Young Tucker was a good boy. Other kids would run around and misbehave and stay up past their bedtimes. Put a good action movie in the VCR and Tucker would stay put for the whole day. No crying, no screaming, no begging to have the last cookie or go play in the rain outside, he'd just sit there entranced the entire time watching whoever was on the screen perform feats of daring most could only dream of.

Swish! A battle ax flew just past his head. Sharp steel sank into the ground and the fists they left behind tried to hammer down on Tucker. Both daggers blocked the blow before parrying and slashing the opponent across his toned chest. The crowd cheered with each miniature fountain of blood staining the white canvas of the arena. Harsh lights beating down on them like the desert sun, they fought on.

Watching those men on the little screen tear through anything that stood in their way, it was magic. The mastery of combat, the moment to moment thrills, the breakneck action, all so intense, so enrapturing. He could sit there and watch for hours and never grow bored of the mindless violence. Unlike other children he wouldn't laugh or whoop or holler, he wouldn't even make a sound. Just silently sitting there taking it all in.

The weapon fell and its wielder soon followed. Covered in gashes and bruises, he hardly looked like the man who he had started the fight with. Even his attitude had changed, begrudging scorn had given way to abject fear, as if Tucker was his torturer and his daggers were a pair of freshly heated pliers. Yet the crowd loved it. They yelled, asking for more, demanding more. They shouted, practically screamed, the show couldn't be over yet! The man was barely brutalized! But what more could he give?

Something Tucker rarely considered was the villains. But why would he? To his little mind they were nothing more than fodder, props to make the true star shine brighter. Men woud come flowing out of the woodwork, sometimes armed, sometimes stupid enough to take the lead on empty-handed. It made no difference, they crumpled like paper dolls all the same.

So he never dared to wonder who these fleeting mercenaries were. Where they came from was irrelevant, as was why they did what they did. Loyalty? Money? It didn't matter. Nothing about them mattered. They were the bad guys, and the bad guys always lose. It was the same kind of joy from raking the leaves, knowing there'd always be a pile at the end.

As the crowd started to die down, his fingers tightened around the handles of his bright orange daggers. So badly did they long to fly into the audience, to cause a panic, to afford their owner time to escape for good. But their guns were still trained on him. Their fingers weren't even on the triggers. They didn't have to be.

From day one something about them was different. They were blue like the others, yes, but a different shade. They were lighter, more muted, almost greenish. The way they scowled and passed by the others confirmed his suspicions. Why they were here, he didn't know. They certainly didn't seem to like the show. So… why work with the Blues? Whatever the case, nobody could be that unscrupulous… right?

The part Tucker liked most was the endings. By that point there had been trials, challenges, losses that cut both body and soul down to the bitter core. But still there laid one last obstacle to test whether its taker was worthy of the reward promised to them. And when the hero emerged, bloody mouth, torn clothes, covered in wounds and bruises, it was a thing of beauty. Despite everything he was still standing, still living.

Still living.

What a joke.

There Tucker sat, back in his backroom cage with only a rag to clean off the stains of the previous event with. The only thing to separate him from the surrounding enclosures was a blue ribbon nailed lopsided to one of the cage's edges. "Arena Champ" it said, but it felt more like a marker than a reward. Four Blues came in and he watched them carry away the cell holding the axeman. The thoughts of what they might do to him were quickly interrupted by the person they brought in as a replacement

His pupils shrank. No, that couldn't be. But it had to be. Who else dressed like that? Once he was sure the Blues had left, he reached his hand through the bars and rapped his knuckles on the other cage. Even in the dark he could see two brown eyes open and light up.

"Whuh? Tucker?!" He crawled up to the edge to peer back at his friend. "You're here too?!" Tucker nodded in response and slipped his bandana off slightly.

"Yeah, it's me. But what are you doing here?" He whispered, pointing at him.

"You're not gonna believe this, they don't think I can control my powers," he said, tugging on his cape. "Well, not to their fullest anyway. I offered to punch one of them in the face to prove I can, but they just laughed and sent me here."

"You should've punched them anyway."

"Dude, I know! I so could've done it too!" The flippant attitude in his voice made Tucker scowl. Thomas backed off after that. "Well, whatever, one fight and I'm out of here."

"Then what are they gonna do with you?"

"I dunno, but it's got to be better than here. And if they try anything I don't like, well…" He raised his glowing fist, "They're gonna wish they hadn't." Tucker slumped against his cold steel bars. Poor Thomas. So naïve. "So how long have you been here anyway?"

"I don't know."

"Then how many fights have you been in?"

