AN: Sorry for taking this long.
Combat
There is no thought, no reflection as Angron fights. He does not need to consider how to move, where to strike; it's all pure instinct. Other things may be unclear to him (where did he come from? What is he?), but he knows he was bread and born for combat.
Despite his size, he is too fast and too agile for his opponents to hit. They, on the other hand, are never quick enough to dodge. When he fights, it's never even, never fair. It's slaughter.
The audience roars, as another gladiator falls. They crave death, but are too weak to fight. They long for blood, but are too hypocritical to spill it. And so they resort to proxies.
He lives for combat and wishes to fight forever, but not for those pathetic weaklings in stands. A choice. That is what he wants; the freedom to say "It's my fight." A worthy opponent, one that will challenge him.
He grabs the next gladiator and throws him like a ragdoll, right into the remaining two. They fall and the audience calls out.
They want more blood.
He wants to kill, but he cannot kill those he truly hates. In the end, he slays the fallen: his brothers and sisters, because he has no choice. The call of blood is too strong, the anger overpowering.
He needs to kill.
He wants a choice.
The last thing Alyn Griece sees before she dies is an angel. She knows the invaders call the armored giants angels of death, but she can tell they are not real messengers of Heaven. They are terrifying in their armor that looks like some grotesque parody of the human form. The shoulders are too broad compared to the rest of the body. Some have a hand that is far too large. They all look wrong.
She has seen some without a helmet. Their faces were all wrong too. Some may have called them handsome, but only after one got used to the shape. They are not angels.
On that day, she has been hiding in a half-collapsed building, trying to get one of the "angels" with her rifle. It was as effective as hurling peas at them. She has seen one of them take a shot to his head without the protection of a helmet. He paused momentarily, but shook his head as if it had been a mere snowball and resumed firing his loud weapon.
And then the building collapsed. By some wonder, she has not lost consciousness, but it is of little comfort to her. Her rifle is useless to her now, lying under her. She cannot feel her body down from her neck and it worries her.
It is then that she sees the angel.
He is armored, like the invaders, but instead of blood red, his armor is gold. He looks down upon her with blue eyes that remind her of freezing mountain pools. She marvels at the details she notices: there's a smudge of blood on his cheek and some of it stains his long golden hair. But even so he looks serene and distant, like a true out-worldly being.
She cannot move, but she knows that even if she could, she would not have flinched. The angel poises his spear and thrusts down. Then there is no Alyn Griece any more.