Chapter 11

Kes paced in his cell.

It wasn't too hard to see that he was coming to the end of his usefulness in the Arena. He hadn't been sent out to trim back the ranks of the All Stars in cycles. In fact, he hadn't been out in the Arena itself for anything but target practice in cycles – for days, he'd done nothing but explore the confines of his miserable cell to the limit of his tolerance and then past it.

Now he was going back into the Arena again.

Occe had the elaborate helmet ready; Kes had seen it as the big Triceraton went past the barred door of his cell. It stirred him as nothing had in…in…days? cycles? more time than that? It didn't matter. He knew what the helmet meant: It was time to fight again. It was time to feel the grit under his feet. It was time to hold a weapon again…

Instinctively, he knew he might die in the Arena that day.

He no longer cared, or could imagine a reason why he might care.

He didn't think such things in words. He'd forgotten how to use words, even in the deepest part of his own mind.

Occe let him out of the cell. Fitted him with the helmet. Pointed out into the open area of the Arena and said something that was completely meaningless – it was just noise, something that had no more meaning or importance than the sounds the crowds made – before pushing him into the entrance tunnel.

Kes stepped out onto the Arena sands for the last time.

......

"Time for the Crazy, Mixed-Up Match!" one announcer called jovially.

......

Trell ran the scanning equipment across the humans that had been delivered to the Arena just that morning. He frowned as he checked the results, and sorted the females out. He tried to be gentle – he'd heard that the High Council frowned on damage being done to females of other species – but they screamed and fought him anyway. He finally had to resort to threatening them with a blaster to get them to part from their males.

He shook his head in disbelief as the females were rounded up and taken away again by the military. What kind of species spent so much emotion and aggravation on its males? The females would be returned to their people, eventually. Surely they had more males at home?

He dismissed the thoughts and turned back to the task at hand.

"Awright, maggots," the Triceraton shoved the remaining humans into a rough sort of line. "Here's how it works – you go out into the Arena when I tell you to. You try to get to the sword that's standing out there in the sand – see it? – before Kes does. And then you fight him. Simple, innit? Even you scum shouldn't have any problem remembering that." He paused, and pulled one of the men who was sobbing in fear out of the line; the man was shoved roughly through another archway into darkness. The Dead Ones would take care of him. "…got no time for cowards like that… Anyway, I'll send you out one or two at a time, and you wait here and be quiet until I tell you to go. Got it?"

He turned away, uninterested in the reactions of the meat. And then a voice said, "I don't see this sword you're talking about – and what if one of us wins the fight with this, this Kes? What do we do then?"

The Triceraton turned back again and regarded the line of captives with surprise. Most of them quailed under his gaze ("Cowards," he thought contemptuously) and melted away from one of their number.

Trell bared his teeth at the lone captive, who looked vaguely surprised to be abandoned by his fellows. "You." He pointed. "You're going in first."

"Wait." Occe appeared out of the tunnels. Several of the captives shrank back in fear. Wide eyes went to the Arena Master's battered head: the broken horn, the scarred frill, all of the signs of a life lived in danger. "Give me the scanner."

He adjusted a control and re-scanned the human. Trell bit his tongue on the urge to justify himself – he was all too aware that he could lose his name and his place at just a word from Occe, and didn't want to do anything that would attract the bigger Triceraton's ire. The Arena Master ran the equipment carefully over the human, frowned, and repeated the gesture more slowly. He peered at the results. His face darkened.

"Utroms!" he spat. "This one stinks of Utrom – damn right that he's going in first! Good catch, Trell! I thought something seemed a little strange about this one."

Trell preened under the unexpected praise as much as the use of his name. Both were rare, and worth treasuring.

"Utroms?" The human looked startled. "What are you talking about? I don't know what – "

"Stop talking," Occe grabbed one ridiculously skinny arm. "I know all about you and your Utrom masters, and I won't allow you to live in my Arena one second longer than I have to. Trell! Scan the rest of them again, and see if they have that same taint on them. Bloody Utroms and their cursed tentacles get into everything and ruin it…" and he hauled the protesting human toward the gate.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Some sort of mind-magic, like the Utroms have," Occe said decisively. "Their smell is all over your DNA, and you probably have some mental trick that you think will save you. Kes won't care, though. You'll be dead before you can do anything to him."

