Stale wine clung to the inside of Jayce's mouth. His amber eyes were dull and baggy as he rubbed the sleep from his sockets. The man ground his muscles aching as he sat up running his calluses over his face. An empty wine jug fell off his bed, rolled to the ground, and stopped. Happy progress day…but this day could mean death to the not-so-young man. Over the course of the last eight years, the former inventor and natural philosopher adapted to a life of glad fighting. Originally it was simply a last-ditch effort in order to keep his household out of poverty and to aid his sickly mother.
However, the more time passed the deeper intertwined Jayce felt in his new life—he even started earning a decent wage; even if it was crumbs compared to what he should be making due to his popularity. Nevertheless, there was always something stopping him from quitting. A new expense, a doctor's visit for his mother, all of it combined never let him leave.
Jayce was a dog, a mad dog despite his prestigious background. Chained to the life of fighting like a rabid animal–well, if he wasn't fighting ravenous lion or bear. He would be worse.
"Mr.Tails?" a servant boy called from the other side of the door. Jayce groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose; his bloodshot eyes wincing from the boy's grating voice.
"Yes?"
At this point in his life, a younger Jayce might have imagined himself to be called professor or some other pretentious or frilly title that Jayce thought himself capable of.
"Happy progress day, for the festival you have been set up for three matches throughout this evening." The boy announced fumbling with his toga as he balanced a tray of stale bread and wine in his left palm. Jayce clicked his tongue and scoffed as he seized the wine from the boy's tray.
"What better way to celebrate progress than to slaughter and main anything that breathes huh?" Jayce scoffed—a dry chuckle escaping his chapped lips as a drop of wine spilled over from his mouth to his beard. The boy said nothing to Jayce's blatant disrespect of him. The messenger boy fidgeted with his cotton beige toga.
"Umm, sir you might not want to be drinking so heavily your first match starts in less than twenty minutes."
"Goodie," Jayce sneered. "Why in Mars's name would there be the tournament in the ass crack of dawn" The gladiator yelled at the messenger. His appearance was rugged–wearing nothing but a black robe tied at his waist and his once pretty amber eyes were bloodshot and disturbed. The boy gasped in response dropping the scroll to the ground with it making a sharp clink.
Jayce's expression softened as he saw the fear in the servant's eyes. The same primal emotion he saw in the men he slaughtered. The Zaunite criminals who were sentenced to death in Jayce would be their reaper. However, Jayce knew it wasn't justice–far from that. It was the carnal pleasure of gore. Vile entertainment Jayce was complacent in. Violence he found himself being numb too, Violence a sick part of him enjoyed and that didn't scare him. And that was the most terrifying fact of all.
"I-I im sorry" The sandpaper rasp of his voice faded to something softer. A tone more reminiscent of his old self. The bright-eyed young man who wanted to be something. Who wanted to use the power of the gods to help the common people of Piltover and maybe–just maybe help Zaun heal. "I didn't mean….im sorry if i scared you" he trailed off his sharp amber eyes adverted filled with self-loathing.
For a beat, the two didn't speak.
"A letter, y-you have um a letter Mr.Tails." The boy broke the silence as he scrambled to pick the scroll off the ground.
" is it from my mother?" Jayce inquired as he stepped away from his only window to stretch.
"No-"
"Then leave it in my chambers, and tell the sender to send it via carrier pigeon next time." Jayce interrupted a dry chuckle escaping him.
~~~
Vi could feel the vibrations of the crowd's excitement. She smeared coal across her face and black ink over her eyelids. She rolled her neck and shoulders running her thick fingers through her oil-colored hair with patches of its former amaranth hue remaining. Nothing more then whispers of her old self.
It has been exactly seven years, ten months, and six days since she has been imprisoned in the cell of a gladiator coliseum. Not exactly a noble's study but she made it work. Its funny in a sense–one would not exactly guess her death sentence to be so drawn out, and neither did Vi. Every battle she was subjected to she won. Her reward? Another battle. Until she became something of a gladiator herself, she was the Zaunite thug, the villain in Piltover's twisted drama they called sport.
A loud double clank rang against the bar of her cell. Vi knew who it was before she even turned around.
"I know step–I know. But you can't expect me to be a little thrilled to maim some piltover's finest warriors on progress day!" Vi laughed as she put on her cestus and causal punched her makeshift punching bag that was not so elegantly crafted out of a potato sack and sand. Steb grunted at her mock of spillover, which Vi caught on to.
"Heh, sorry expect you, you're the least vile citizen of topside." The inmate smirked playfully. Steb simply hummed in reply, he was an odd man. Never really speaking more than two words per day. Always neutral and as still as stone. Vi kinda liked that about him. Most Piltover guards either couldn't shut up or kept trying to pick fights thinking they could win. When in reality the outcome was always the same.
