Alright. Two more edits after this one. Gah, why did I decide to do this? Oh, well. Enjoy.

Chapter 10

The tournament at the Academy was exulted and loved by all who heard of it. It was a showcase of the newest and best talents the younger generations had to offer. It was a display of the combat techniques and hostilities humans and saiyans had grown beyond, but had long ago embraced. It was a reminiscing festival, a look back at earlier times, reminding modern man exactly why those days had been suppressed. Wars involving man-to-man combat no longer existed, and the tournament, for all its safety protocols, showed spectators why.

It was exciting and dramatic, including only the top fighters in the Academy battling one on one to achieve victory and jubilation. Many fighters played for the crowd, using fanciful and exaggerated moves that always brought with them applause and laughter. Others played with menacing grace, fighting to win at all costs and taking whatever chances they got.

A select few played not for appreciation nor even for the prize. They played, rather, for themselves, to prove themselves worthy in battle. Trunks would have been one of these, had events not turned his attentions from himself towards a young woman who hated him.

Trunks was supported by her, although she had no realization of it. His belief was that if he defeated all his opponents, she would have to chance to fight him and win the crowd. He knew that this was her greatest desire. He knew he had almost ruined her chances. So he prepared himself for victory, ready to block out the crowd and his own desires, ready to fight for Pan.

Events in the tournament were split into four sections, each implementing a different weapon. The first, and easiest, was hand to hand combat. Trunks knew he was good in this area, and he also knew he would be paired up with someone who hadn't nearly as much skill as he. Each section had two rounds; if he won both, then he would have two wins up his sleeve, and vice versa. If he won one and lost one, then he would have a good thing and a bad thing all in one. It was double elimination. One more loss would kill him.

Thankfully, the tournament hadn't even started yet, and people were already dropping out. Sickness and nervousness were taking their toll on the weaker fighters. Trunks just hoped his opponent wouldn't chicken out. It would be better if he didn't have to fight someone with more skill early on.

The second section involved the use of the quarterstaff. Trunks knew this weapon rather well, and looked forward to the beating he was sure to give whomever he fought. The third round, as a break from the norm, was an archery contest. All participants were split into groups of four. Winners went up and up through the three levels, until finally one person came out on top. Most people, then, got one loss tacked onto their score. The winner received three wins. Trunks didn't know how good his opponents were, but he knew he could shoot well.

The fourth and final round was everyone's favorite; the broadsword competition. Trunks had spent the last few days preparing mostly for that. He just hoped he could get there to fight. Two losses and he was done for.

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Pan sat next to a silent (oooh, scary) Bra in the slightly cushioned seat in the stadium. All around her, loyal aficionados yelled and waved their hats, waiting for the opening ceremony. Noone had yet realized that she was the famed 'consolation' fighter they had all come to see. Pan squinted in the sunlight, searching the proud group of fighters that were lined up before the main podium. She spotted Trunks near the end of the line, standing straight and tall in the black and silver uniform he wore every year. All who had heard of his previous battles in last years' tournament looked at him, all expecting him to win the entire thing hands down. She would show them. She'd show them all.

Of course even if she did beat the winner, she wouldn't be proclaimed the champ, nor would she have any right to be. She was banned from the whole process leading up to her battle. Her fighting was to appease those moneyed people that might have sympathized with her had she gone public. But she would have the crowd's approbation, and that was all she needed. That and beating Trunks into a bloody pulp.

Some of the fighters held intricate helmets loosely beneath their arms. Trunks had the same spherical sun-reflecting headpiece he had borne while Pan had sparred with him, what seemed like ages ago. He looked ready to kill. She shivered involuntarily. Could she really beat this guy?

Of course she could. She had an undepletable supply of animosity to draw on. Every time she looked at him, she felt energy rise within her. Oh, yeah. She could take him.

She looked longingly at the undisturbed sand in the ground where the fighting would begin. It was marked with ten circles the size of large rooms, all no less than twenty feet apart and all easily in sight of the crowd. The central circle, though the same size as all the others, was more pronounced and important-looking, decorated in the center by the CSSF symbol. This ring would not be used until the final round. Pan was itching to jump in and fight. She had the right to! She sighed and sat back, controlling her raging emotions and biting fiercely into a juicy hot dog that Bra proffered.

"Good hot dog."

"Yup."

"Can't wait for the tournament."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Yeah." Pan looked at Bra strangely. Why wasn't she talking at all? This was turning into an episode of the Twilight Zone (no comment). Then Pan noticed where Bra's eyes were trained. She was staring, drooling, at the line of gladiators. Pan laughed and punched Bra lightly in the arm.