"Six, won all of them."

"No way, how many more until they let you leave?" As soon as he finished speaking he looked away and pawed around at the floor.

"That's the thing, I don't think they're-"

"Hold that thought, one of them left something in here like an idiot!"

"They did?" His voice rose above a hush for a second. "What is it? A key? A new weapon? A bomb?" He asked, glancing at the armed greenish gunman in the corner.

"I wish, just these." Thomas extended his arm past the bars and showed off a pack of playing cards in his hand.

"…It's better than nothing."

…

After staring at them for what had to be a good few minutes, Tucker finally put his hole cards face down on the ground and slid them forward.

"I fold."

"What?!" Thomas said in a quiet, but not whispery, voice. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

"There was no way I could've won with that hand."

"You don't know that! You could've gotten a great card in the river or you could've bluffed your way to victory."

"You haven't even seen the cards yet."

"Maybe, but at least I'm not a quitter!"

"…You had an amazing hand, didn't you?"

"No! Definitely not! What would make you think that?!" He pulled his cards close to his chest. A quick snicker was all it got out of Tucker, but before they could deal a new game a red light bathed the room and a klaxon blared over the loudspeaker. Almost immediately Tucker groaned and curled into a ball, hands on his head. Thomas raised an eyebrow, but before he could ponder further a squadron of Blues came in.

Of course four of them took Tucker's cage, but to both of their surprise, the other four lifted up Thomas's. Each group carried their cage in an opposite direction, heading to an end of the arena. The two friends watched each other disappear, the dread of what was about to happen gnawing at their stomachs.

…

Little blue lights lined the hallway, each one being slowly drowned out by the big white light they were heading towards. At the end of the hall, they set Thomas's cage down and opened the lock while he held the bars like an animal. Once the door opened, they shoved him out into the arena. The sudden light forced him to squint, but when his eyes adjusted, he saw what he knew was already there.

Turning away from him, he faced the audience. Mostly Blue with some drab blue gunmen in the front row. His brow furrowed and he closed his eyes. One fight, just one fight. Then he'd be out of there. Nope, didn't work.

"I'm not gonna do this!" He said to the drabs up front. Tucker thrusted his arms out, helpless to stop him from the other end of the coliseum. "I'm not gonna fight him, and you can't make me!" A series of gunshots rang out and Thomas jumped back, putting his arms over his face. When he peeked out from behind them he saw that only the ground by his feet was littered with bullets.

"Get in there."

Without another word, he turned to face Tucker again and walked forward. They met at the center of the arena, Thomas's look of dejected worry turning into a determined glare. Seeing this, Tucker shook his head. Too late, Thomas put his fists up and started bouncing on his feet, nodding his head as he looked into his eyes.

The fight started with two punches from Thomas. Two punches easily avoided as Tucker bobbed beneath them and returned with an elbow. A flying double kick pushed the caped man back, but he got a good body blow in when his opponent landed. So it went on, they exchanged blows, punching, kicking, grappling, each hit giving off a burst of power as they clashed.

After having his head smashed into the ground, Thomas kicked Tucker into the air and jumped up to follow him. His punch collided with Tucker's foot, but he still managed to take him down with a diving kick. It launched him to the ground so hard he bounced off, finally coming to a rest on his stomach. Thomas touched down like a cat, but froze up when he saw Tucker lying there.

"Yo, you good?" He asked. Tucker gave him a thumbs up and started getting to his feet. They kept fighting, until the ever-present crowd decided it had something to say.

"WHERE ARE THE DAGGERS?" The Blues chanted. "WHERE ARE THE DAGGERS? WE WANT THE DAGGERS!" Even over the roaring, Tucker still heard the telltale clicks behind him. When he turned to look, he raised an eyebrow when he saw them putting their barrels back up. Though the way they all started listening to one trooper with a smirk on his face quickly dashed his relief.

While he was distracted, Thomas snuck a punch in. That reignited the fight, now more intense than ever. It sure looked convincing with how hard Tucker threw his strikes. His opponent caught one of his kicks and used it to toss him up in the air, spiking him back down after meeting him with an energy-powered jump.

Both landing back at opposite ends of the battleground, they eyed each other down until a siren broke their focus. The crowd went wild as a large, thick pillar started to rise from the center, grates oozing oil from the inside. The combatants slipped and slid on the slick quickly spilling across the floor until the top of the pillar was the only dry spot left.