He brought them both to a halt just inside the arch of the gate. The thin metallic shimmer of the sword, planted in the exact center of the Arena, drew his attention. "See it now? If you can get to it first, human, then you might live for a moment or two longer."

Occe shoved the skinny form out onto the sands and slammed the gate closed behind him.

The human cowered against the gate.

Trell wandered up. "Should we send that one to the Dead Ones, too?" he asked doubtfully.

"No!" Occe shook his head, looking fiercely at the fragile figure. "I won't have that Utrom-taint around. If Kes doesn't take him down, I will."

A cheer went up from the stands. "See, there he is," the Arena Master rumbled. He spoke mockingly to the human through the bars of the gate. "Kes is already on the sands, puny one. Better get to that sword, fast, if you want to go on breathing for a little while longer." He turned away to deal with another man who fell to screaming in terror right at that moment, and the human was left to meet his end.

Trell took up Occe's space at the gate for a moment, eyeing the human carefully. He'd never seen one of the Utrom-changed humans before. As far as he could tell, this one looked the same as all of the other humans who came through the Arena tunnels. He raked a glance over the scrawny figure, wondering how he would recognize the next one that came along.

The human turned and grabbed the bars of the gate. He panted in his fear. He raised his face, aiming his wide and frightened eyes at Trell.

Something…tickled…in the back of the Triceraton's mind.

The human's fear was suddenly a tangible thing. Trell fumbled for the gate latch. He had to fix it. Pressure built in his mind. Something moved there, something foreign to the Triceraton, but utterly compelling. He couldn't breathe around it. The sensation in the back of his mind only grew stronger.

"Youngling!" Occe's hand fell on him, hard, and yanked him away from the gate. The Arena Master cursed. "Merciful Divinity, I'll shoot him myself! He's pulling his mind-magic on you."

Trell panted. "What…was it?"

Occe blocked the view through the gate with his own body. "Go get my stunner!"

"No – he's moving, see?" Through the Arena Master's spread legs, Trell saw the impossibly skinny legs of the human move away from the gate and head out into the center of the Arena. Trell climbed to his feet, clutching his head. "What did he do to me?"

"Doesn't matter now," Occe growled. "He'll be dead soon. Kes won't let him live long enough to look in his eyes."

The two Triceratons watched as the human ran for the sword. He ran through the hillocks and low depressions caused by earlier fights, fastidiously avoiding the dark, wet areas where the blood left fresh stains. The sand clung to his feet. He tripped, fell, and got up again, staggering.

Across the vast, open space of the Arena, Kes could be seen. The little fighter never rushed. Never gave any impression of being in a hurry. Never stumbled on the uneven surface. He simply moved forward, inexorably.

The human reached the sword first. He yanked it out of the sand with a visible effort, and then…simply stood there. The sword tip gouged another hole in the sand as the human struggled to gather the strength to lift it. The gems in the hilt winked in the glare of the Arena lights as the human wrestled with it.

Kes kept on coming.

Occe grunted in satisfaction. "Won't be long now…" In a break with his own long-standing habits, the Arena Master stayed by the gate, watching the match with avid eyes.

The human shuddered. It was visible to the watching Triceratons, even from their distance. The gems in the sword flashed again, colored sparks that matched the ones that flew from Kes' helmet as the Earth-fighter made his way to his cowering opponent.

There wouldn't be much of a fight, clearly.

Before he was within four sword-lengths of the human, Kes crouched. He shifted his weight, bunched his muscles, and leaped –

The human probably never felt the flying kick that sent him arching backwards into the bloody sand. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, one hand open and reaching for the sword…

Trell swore he could see the very moment when the human realized that the weapon was now in Kes' hand.

......

