is a big no-no. That's why the Arena is illegal. This place is owned and run by a powerful criminal syndicate." His mouth twisted. "Like I said, this is the underworld. And it's lucky for you that you know guns instead of swords. That means Elal will probably be in charge of you, too – which is a hell of a lot better than the alternative, believe me."
"I am an acknowledged master of the broadsword," said the Warrior Guy, "though I prefer the battle axe."
The Bronze Guy's eyes flicked toward the Warrior Guy, then quickly away again. Instead of responding, he turned and looked out into the Arena.
Jack saw that the two men who'd been raking the sand had each arrived at one of the narrow ends of the Arena, leaving a pattern of neat striations between them. Two doors opened in the Arena wall, one near each man. The men exited in opposite directions, and the doors closed behind them.
"Show's about to start," said the Bronze Guy. "Sit back and enjoy. 'Cause the next time you see the Arena, you'll be in it." The Bronze Guy hit another control on his hand device, and the room filled with a hubbub of female voices from the crowd. The sounds from the Arena were no longer blocked out.
The Bronze Guy walked back and sat in the chair to Jack's right.
There was a dramatic swell of music, and the lights went out in the Arena. For a moment, everything was pitch black. Then spotlight beams lanced down through the darkness, and began to dance across the sand. Each beam was a different rainbow color, and where it struck the sand, it created a circle of light that scintillated with bright sparks of matching color.
A woman's amplified voice rang out. "Welcome, sisters!" it boomed. "Welcome to the darkness! Tonight, you will see things that few Ashorans ever witness. From the safety of your seats, you will sample the unholy chaos of the patriarchal universe. Prepare yourselves, sisters! For you are about to come face to face with the drama … and spectacle … of male aggression!"
The music reached a crescendo, and then stopped. The colored spotlights went away, replaced by one large, white spotlight that moved to the door at the left end of the Arena, and stopped there. The audience was quiet, their tense excitement almost palpable.
Into the expectant hush dropped Jack's casually sardonic voice. "Who writes the speeches around here?" he asked. "Come on, you couldn't pack in any more clichés in if you tried."
The Bronze Guy gave him an exasperated look. "It's a good thing that wall only passes sound and light in one direction," he said, "because Elal wrote that speech."
The announcer's voice rang out again. "Sisters, I give you the champion of the Arena … Sweet Ass!"
Jack's brows rose. Sweet Ass? he thought. The gladiator's name is Sweet Ass?
The door in the Arena wall opened, and a man stepped into the spotlight. He was in his twenties, and had the kind of smoldering, male-model good looks you'd expect to see in an ad for men's underwear. He was tall and well proportioned, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but had an unusually prominent butt. He was, of course, naked except for his Collar. His waist-length, plaited black hair was streaked with electric blue, and his bright blue eyes were all painted up. Designs in electric blue and pastel pink were painted on his body in embarrassing places, and there was also a sort of clear glaze all over his skin, the same as on the Bronze Guy.
As soon as he stepped into the Arena, the crowd exploded into cheers and whoops. And the guy smiled and started waving at them!
The lights came up, and Sweet Ass walked toward the center of the Arena. He continued smiling and waving as he went. At one point, he did a complete 360 and blew kisses to the crowd. The women went wild.
Jack felt his brow furrowing in consternation. Just what kind of a fight was this?
Sweet Ass stopped at a particularly broad striation in the sand, which was drawn across the Arena about three feet from the center. Another broad striation paralleled it, located equidistant from the center.
"Tonight," said the announcer, "Sweet Ass faces a ruthless and cunning opponent. I give you … Jade Tiger!"
A door opened at the other end of the Arena, and another man stepped out. He was shorter than Sweet Ass, but broader and more heavily muscled. He had craggy features and dark skin. There were green patterns on his body, and his hair was green, too. He scowled menacingly at the crowd, and they started booing.
