If you're jumping directly to the most recent chapter, note that I forgot to upload Chapter 9 last week, so I'm posting two at once-so don't skip that one! ;)

"How are you already up?" Percy groaned, as Johnny paced by outside.

"I'm older than you young slugabeds, I don't need as much time to lay about."

"I don't think you are, actually." Though maybe the long time it took him to make a guess was undermining his own argument. Some more sleep wouldn't hurt. Maybe...no.

He climbed out of the crude bed and had soon made his way down to breakfast. "The muffins," Freddie declared, after Percy had made a point of waving one in front of his face as he picked it up, "are still rubbish."

"I don't think so," Percy repeated, biting in. "Hrm. This is actually good! You git, you're just trying to scare us off so you can have them all for yourself!"

"I would never...! All right, I would do such a thing, but I didn't, I swear. How can you not tell the difference?"

"Well, it's better than oatmeal, isn't it?"

"Not really. And it's nowhere near as good as the bacon."

"What bacon?"

"Ministerial games have proper bacon. You'll be wanting some."

Percy raised his eyebrows and polished off the muffin.

"Are we past due or what?" asked Johnny. "Seems like there hasn't been a big games for a while."

"Well, we'd need something to celebrate. An adorable little heir of the Minister to be born, but you know, I'm not sure our esteemed head of state can get up to much impregnating at his age," said Freddie. "Maybe he has a birthday coming up? Ask Jordan."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"You'll pass me the fruit is what you'll do," said Freddie, and Johnny acquiesced.

Just as Percy was hesitating whether to ask for it next, that handsome man came striding through the door. "Percy?" he called.

"That'd be me."

"Hullo!" he waved. "I'm Ludo Bagman. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"It..." What was he supposed to say? Something honorable, something sincere? "At your service."

He rose from the table, conscious of the others' eyes watching him. If they threw him off, how could he possibly stand up under the gaze of the spectators? Twitching, Percy made his way forward.

"Go get 'em, Perce," said Georgie—or Freddie, he wasn't perfect at telling them apart sight unseen.

"Percy," one corrected. That sounded more like Freddie. Giving a nod, but not turning, he followed out the door.

"We're going to see about getting you your weapons!" Bagman chirped.

"Yeah? Er...good."

They walked around the outside hallway again, and then into another room, which had low ceilings and was lit by a few torches on either wall. The air smelled of smoke. "You're a saecutor, if I hear tell?"

It took Percy a minute to parse that. Bagman had pronounced the jargon in a slow, drawn-out accent. "Yes." Remembering his brothers' strained relationship with the truth, on occasion, he felt compelled to add, "If you'd heard wrongly, would there be enough equipment for me?"

"Oh?" Bagman paused, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Surely. We'd have sent someone for it."

"Right."

"Here's your sword," said Bagman, nodding at a short sword on the opposite table that neither touched.

"Warm for fat, cold for vital organs," Percy said, reciting what he'd learned from Brutus' book. Apparently the difference in temperature was enough to be immediately sensible, though he'd never gotten to practice.

"Basic armor, here."

Slowly, Percy tried to put it on, mirroring the diagrams he'd seen. He knew better than to ask Bagman for help—no master trusted a slave who didn't look like he knew what he was doing. But how could that possibly fit? It wasn't like there were right-hand and left-hand versions of the various sleeve guards he slipped on, were there?

Hesitantly, he crossed the room to pick up the sword. It felt like a cool piece of metal. No help there.

"Oh, and your helmet!" Bagman waved a large, pale hand towards an equally large metal helmet, sides welded together through some strange craft or another.

"Yeah," said Percy. How was that supposed to work? Everything he'd read made reference to some sort of toggle—whether on the thrown raptor, wielded mace, protective shield, or that bulky and unfamiliar helmet.

"Try it on!" Bagman offered. "There should be a flap, hanging down over your neck."

Percy dubiously did so, the weight—on top of the armor he already had tightened on—feeling an impediment to getting any serious fighting done. But, it fit neatly enough, and the flap duly fell into place. Sure enough, a narrow groove ran from side to side, with a metallic bead sitting in the middle.