Kes would've been disappointed at the ease of his victory, if he were still able to feel much of anything at all. He grabbed the sword as it fell from his opponent's hand, hefting the weapon easily. He spared a second to give the blade a contemptuous look – it was dull, again, and would take a little more force to get it into the bodies of the fallen; it was going to be a messy match. He spun it in his hand without realizing it, and brought it down to point at the torso of the man who lay at his feet.

He didn't have enough of his own mind left to wish that things were any different.

......

Occe felt something change. The enormity of his mistake rose up to almost choke him. He swore, low and fluently, at the realization that he was far too late to make any difference in what was about to happen. "Should've put his eyes out before I sent him out…!"

......

Something…stirred…in the back of his mind. Kes paused, and looked at his fallen enemy. There was something there, something that moved among the darkest places of his brain, something that wanted him to feel things and know things again.

He shook his head, willing the feeling away. He couldn't feel things! It was vitally important that he not feel things!

The something in his mind grew stronger. It curled in him, latched onto the faint tremors in his placid mind, fed on his sudden confusion –

He gasped out loud, and backed away from this sudden attack. He couldn't think! He couldn't let himself think!

Steeling his resolve, he stepped up to finish what must be done. The sword went up. He glanced down at his beaten foe, assessing the best place to strike the killing blow, and met the eyes of his enemy –

– the something returned full-force, lashed out like a coil of energy, whipcracked past all his defenses and deep into his mind –

Both victor and vanquished screamed as the connection was made.

SNAP!

He went to his knees in the sand, keeping his grip on the sword only by force of habit from long years of training. Something touched him, deep in his brain. It wasn't physical, and yet it was: it ripped away all of the protections he'd built for himself since his capture. All of the mindless certainty, the indifference, the bloodlust and the sublimation of all that he was melted away. It felt like being caught under a waterfall, as the memories – not just of his recent life, but of the life before, the life he'd locked up in a vault – crashed over him, remorselessly. He screamed again, furious and grieving and in more pain than he'd ever imagined possible, as he was forced to take back everything about himself that he'd had to deny to survive.

And then Donatello, son of Splinter, heir to the teachings of Hamato Yoshi, got to his feet.

The helmet fell to the ground, and he kicked it aside. He swept the stands with his gaze – he couldn't remember ever really seeing them, before – then turned to look at the person at his feet.

…got to get out of here…

A memory floated to the surface: "We're gonna ram this sucker right down their throats!"

He paused. A camera platform floated at the corner of his eye – they'd been wary of him, at first, remembering how he and his brothers had escaped the Arena the first time, but in the intervening cycles they'd come to accept his indifference and floated close whenever they could. After all, he'd proven that he could be counted on to give them the types of footage they craved…he shivered as the plan congealed in his head.

…get out of here, or die trying…

He looked at the sword as though he'd forgotten it. Right on cue, the nearest camera platform swung in closer – there had been times when that gesture, from him, presaged a horrific death that sold well to the crowds. It still wasn't close enough, though.

Elaborately, he cranked his gaze back around to the man who still lay sprawled at his feet. With a slow gesture that owed much to the theatrics he'd been forced to learn, he brought the sword around to rest above the man's heart. The dulled point of the sword made a divot in the filthy shirt.

He paused.

The camera platform hovered in closer…closer…closer…

He moved.

He launched himself at the nearest camera platform. The rightful operator landed on the sands, hard, just as the platform itself came swooping down to the human, who gasped and put up his arms in a futile gesture of warding. Don snagged both upraised wrists in one hard grip and yanked the man up out of the sands.

And then they were both in the platform. Sand gritted under the man as he scrambled for balance – balance that he lost almost instantly as his new companion turned the platform around in a tight circle.

There was nowhere to go.

Triceratons in military uniforms were coming in on three sides. In the spaces between, other camera platforms closed the gap. Above them, more military-types hovered, trying to force them back to the ground.

Don ground his teeth audibly. He looked wildly from side to side.

We're going to die here. It didn't scare him as much as it should have. The man held onto the floor of the platform and looked up at Don. It came to him that this was a truth the man had no chance to internalize and accept, and he felt a small pang of remorse for that.

