--- Final Confrontation
He winked smartly at the camera in passing as he darted quickly into a side-corridor, quickly resuming the sour look that had a tendancy to grow on any tournament participant.
It was a matter of principals. If you had to die, you died with style. If you managed to live - you lived with style. It made life a whole lot more interesting - and it made death a whole lot more bearable.
The corridor shone brightly with the illumination of the great mini-sun replicas contained inside the walls. the steel pattern on the floor was polished to perfection, the blue velvet on the walls smooth and impeccable. The air smelled clean, aside from the slightest hint of a smell of gunpowder lightly floating on the air from the adjacent chamber. It was perfection, there for them to make imperfect. Thousands of people had worked on preparing this event alone, yet mere dozen select ones were what mattered, they were. They were what mattered. They were the kings of the arena, the whole arena was the throneroom of each and every one.
Wherever they went, they made theirs or it made them theirs. They walked and fought upon the sacred grounds of religions, they bled and died on history itself, upon the greatest technological and cultural feats belonging to humanity did they rule supreme. That was where they fought, that was where they lived, that was where they died. That was their purpose.
They were what the world wanted, what it needed. Heroes, heroes that did what the masses could only dream of, what they would only want to dream of. Death and life, the famous and the infamous. The stuff of legends. Legends of the modern age.
His head darted back and forth, watching each end of the corridor as he swiftly darted along it - savoring the mental image of himself in his great golden armor, slithering like a graceful tiger, his thick black hair geled to the same perfection as his surroundings. He savored the mental image of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of fans cheering him on.
He was no fool, he knew he wasn't the best, he knew one day he'd die. All men die. But not all men die immortal. What could be a better way to go?
His battle-honed mind registered movement as soon as someone appeared from the great dome ahead - hefting his trusty rocket launcher into position he prepared to dodge enemy fire.
Seconds later, seconds that every single time seemed like minutes, he saw the flash of gold that meant safety for a while more. He met the eyes of his ally for the briefest moment, his face as impassive as his, his eyes as desperate and yet as exuberant as his. It was a great moment.
So, naturally, it came as quite a shock when the high-velocity sniper bullet made contact with his forehead, penetrating the skull, digging deep into his brain and causing near-instant death. His handsome face looked eerily beautiful lying as dead as the arena itself on the floor - neatly placed among the perfection, with a neat bullet-hole on his forehead from a sniper he never even saw. It was the stuff of legends.
What could be a better way to go?
---
Author's note:
Thanks to the original reviewers if you're still around. Should be about... two or three years or so since I made the original now I should think. Decided it'd make a refreshing change from the original fantasy I usually write to come back and enhance a little bit on this, changed the original one chapter a bit (hopefully to the better) and decided to make a series out of the thing. Review please, it really does mean quite a lot to me, knowing whether or not what I write pleases at all... truth be told I like the original better, but it's more of an expiriment anyway, really - review please!! :)
He winked smartly at the camera in passing as he darted quickly into a side-corridor, quickly resuming the sour look that had a tendancy to grow on any tournament participant.
It was a matter of principals. If you had to die, you died with style. If you managed to live - you lived with style. It made life a whole lot more interesting - and it made death a whole lot more bearable.
The corridor shone brightly with the illumination of the great mini-sun replicas contained inside the walls. the steel pattern on the floor was polished to perfection, the blue velvet on the walls smooth and impeccable. The air smelled clean, aside from the slightest hint of a smell of gunpowder lightly floating on the air from the adjacent chamber. It was perfection, there for them to make imperfect. Thousands of people had worked on preparing this event alone, yet mere dozen select ones were what mattered, they were. They were what mattered. They were the kings of the arena, the whole arena was the throneroom of each and every one.
Wherever they went, they made theirs or it made them theirs. They walked and fought upon the sacred grounds of religions, they bled and died on history itself, upon the greatest technological and cultural feats belonging to humanity did they rule supreme. That was where they fought, that was where they lived, that was where they died. That was their purpose.
They were what the world wanted, what it needed. Heroes, heroes that did what the masses could only dream of, what they would only want to dream of. Death and life, the famous and the infamous. The stuff of legends. Legends of the modern age.
His head darted back and forth, watching each end of the corridor as he swiftly darted along it - savoring the mental image of himself in his great golden armor, slithering like a graceful tiger, his thick black hair geled to the same perfection as his surroundings. He savored the mental image of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of fans cheering him on.
He was no fool, he knew he wasn't the best, he knew one day he'd die. All men die. But not all men die immortal. What could be a better way to go?
His battle-honed mind registered movement as soon as someone appeared from the great dome ahead - hefting his trusty rocket launcher into position he prepared to dodge enemy fire.
Seconds later, seconds that every single time seemed like minutes, he saw the flash of gold that meant safety for a while more. He met the eyes of his ally for the briefest moment, his face as impassive as his, his eyes as desperate and yet as exuberant as his. It was a great moment.
So, naturally, it came as quite a shock when the high-velocity sniper bullet made contact with his forehead, penetrating the skull, digging deep into his brain and causing near-instant death. His handsome face looked eerily beautiful lying as dead as the arena itself on the floor - neatly placed among the perfection, with a neat bullet-hole on his forehead from a sniper he never even saw. It was the stuff of legends.
What could be a better way to go?
---
Author's note:
Thanks to the original reviewers if you're still around. Should be about... two or three years or so since I made the original now I should think. Decided it'd make a refreshing change from the original fantasy I usually write to come back and enhance a little bit on this, changed the original one chapter a bit (hopefully to the better) and decided to make a series out of the thing. Review please, it really does mean quite a lot to me, knowing whether or not what I write pleases at all... truth be told I like the original better, but it's more of an expiriment anyway, really - review please!! :)