Jade Tiger stepped up to the other line in the sand and faced Sweet Ass. Both men crouched down in preparation, their faces intent and hostile. At the sound of a horn, they began to wrestle. Jack watched with increasing disbelief as the two men grappled, limbs straining and glistening muscles bunching, while the female audience yelled and screamed. Jack grimaced as he realized he was watching the gender-reversed equivalent of mud-wrestling!
Jade Tiger pinned Sweet Ass to the sands, causing gasps of dismay from the audience. Sweet Ass struggled dramatically, face straining, fist pounding the ground and sending sparkly sand flying. He cried out and writhed in apparent pain as Jade Tiger appeared to land a blow to his kidneys, and there were groans of horror from the crowd. Finally, Sweet Ass broke the other guy's hold by twisting around and yanking his balls! Jade Tiger yowled as if his balls had been ripped clean off, eliciting a combination of cheers and shocked laughter from the audience. But Jack knew the guy's reaction was exaggerated. He hadn't been hurt that bad. And Sweet Ass hadn't been hurt at all. Jade Tiger had pulled his punch.
For crying out loud! thought Jack. This isn't even a real fight! It's scripted!
And they expected him to get into that Arena? They expected Jack O'Neill – USAF colonel, Special Ops veteran, and leader of SG-1 – to roll around naked in the sparkly sand with another guy, all for the titillation of a bunch of screaming women? No way in hell!
Jack shifted uncomfortably, and the "premium seat" instantly adapted, caressing his naked body. Then again, he thought, doesn't look like these fights involve any risk to life or limb, or vital internal organs, or very important external organs. And wouldn't that be kind of a nice change?
It looked as if you'd be unlucky to come away from the Arena with a bad bruise. He'd been expecting something a whole lot worse. It doesn't suck bad enough, he thought. There has to be a catch.
Jack turned to the Bronze Guy and said, "That's it? That's the big illegal operation? That's what they faked our deaths for?" Jack put on a bemused expression. "You know, where I come from, there are guys who do pretty much the same thing of their own free wills. On national television. Well," he conceded, "except for the naked part."
The Bronze Guy gave him a listless look and said, "You're watching what we call the Wrestling Matches. They're geared to appeal to a broad audience – and the truth is, most Ashoran women honestly don't like violence. They like to ogle the men and feel wicked for violating Ashoran principles, but they wouldn't want to see anybody really get hurt. The Syndicate makes money on the Wrestling Matches – especially since Elal came on board. She's turned them into a real paying proposition. But originally, they were designed mostly as a cover. 'Cause even though they're illegal, most Ashorans don't take them too seriously, so there's not much pressure on the Government to shut them down. That makes it easy for the Syndicate to bribe officials to look the other way."
"So," asked Jack, "what's being covered up?"
"The Games," said the Bronze Guy. "The Games are geared toward a much more exclusive audience. They're put on for women who like to watch men fight for real, and get hurt for real, and are willing and able to pay through the nose to experience that forbidden thrill."
I knew it, thought Jack. I really hate being right.
At that moment, a horn sounded, and the contestants pulled apart and went back to their respective sides of the Arena. The announcer's voice came on and began talking about the moves scored by each man. As she mentioned the moves, points were displayed on a holographic scoreboard that appeared in the air over the Arena. The announcer made a big production out of it, and the audience cheered or booed as the points racked up for each man. Jack realized that the cheering and booing was what really decided these contests. And Sweet Ass was clearly the perennial crowd favorite. Jack had no doubt Sweet Ass had been scripted to win, with the other guy cast as the unsympathetic challenger the crowd would love to hate.
Sure enough, at the end of the scoring process, Sweet Ass was declared the winner. The challenger slunk away through his exit, while Sweet Ass walked to the center of the Arena. He raised both fists triumphantly, shaking them in the air and grinning as he turned slowly to interact with every section of the stadium. The crowd roared its approval.
"Sweet Ass has done it again!" cried the announcer. "But did he fight well enough, sisters? Did he truly please you?"
"Yes!" screamed the crowd.