Overhead, he could see the faint light of the stars and assorted planets through the clear ceiling that protected the Arena. It was shame, really, that he'd never really gotten the chance to explore them…his eyes widened as the idea hit him.

The man looked at him for a second, his own eyes narrowing, then looked at the ceiling.

Don spun the platform around once more in a tight circle, scaring off the nearest of their would-be captors.

Then he pointed the platform at the high, clear ceiling and opened the throttle on the stolen vehicle.

As they shot upwards to what would surely be their deaths – either they'd get shot out of the air, or the platform would blow up on impact, or they would fall to their deaths after impact – Don surprised himself: he laughed. Relief and joy and wild abandon, all in that sound. He'd never heard anything like it before, and certainly not from himself. Tears filled his eyes – it had been such a waste, really, and soon his life would be over.

The platform lurched.

The man grabbed the hilt of the sword as it slid across the floor toward him, more to keep from getting cut than for any defensive reason. Don fought for control of the vehicle. Fought, and lost. The battered platform began to break apart around them.

They both looked toward the clear ceiling, and the hard, indifferent stars barely visible past it, as their wild attempt at suicide failed. Then they fell.

The man was snagged by a Triceraton soldier who tossed him indifferently into a corner of the larger transport. No one even bothered to take the sword away from him.

Don put up more of a struggle as he fell. The Triceraton was larger, but Don had more experience and skill, and he almost made it free of the platform. But as he twisted and dove for the side, another soldier grabbed him by the wrist before he could fall clear. His momentum carried him in an arc, pivoting on his captive wrist.

The Turtle couldn't even scream, as his right knee made contact with the dangerous underside of the vehicle: the anti-grav force field there pulverized the bone. Don writhed, suddenly losing all focus and determination in a white burst of agony. He made a sound that could've been a scream, if he'd had the ability to draw breath around his pain, as the Triceraton flung him into the floor of the transport.

They sank back to the sands of the Arena.

Through the haze of pain, he saw the man crawl across the platform to him, still dragging the dulled sword. Warm hands landed on his suddenly-clammy skin. Shock, he thought, I'm going into shock…The damaged knee looked wrong, almost melted. His stomach knotted at the sight.

Hasty conferences went on around them. Don couldn't think, could barely see, past the clusters of tall and bulky Triceratons that surrounded them. The crowd noises ebbed and flowed. Don was reminded sickeningly of the sound of the waves, whenever a storm rolled in off the water.

There wasn't anywhere to go to escape this storm.

......

The crowd went wild.

Occe shook his head in mingled admiration and dismay. Kes' performance was one of the most astonishing things he'd ever witnessed in all his years in the Arena. When he set up the series of Mis-Matched Fighter games, he had some idea that they would make a slow end of Kes' time. It seemed a shame to waste such skill and experience on such a routine warm-up match, but really, the crowds weren't showing a lot of interest in him anymore.

The crowds were interested now, though.

"Trell! Get the platform!" he called. Without looking back to see if he would be obeyed, he hurried out onto the sands to confer with the announcers and other relevant people. He thought he already knew what would come of it.

Escape attempts from the Arena's tunnels were depressingly regular, and usually dealt with in the ways that the Arena Master saw fit. Since they took place out of the view of the audience, there wasn't anything to benefit by calling attention to them, most of the time. (Though Occe himself had taken on the role of Arena Master following a particularly vicious attempt, years earlier.)

Escape attempts from the Arena itself were another matter.

If the escape attempt was a fear-maddened combatant, well, the crowds usually helped by forcing the would-be escapee back to meet his proper fate. It happened with depressing regularity: some benighted being from some miserable race would make it as far as the Arena itself and then completely fail to act like a proper warrior. Occe knew how to spot and weed these out before they got that far, but it kept the crowd awake and interested to let one through, now and again.

Even more rarely, though, a proven fighter with some successes to his name would suddenly make a break for it. Kes himself had been part of such a team, once: the only team to escape the Arena completely unharmed, and untraceable.

This time, he didn't make it.