Vi knew how unsettling her willingness to Steb was, actually probably to anyone in general. Her confidence and devil-may-care attitude grossly contrasted with echoing twilight sobs and prayers to Vesta to reunite her with her remaining family. Nothing that wine and a flirt with death can't fix.
"Five minutes," Steb said. Violet knew she wasn't the opening act. That was Jayce.
One would call Jayce a rival, some a friend. But he was more like a grumpy older brother who hated you unless he was knee-deep in a winery. That's when he got all buddy-buddy. Vi made a final wrap around her hands, with some light armor as well. Steb unlocked the cell, two other guards behind him. A short stocky ginger girl with bright cheeks and mischievous eyes placed the chains around her wrist while the other guard put a muzzle on her. She was still a criminal after all.
As Vi climbed the steps with her escorts she could feel the colosseum moving, shaking with excitement as if it was a living thing. The first show was a dawn, a man against beast to quench the degenerate thirst of the masses. A lion against Jayce, by itself it was no battle to turn down. And the crowd knew that too. Since there was only one name it cried.
Tails! Tails! Tails!
~~~
Jayce flexed his thick tanned fingers. A hammer weighing heavy on his mind. Beams of light kissed his face through the holes in the gates to the coliseum. Jayce looked exactly like the crazy man Piltover deemed him. A power-hungry inventor turned gladiator. Jayce bit his lip, the heavy circles under his eyes added to his unhinged persona. Jayce of house Tails the mad dog. And as the gates opened that's exactly what he would be.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The jaded gladiator stepped out of the shadows and into the baking heat of the summer dawn.
"Happy progress day." Jayce gritted softly under his lips. No longer was he overwhelmed by the crowds who screamed his name like a war cry as if he were Mars himself. At times the high of being treated like a god was almost greater than the ecstasy of discovering how to harness divine magic. Almost.
Yet the celebration was cut short by his opponent. Not a man but a beast–a male lion, it was young and healthy. Must have been recently captured, no wonder it seemed too restless. Too feral. His spirit hadn't been broken yet. Jayce's lip bled from the pressure of his teeth.
~~~
Mel Merdarda was escorted to the balcony seat. As a priestess of Venus and a council member Mel was never one for the common blood sport. Yet it was progress day–not showing would be more inappropriate. It's been years since she saw a proper battle anyway. It was progress day, after all, maybe with Elora by her side the hours could pass painlessly. Her clothing is white with a heavily embroidered gold palla. Why not look divine when waiting for the play performance?
Tails! Tails! Tails!
The counselor was pulled out of her daydream. Mel unlatched her bronze opera glasses from their leather sheath. The glasses locked in on the center of the coliseum, a broad figure visible. A man with a name so familiar but with a face so alien. The lady's suspension was soon confirmed when the gladiator glanced up at the crowd.
"It can't be, is that Jayce?" Mel thought out loud
"That's Jayce Tails, he was the inventor you helped prosecute," Elora explained. "I knew he became a gladiator but I couldn't imagine that he would gain such notoriety."
"Neither did I," Mel muttered zooming in her glasses once more. "He seemed to have grown quite handsome." She commented–her critical eyes scanning the arena with new interest. And it seemed that the lion was the first to bite. His hammer might have to take a backseat to the dagger.
~~~
The beast sunk its jaws into Jayce's forearm. He whimpered–unsheathing his shortsword and thrusting the iron into the lion's side. The lion released its grasp. Jayce's forearm reeked of copper. It felt cold–too cold for the baking summer heat as noon slowly approached.
"Fuck" Jayce gritted as he chewed on the inside of his jaw. The beast circled him like an antelope, and at this point–he might as well be prey. Well, if only he could get his hands on his hammer again that he was now separated from by a few meters.
The lion lunged again, but somehow Tails managed to pry the beast's jaws open. More red spilled from his hands as the lion's substantial paws clawed at his backside. Jayce unsheathed a dagger from his chest–the blade penetrated the thing's tongue and tried to pry at its jaw. The lion pulled back–and the crowd grew louder. However, Jyace's ears couldn't stop ringing.
He knew they were cheering for him, but at this point, it wasn't the lion he despised. It was the people above. The man wheezed as he stepped backward towards his abandoned hammer. His numb hands full of adrenaline grasped tightening on the blunt weapon. He dragged the giant thing toward the beast.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He gripped it tighter and tighter–knuckles going white as he raised it above his head.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He let his arms let go, as the hammer swung forward.
Inhale.
Thunk.
The immaculate ground became smeared with gore.
Tails! Tails! Tails!