"Does he deserve a reward?" asked the announcer.
"Yes! Yes!" screamed the crowd.
"Shall I give him his reward?" asked the announcer.
And the crowd began to chant, "Give it to him! Give it to him! Give it to him!"
The lights dimmed, and several white spotlights shot down to focus on Sweet Ass. The overlapping circles put him at the center of a flower of bright light. And then, apparently, the announcer began sending commands to Sweet Ass's Collar. What she made him do right there in the Arena, in front of that big crowd of women, left Jack feeling stunned – and a little sick.
"Okay," he said. "Nobody does that on national television."
The Warrior Guy made a guttural sound of disgust and tried, once again, to get to his feet. Once again, he cried out in pain and fell back into his chair.
"What manner of reward is this?" he shouted, his voice full of outrage. "And what manner of contest? Those men did not fight in truth! They but played at fighting, and demeaned themselves utterly before all these women! They are not true men at all. They are no better than the diseased curs who crawl on their bellies before the kitchen wenches and lick the women's shoes, begging for a few scraps from the garbage heap!"
The Warrior Guy had been very quiet during the "contest." Jack had seen him staring out into the Arena, looking appalled yet unable to drag his eyes away. It was the sort of expression you might expect on someone watching a train wreck. But then, to a warrior with a Jaffa-like code of honor, the fake combat in the Arena was probably just as horrible. No, more horrible. This guy would probably rather be in a train wreck any day.
"I am a Warrior of the Blue Cuirass!" he cried. "I will never shame myself in such a manner. I would rather die."
"Don't worry," said the Bronze Guy. He sounded tired. "You'll get your wish. See, there's a different kind of fighting that goes on here. Lots more serious. Lots of blood-letting and gut-spilling. You'll get to show off your mastery of the broadsword."
Jack gave the Bronze Guy a sharp look. "So that's why you said it was lucky I fought with guns."
"That's right," he said. "The Games are fought with pre-industrial weapons. Since you don't know how to fight with a sword, they'll probably only use you for the Wrestling Matches."
"They won't put me in the real fights?" asked Jack, not quite believing this news. The Wrestling Matches wouldn't be that terrible – not as long as he made sure never to win. Things were back to not sucking bad enough, and that put him on edge. He hated having to guess when the other shoe was going to drop.
Jack looked over at the Warrior Guy and said, "When you meet the boss ladies, it might be better not to boast about how good you are with a sword."
The Warrior Guy scowled at Jack. "I do not boast!" he said, his tone indignant. "My skill has been proven many times, both on the sparing grounds and on the field of battle. And I do not fear these 'Games.' It is far better to die in a true contest of arms than to participate in … that." Lip curling in distain, he gestured toward the Arena, where Sweet Ass had departed and the two guys with rakes had come back out, preparing the sands for the next match.
Jack gave the Warrior Guy a neutral look. "Okay," he said. "It's your spleen."
"It doesn't matter what he says, anyway," said the Bronze Guy. Jack turned and looked into the Bronze Guy's hard face and jaded brown eyes. He was beginning to see past the paint. He was beginning to recognize a man not unlike himself – a soldier of the gun-toting, pragmatic variety. "Like I told you," the Bronze Guy went on, "the Syndicate has all the records of our capture and evaluation by the Bureau of Liberation. They know who can fight with a sword and who can't."
"Just as well," said Jack. "Our friend here would rather lose an arm or two than dishonor himself by only pretending to fight. Different strokes for different folks."
A shadow passed over the Bronze Guy's face. He glanced at the big warrior, who was busy scowling at the bare-breasted women in the stands. Then he leaned closer to Jack and said, "If only that were all. If only the worse thing we had to face around here was a fair fight in the Arena." His mouth thinned. "But it's not," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It's what happens outside the Arena that really makes this place the pit of hell."
Jack looked into the Bronze Guy's eyes, and what he saw there shook him. He saw fear, self-hatred, and utter despair. He saw the haunted anguish of a man whose spirit had been broken.
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