"Hey! What was that for?" Bra saw Pan laughing, tears running down her face, and grinned. "Oh," she mumbled, sheepish. "I guess I'm not being very inconspicuous." Pan kept laughing. It kept her mind off her annoyances for a while…

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Trunks stood between his good friend, Goten, and his first round opponent, a spindly yet hard-looking man with a crimson uniform and knee-high boots. His helm was a dark metal the color of dried blood, with tooled knifelike pieces that, borne, would creep across his chin like slithering vipers. A sharp spike at the forehead made the wearer reminiscent of a maroon rhinoceros. Trunks raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

His own practical suit, while rather flashy in its own right, was a lot tougher than the average armor, having been forged in the great firestone at Beedom's Ridge, one of the most experienced, indeed, perhaps the best metallurgy factories on Chikyu. It had belonged to his father, who had received it as a gift from Beedom's late leaders. The metal used was not average either; it was potha, a malleable yet almost completely impenetrable material that was light as wood but stronger than lodestone.

He had to admit though, his silver helmet was completely for show. Trunks was usually focused, like most others, on pleasing the crowd at least a little bit. This was no longer true-- but he kept the helmet.

"You ready for me to kick your butt, buddy?" Goten nudged him and grinned. Trunks shook his head. Only Goten would find humor in this deadlock competition.

"Try not to kick it too hard, okay?"

"Your call." Goten turned to the crowd and cocked his head. "There are so many more people here this time. I wonder why?"

"They all heard about the 'court order,' I bet."

"Yeah. You gonna let her win?"

"Of course not. But she's going to."

Goten snorted. "Right, pal. Right."

The superintendent stepped up to the prominent podium, a look of distracted content on his brow. He raised his hands mightily, signaling for the teeming crowd to quiet down.

"We are gathered here today in this stadium…" he began in a loud, overpowering voice, "to celebrate the great battle techniques that our races have used for centuries. This tournament, though, is held in an age where killing is considered ancient and prehistoric. Thus you will not fight to the death. The battles are to be considered by judges, who will rate the performance of each fighter according to strategy, knowledge, and success of attacks. The man or woman with the higher score is, of course the winner. We will now begin the first round. Gladiators, please proceed to your designated ring." The crowd roared their approval and the fighters swaggered outward from the center of the stadium.

"Take your positions!" Weighted capes flew every which way, stretches were completed, and a few extra taunts were put forward. Trunks slid his helmet on and clanged against it with an armored fist, securing it. The rhino he was fighting spit outside the ring, wiped his grisly maw, and took up a rather proletarian stance, not blocking the side of his face as was sensible, but sticking his balled hands ahead of him in a reckless display of testosterone at its dimmest. A swift block and blow to his weak spot would finish him easily.

"Two minutes on the clock. Round one…begin!" Sounds of battle abruptly filled the arena. Trunks habitually put up a mental barricade against the innumerable crashes of skirmish and struggle, muting them to a hum inside his sensitive ears. He shifted his weight to back foot and began to slowly circle his opponent, as a hawk would circle his prey. It was an effective way to disorient and frighten a rival.

Rhino skittered backwards and moved quickly to the side, apparently attempting the same, but not succeeding by any definition of the word. Trunks waited patiently, watching for the best opening he could find (which was not the most difficult thing he had ever done) and attacked, swiping away Rhino's counterattack as if batting a fly away. He sent the hard ridges of his knuckles right towards the poor sap's lower jaw, and, with a sickening thud, they made contact. The bloke was sent flying, landing at least three feet outside the ring boundary. Trunks was the automatic winner of the first half.

The crowd roared, adrenaline was pumping, and water was being thrown at Rhino to wake him up. Trunks grinned. He could do this.

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Pan felt a rush of happiness as Trunks finished off his second half with a bang. She mentally kicked herself. Why was she so happy this idiot was winning?

So she could beat him when he won! Of course! That's why. Of course. Really. She gave up trying to convince herself of her hate for Trunks and stuffed another hot dog in her mouth. Hey, drown your sorrows in chocolate, drown your emotional discrepancies in hot dogs…

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The hooded figure stood noiselessly in the ordinary doorway, observing the events clad in an unremarkable coat and pale green slacks. His student insignia was hidden within his many pockets, and his gloved fingers were wrapped around a strange glassy vial of thin, clear liquid. He smiled slowly, forgoing the chuckling for purposes of inconspicuousness. Tugging his cap low over his gleeful eyes, he wandered off in the direction of the waterboy's personal venue.

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Ah. Didn't really edit that one much. Got bored. Meh. Anyway, please review? Please?