"Can you hear me?" he called, through the thick metal. There were eye-holes to see out of, but the helmet otherwise obscured his face.

Distantly, Bagman's voice replied, "Yes, of course! Now slide that around."

Percy raised his arm, craning it to keep the guard out of the way, and slid the bead back and forth. Sure enough, the closer the helmet squeezed in on to his face—paradoxically—the less weight he seemed to feel, and the farther away he pushed it, the more it sunk into him, and the more he could sniff the smoke in the air.

How on earth was he supposed to have any idea what to do with those, never mind have time to control them during a fight? When he got through, he decided, he was going to thwap Oliver for never giving him any advice. No, better, ask Bagman why they had nothing worthwhile to practice with.

Bagman was gesturing him out the door. Through the eye circles, which constricted his peripheral vision, Percy saw Bagman's hand flash into view. A blank mass of skin—no owner's name tattooed, no snake on the wrist. He was a freeman, and how could Percy question him?

He paced out to the arena. Untold numbers had come and gone—but mostly come—before them. He wondered how many would have desperately rather rushed off to the bathroom one more time. Why wouldn't they? What worse could be done to them?

And then he caught sight of a small man who must have been Terry, his frame and armor both smaller than Percy's own. He might have been unrecognizable, even had Percy met him, the eyeholes were so narrow.

Bagman vanished, and Percy gave a start before remembering that he must have Apparated. There were the officials, gathered around, and he was supposed to wait for the trumpet—no, the burst of light—

There.

The helmet, Percy decided, must surely have been magic. How else to explain the dullness of the roar that surrounded him? The spectators should have been mad, screaming, even amplifying their voices through magic could they choose. And yet, there was little he could hear. Instinctively, he ran backwards, as the petiatorus chased after him, raptor at the ready. It did not seem to be made out of wood, but rather a strange, bright metal that hovered too long in the air—controlled by magic, no doubt—and then crashed off Percy's arm guard. Whirling in shock, he charged forward with his sword. His opponent came barreling towards him but veered away at the last moment. Percy's momentum carried him forward, and there was no chance to strike.

Instead, he caught his breath, reaching up to his chin to experiment with the toggle. The helmet squeezed in, sitting lighter and, he hoped, making him lighter on his feet. He took off at a rush, and sure enough, was quickly able to catch up to the man who held the raptor aloft. Briefly. And then sliced it down. That time, it hit Percy's leg as his sword was grazing his opponent's back; the latter whirled away, bringing the raptor with him. Or was it just gliding after him through the air? Percy couldn't see.

Okay, so he'd have to adjust his leg shield. No, no time, just running. He was good at running, he thought briefly, and it wasn't like he had enough visibility for the fact that he was running in front of so many people to make a difference. But all of a sudden, he felt himself panting, the helmet beguilingly thick. He reached for the toggle again, and as it weighed him down, only just jerked his hand away before the raptor went whizzing by once more, clanging off the metal and veering out of sight. That time, taking a minute to catch his breath anyway, he could make out the distant crowd.

Grasping his sword in his hand—after all the changing weight of the helmet, he needed it to feel substantial, enough to do something with—he steadied himself, preparing to knock the weapon out of his adversary's hands. But no, he wasn't facing a mace, but rather something that could fly at him from any direction. He'd have to approach. How was he supposed to stand a chance?

Though some types fight each other more often than others, all the types are equally balanced, Brutus had written, with their own strengths and weaknesses. Slave-owners need to gamble, and for that, they want a plausibly fair fight.

If Brutus had even been alive at all. What was a stupid book going to do in the middle of a fight?

Percy charged forward, but immediately jumped to his left to dodge the returning raptor. That time, it sunk into the ground and seemed to fidget there, whirring around through some unknowable magic. His momentum broken, Percy panted again. There was no way forward, not with the helmet he barely knew how to use restricting his view, not with the raptor able to strike him down from behind. He couldn't see anything, not least how he could stand a chance.