This time, he would pay the price for his attempt. And in so doing, he would cement his status as a legendary player in the Arena.

Kes would die the Death of a Thousand Breaks. And he would do it all before the eyes of a fascinated crowd.

Shame about the knee, really, Occe thought dispassionately as he grabbed the little fighter up out of the floating platform. Captives usually reacted in such wildly interesting ways, when their knees were broken…provided that they had knees at all, of course; Occe was grateful that Kes wasn't a Spasmosaur or any other boneless creature. He didn't want to have to invent an appropriate death right there on the spot!

The human fighter would die later, of course. It was obvious he had something to do with the attempt – Kes had been perfectly obedient to the threat held over his head until that moment, so clearly there was some blame to assign to the puny human. But since it would take too long to explain his part in it to the crowd, it would be easier to just take him aside and run him through as they finished killing Kes. Meanwhile, he could just stay where he was: seated and miserable on the corner of the platform. He didn't deserve the theatrical death of a real fighter.

Kes still had some fight in him, and tried to get free of the restraints as Occe and Trell fastened them around his wrists. He didn't have much to give, though. When they tugged on his ankle to fasten it into the splayed restraints, he paled. His eyes rolled back, whitely.

Occe fingered the ampoule in his pocket and waited for the right time to administer it. The crowd didn't need to know that the little one suffered through his proper torments because he'd been drugged past his pain. It was never very popular with the crowd to have a warrior pass out, especially during this kind of execution! No, they wanted to know that the being strapped into the x-shaped frame felt every single one of the appropriate breaks.

The announcers looked on with approval, and Occe was grudgingly pleased. This wasn't something he'd done often. It was a sign of his skill as Arena Master that he'd had few fighters simply snap like this.

The crowd, sensing that something important was about to happen, grew even louder and more restless. The camera platforms hovered, filming everything from all angles.

Occe retreated to his quarters for the ceremonial gear. When he returned, he looked every bit as splendid and ominous as any fighter ever had.

He wasn't any good at speaking to crowds, and it seemed more theatrical for him to work in silence, so he listened and tried to look sufficiently deadly as the announcers explained it to the crowds.

"Folks, we're witnessing something historic today! The fighter once known as 'Kes' is going to demonstrate the proper way to die the Death of a Thousand Breaks! Rav, would you explain for the younglings exactly what we're going to see today?"

"Certainly, Xex! The Death of a Thousand Breaks is exactly that – the warrior will have his bones broken, a thousand times! It takes a lot of skill and experience to make that happen, Xex, without killing the warrior far too early. And many fighters who aren't our glorious Triceraton warriors can't handle the pain for very long! So let's see how long this little fighter can last, as the Arena Master starts the breaks!"

"Great, Rav, thanks! And for the members of the audience who feel like a 'break' themselves, be sure to visit the fine merchants in the concourse to pick up your souvenirs of this warrior, who was once dubbed 'Kes' by the crowd – they're sure to be collectors items after today!"

"And Xex, let's not forget: for the first 500 beings to stop by the announcers booth after the show, we'll have free limited edition vids of the Death of a Thousand Breaks that you're about to witness!"

The problem, of course, was that Kes didn't have a thousand bones. And many of the most promising bones for this sort of death were hidden away under the shell. Occe didn't think he could actually get to those bones without killing the little fighter outright. He shrugged. Traditionally, the breaks would start on the feet of the victim, and then work upward to the long bones in the legs. He would follow tradition, then, and see what needed to be done when he got that far.

He had no doubt that his victim would live long enough to make the decision necessary.

......

Donatello wasn't so sure.

The atmospheric converter he wore was fitted with a crude translator, of course, and he knew what was going on. He just couldn't think what to do about it.

The shock and pain mingled with the confusing turmoil of memories that overwhelmed him. Fractured images of his life, his family, slammed through his head with almost physical force. He flinched at a memory – their first Christmas tree – that caromed into his head and demanded his attention. He couldn't focus long enough to dispel the things that didn't matter, or summon any ability to decide what really did. Another memory – Raph broke his arm climbing around in the sewer tunnels; they were seven and didn't know what to do – seemed slightly more relevant to the moment, even if it was similarly useless.