They exchanged glances one more time before they both raced to the center. At first they stumbled all about trying to get through the oil, but soon enough both of them started to use it to their advantage. Their feet skated across the slippery surface, speeding them toward their destination. Once close enough, Tucker leapt at it and materialized his daggers, sinking them into the curved walls as he hit. While he used them to scale the massive platform, Thomas used his momentum to run up the side himself, completing the last stretch by energy-jumping up to the top.

At first they stood there, taking in the new view. Thomas quickly noticed they were now on the same level as the Drabs and took the opportunity to flash a rude gesture at them. A clumsy swipe got the battle back in motion, but Tucker's slashes were horribly telegraphed. Dodging them was a simple task, but the crowd started to boo, so Thomas threw in a few attacks of his own.

After some wide punches, he charged up an energy ball as Tucker's daggers lit up with power. They launched their attacks at the same time, the daggers flying wildly around on their own in front of Tucker and blocking the ball. Depleted, the blades skipped across the platform and the two locked hands, each one halfheartedly pushing against the other.

"Psst, Tucker!" Thomas whispered. "This is our chance! We could both get outta here!"

"What are you, crazy?! There's thirty people here with assault rifles!"

"Hey, we've faced thirty people with shotguns and we turned out okay. What are you waiting for? We can do this!"

"Fine! You be a quitter then!" He pushed Tucker away. "Me? I'm gonna do something."

Time seemed to slow down as Thomas backed away and drew his hands toward him. He saw the energy gather in his palms for a big blast, the rifles aiming right for him, the bullets leaving the barrels as he thrust his arms forward. Something inside of him clicked, his hand darted out faster than he could recognize, grasping for his friend's arm…

RATATATATATATAT!

They hit the ground, bullets flying inches above their heads. Thomas squirmed and swore, but he was still breathing.

"What the heck, man?! I had them!" He said.

"I'm not going to let you do this-"

"And why not? Have you started to LIKE these guys or something?"

"Let me finish. I'm not going to let you do this ALONE."

"…"

"We're going to need to start hitting each other again before they get more suspicious, but when we get up, here's what I want you to do…"

The whispering ended and they started tussling on the ground, Tucker getting on top and fake-punching Thomas's lights out. The audience ate it up, cheering and hollering for more bloodshed. The crowd grew silent as Tucker picked him up by the chin, hammering him down and lifting him up again.

Then, after a long silence, they went into a frenzy again when Thomas grabbed him by the neck. An elbow to the face sent him staggering, leaving him wide open for Thomas to grab him and hurl him into the bleachers.

And that's exactly what he did.

Before he even landed, he let his daggers fly and cut up the crowd, throwing them into a panic. He landed on a Drab's skull and heard Thomas crash land beside him. Through the chaos, blades and energy blasts plowed through the guards and any fleeing audience members. Behind his bandana, Tucker let out a maniacal laugh. Finally, after so long, sweet sweet revenge! Nothing could stop them now! Not the Blues, not a crazy arena, not any man with a gun-

RATATATATATAT!

They hit the ground, blood pooling beneath their bodies. The remaining Drabs threw their weapons behind their backs and approached the wounded fighters. One cuffed them while another got medical supplies. Within a few minutes, they were patched up, restrained, and getting IV needles plugged into their arms in the infirmary.

"So what's the plan? How do we report this?" One of them asked.

"Simple, the black one definitely has control, the white one needs supervision. Just keep it professional."

"Right, but we'll need our pay to go up if we're handling superfreaks now."

"Good point. Let's bring that up."

…

Back in the cage. All alone this time, no surrounding prisoners to keep him company. Especially not Thomas, no, he had to have been gone by now. He got his one fight after all. Laying down on the freezing metal, Tucker closed his eyes and tried to lull himself into acceptance.

Then an unexpecting buzzing sound woke him up. The guards aimed their guns at a rod cutting a chunk out of the wall, but found themselves firing at nothing when the hole opened. After a few moments of silence, a swirling saber twirled through the air, slicing all four of them before returning back to a neon green hand like a boomerang.

"Come on," Ben said, "Before they figure out what's going on."

…

As they emerged from the forest, Michael clutched the imitation saber close to him, leaving it on until the faulty battery finally gave out. His other teammates, even Andrew, kept their eyes on him, but none of them could break his thousand yard stare. Finally Pedro walked up and tapped him on the shoulder, leading him to a curb to sit on while the others scouted out for a place to stay the night.

"Michael, I gotta ask, where'd you learn to use a sword like that?" He asked. "I mean- a beam sword. Or a laser blade. Or whatever it's called. The point is, how the heck did you pull that off back there?"

Michael shrunk back, looking down at the ground.

"…Practice I guess?"

The End.