Fine.

Nothing left to lose, least of all shame. Flicking the toggle off to the side, Percy pulled the helmet off his head entirely, hurling it down to the dust of the arena, and trapping the raptor inside. A few satisfying clicks of metal on metal told him he'd succeeded, and then he was off again, the brightnesses in the crowd too blurry to be faces. They were screaming, cursing, making noise, and he was, for once, in pursuit of an unarmed man. Dipping his sword down, he lashed out, that time striking the corner of a whirling elbow.

But not quickly enough to fell the short arm. The chase reversed, Percy retracing his steps across the sand, until the dodging target reached the helmet. He'd have to bend down to pick up the raptor, and that would give Percy time to strike. He checked his approach, waiting, only to find the helmet rammed into his chest—positioned between him and the petiatorus, it formed a shield, blocking him from getting closer. Then it withdrew a few inches. Okay, he'd grabbed the raptor, but what...

And then the helmet was flying off at an angle. Arms trained to hurl a smaller weapon could still produce a decent amount of force. Raptor in hand, Percy's opponent took off in another direction entirely.

Did the helmet matter, or could he fight just as well without the weight? Hesitating, Percy edged closer to the helmet—

and fell towards it, as the raptor caught him in the side.

He'd had the wind knocked out of him before, but never with so much noise around him. It was the lowering of their voices—applause, and not for him—that told him something was wrong. He had to stand, no, to reach for his helmet to prop him up, not feasible. His standards dropping with his blood, Percy squinted to see someone approaching through the sand.

Was it the magic in the weapons, to leave his hands under his control, or did his numb gratitude extend to some power beyond the wands in the seats? He couldn't tell. But it wasn't like he wanted to signal the end of the fight. Any hope of a contestable fight was already over, his body trapping the raptor more effectively than any helmet could. So, reveling in that brief freedom, Percy raised his finger.

A wave of color swept through the stands, and Percy thought he smelt smoke. Then one of the officials—what did they do? It had once again felt too short to drag them into the proceedings—was pacing over, pointing a wand at him. Percy winced as the raptor jerked out of him, falling motionless on the ground. And then, his skin was creeping forward, papering the wound over.

"Where else did he get you?" the official asked, politely.

"Er. My leg?" It had been that short, and yet the memory was difficult to grasp.

Nodding, the official cast another spell at his leg, which seemed to chill for a moment. It was still bruised, but Percy found he could stand, and picked his helmet up, tucking it under his arm. Another official had given Terry the same sort of branch George's opponent had received, and he waved it almost playfully as he made his way to the back tunnel. Gingerly, as if testing the sand with each step, Percy followed along.

His hands shook as he took off his equipment, and removing the leg guard seemed to bend his leg out at the wrong angle; no matter where he set his foot back on the ground, it was stiff and tired. Terry removed his much more quickly and ducked out of the room, as Percy fumbled with the arm shield before dropping it onto the table with a satisfying thud.

When he walked out of the room, Oliver was there, eyes bright. "You took your helmet off," he said, almost gasping.

"I'm alive," Percy said. He felt like spreading the news.

"I'd noticed."

"Well, so had I," Percy said—really, what did Oliver think he was doing—and he flapped his arms open for a hug, or in incredulity.

Oliver slipped in, returning the hug, and Percy was standing flush with life, needing someone to grip onto. Just as quickly, Oliver pulled away, but he still looked amazed. "You took your helmet off," he repeated.

"Yeah, I'd heard," Percy said, stepping into the hallway, if only to test his legs.

"You don't understand." Oliver followed. "That was brilliant. They'd never seen anything like it before. Of course you were going to survive, win or lose, it was never in doubt—"

"Well, someone might have warned me!"

"None of us had—we could see your face, do you understand that? You were out there, not sure if you were going to live or die, and you let us see you, all the way through. See, you were brave. You do get it, after all."

No I don't, Percy wanted to say, but after all the rush of the day the words fell dead on his lips. After all of that, he didn't want to let Oliver down.