The announcers' spiel sickened him.

Cool relief flooded into his arm. He came out his shock long enough to see Occe palm another ampoule, hiding the drug from the avid eyes of the crowd and the cameras. Don felt the tendrils of coolness trace through the veins, taking the worst edge off the pain. He still hurt, in ways and levels that he could never have imagined – but the violence of his memories slowed down. He could start to think again, around the massive spikes of pain.

He panted and lay back in the restraints as the cruel plans continued to be described around him. Nothing in his life had ever hurt as much as his knee did right that moment. Dizzily, he wondered if it would hurt less if the leg had actually been cut off.

It sparked another memory. He turned his head, looking for the human man with the sword. It was so hard to see, past the flashes of pain and darkness that threatened his vision! Not to mention the crowding hulks of the Triceratons who surrounded him with weapons drawn…finally, he spotted his target.

The man crouched, forgotten and almost invisible, in a corner of the gaudy platform. The dull sword lay at his feet.

Don wondered, equally dully, if it could be made useful.

The human looked up and met his eyes. Don felt that powerful energy move in him again at the glance. He didn't know what had happened. He didn't really care. All that mattered was that it all come to an end, soon.

He wanted to die, now.

Licking his lips, Don concentrated on that coil of energy that lurked in the back of his mind. He gathered all of his strength and focused on sending a thought to the man: use the sword to kill me…

Of course, the Triceratons would kill the man for it. Still, it would be a cleaner death than the one that had been planned for the man originally, when they'd sent him into the Arena to face 'Kes'.

Don shuddered at the memory of the name. He felt unclean to the very core of his being.

He brought his wandering thoughts back to the task at hand. He didn't even turn to watch Occe, now outfitted in some sort of garish get up, come up on his other side. He kept his gaze fixed on the human, even though he was peripherally aware that the Arena Master held a massive, metal-studded rod that he hefted with dangerous intent –

Don broke the gaze, then, to flinch and compress against the pain in his foot, as the rod came down and broke a bone in one toe. Instinct made him buck against the restraints.

He couldn't think any more. Thoughts stuttered, looped around, fragmented, and died under the onslaught.

Don's stoicism endured for the first several breaks, while he still had control.

By the time the Arena Master broke the heavy bone of his heel, the thin veneer of control had cracked. He gritted his teeth around something that wanted to be a scream of pain, and thrashed in the restraints.

While the other foot was broken, he keened in pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man curl around the sword and shudder with every blow. Don snarled, furious and half-insane again with his pain, and wished he knew the words to rain curses down on the heads of the Triceratons who were causing him/them such pain. He writhed in the restraints, his body refusing to accept that it was trapped, and shuddered himself under the knowledge that it was only going to get worse, much worse, before it got better…

When the second heel bone shattered, Don was out of his mind with pain. Darkness flickered on the edges of his mind. He welcomed it, even knowing that he'd never wake from it.

At that moment, the man gathered himself to act. The intent to strike a blow – a mercy-killing – resonated through that coiled energy that linked the two of them.

He leaped to his feet and charged across the platform.

The Arena Master barely stirred as the man pushed around him and threw himself into the restraints. Contact! The human's hand closed around the strained muscles of the Turtle's upper arm –

The Triceraton rumbled and reached for him. The man tightened his grip and snarled his fury. He dropped the sword into the restraints and clamped his other hand over the first. Don screamed again, high and hopeless, as the sword slid to a stop against his ruined right foot, the jeweled hilt an extra torture against his destroyed knee.

A light lanced down out of the sky.

Don felt himself being turned inside out, and screamed one last time, as he and the man were pulled away from each other and into nothingness.

......

The blood-ocean roiled with turbulence.

He found himself hauled out of the depths by the force of the storm, flung into air and spray by the waves. The cool, dark comfort of stillness was lost, then – he remembered how to breathe, and couldn't stop doing it. He belonged on the surface, now.

The ocean rejected him, but didn't release him.