Snow dusted the training grounds where Stan stood. Several others stood with him, watching a truck pull towards the processing building. They stared as 5 new figures stumbled out of the trailer, the soon to be numbers 63-68.
It's a couple more people than usual. And they look to be in better health than usual, too. Weird. Stan turned away and went into the barracks. He'd seen enough for now, he'd be able to get a closer look at the new arrivals later. Stan shuffled towards the corner of the barracks he had claimed as his own, and he brushed his fingers across the tally marks he had scratched into the wall. Eight in total, numbering the fights he had won, the lives he had taken. He had long since lost track of how many days, weeks, months he had been in this hellhole, but he remembered every fight. Aside from the changing seasons, Stan had no other way to track the time that passed. Training and fights seemed to be all that existed anymore, and Stan moved through the days mechanically. Train, eat, sleep, fight. Where determination once burned in his heart, a void now sat.
I don't know why I bother anymore. Nothing changes, and everything hurts. I've looked and looked, there's no opportunity to escape.
Maybe I should just give up. I'm never going to see Ford again, anyway.
Stan laid down with his ratty blanket, staring blankly at the ceiling. Before he knew it, he had drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Stan was startled awake when rough hands grabbed his arms, hauling him upright and dragging him towards the ring. He didn't bother resisting, allowing himself to be dragged and shoved into the now-familiar room. The chatter from above no longer phased him, so Stan leaned against the wall, waiting for the door to open. It wasn't long before it did, creaking and groaning along the way. He stepped out into the cage, taking time to observe his opponent. A dead-eyed stare gazed back at him. A single hammer lay in the middle of the ring, gleaming dully under the lights of the ring.
Only one weapon? That's new.
The doors to the cages opened, and Stan darted out, determined to get to the hammer first. However, his opponent, an older man, reached the hammer first, immediately swinging the sharp end towards Stan's face. Stan fell back, and had to roll to avoid the next blow, aimed towards his neck. Quickly getting back up, he landed a kick to his opponent's ribs, only for the sharpened edge of the hammer to sink deeply into his thigh. Both opponents fell backwards, the hammer staying stuck firmly in Stan's leg. While the older man gasped for breath on the ground, Stan wrenched the hammer out of his leg, blood gushing out of the wound and pooling on the floor. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he first smashed the hammer into his retreating opponent's knee, then he swung the unconventional weapon into his opponent's skull, the weight of the weapon causing it to cave in. Stan stumbled back, covered in spattered blood, sweat, and dirt. He felt empty, too blank to even acknowledge the blood that once bothered him so. Stan remained unresponsive until he was blasted with icy water, after which he stumbled back to the barracks. He shivered, and his breath was visible in the cold night air, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Stan collapsed once he entered the barracks, not even bothering to grab a blanket. Despite his exhaustion, Stan did not sleep that night, instead staring blankly at the wall until the sun rose.
Stan Pines was a strong man, but every strong man has a breaking point. Stan's breaking point happened to be fight number nine.