The Biomass Revolution

Chapter 11: Modern Gladiators

It was no secret that violence from the Biomass Wars spilled over into everyday life. Those who survived the radioactive holocaust became accustomed to it. In fact, many of them yearned for it. State workers flocked to the arena every week to watch the Royal Knights fight refugees and criminals trying to win their freedom.

Tonight was no different. The Golden Dome was packed full of State workers waiting to watch blood spill. Even the workers who normally skipped the gladiator fights came from all areas of Tisaia to watch Royal Knight Tinus fight his final match.

Alexria and her husband Roni were two newcomers. They had heard word of an immigrant known as the Samoan, who was one fight from winning his freedom—a freedom no other refugee had been able to win. The couple was curious. Did he actually have a shot at winning his? After the fall of the TDU headquarters, many sympathizers believed he was the revolution’s last hope.

And they weren’t the only ones. The crowd was packed with immigrant supporters and TDU sympathizers. Many of them believed immigrants deserved the same rights as any other Tisaian citizen.

They settled into their uncomfortable stadium seats, shuffling to get a better view of the ring below. The crowd grew excited, eager for blood, but Roni and Alexria remained silent. They watched nervously, hand in hand, as the monstrous clock struck nine.

At the bottom of the arena a man dressed in a black suit slowly made his way across the concrete floor of the arena towards the hexagon cage. Everyone around them stood and clapped until the man stopped at the edge of the arena and held up his hand.

The crowd grew silent and, one by one, the large orb-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling clicked off, and the stadium became consumed by darkness. Silence swept across the full arena. Not even a muffled cough could be heard.

A brilliant spot light tore through the arena and illuminated the hexagon cage where the announcer erupted into speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Tisaia! Men and women of the last great city in the world! Tonight we have a delightful show planned for you all. Tonight you shall witness the best the State has to offer and the worst the outside world has to offer! For tonight, Royal Knight Tinus will fight the refugee you have come to know as the Samoan. Tonight they fight to the death.” The crowd erupted with excitement and the announcer paused, once again holding up his hand to silence them.

“Honor versus dishonor. Strength versus frailty. Loyalty versus non-allegiance. Royal Knight Tinus will strike down that which seeks to challenge the Tisaian creed of Honor, Strength and Loyalty.”

The crowd erupted into screams and applause again, prompting the couple to shift nervously in their seats. Alexria shot Roni a frightened glance who watched the crowd in silence.

The thirst for blood was ripe in the air. The arena was alive with it, but mixed in was also the taste of fear. They both felt it within their bones. It was something indescribable, a product of war and destruction—something they had lived with most of their lives. They also knew that along with blood came the loss of life, and even in the violence- plagued society of Tisaia death was still death. It was unnatural to most and easy for others.

The announcer raised his arms towards the ceiling, fueling the crowd’s blood lust. Alexria fidgeted nervously in her chair, grabbing her husband’s hand again.

Overhead another spotlight clicked on, illuminating the gate at the south side of the arena. Slowly it creaked open and the crowd grew silent.

Alexria took a deep breath, the anticipation of the fight growing inside her. It wasn’t excitement, or fear; but a combination of both, a sentiment she wasn’t accustomed to feeling. She gripped Roni’s hand tighter, biting her bottom lip.

For several minutes the crowd stood waiting. Their anticipation quickly turned into impatience, several members of the crowd breaking the quiet with drunken screams.

Finally, the smiling announcer held up his hands, yelling, “State workers, let’s give a round of applause to Royal Knight Tinus!”

The crowd immediately erupted in screams and chants as Royal Knight Tinus came riding out on a black stallion. The spotlight revealed perfection: polished armor from head to toe, a helmet bearing the feathers of the hawk, a chest plate draped with medals, and a sword attached to his side that had struck down countless enemies.

Alexria took another deep breath. She didn’t know what to think. On the one hand he was a hero, having protected the Tisaian walls from raiders and scavengers. On the other he was the symbol of the State; a living, breathing symbol of oppression and death.

She watched him circle the arena. With every pass he raised his sword into the air and screamed before finally stopping at the center of the arena and dismounting his horse.

Two immigrant slaves waited for him at the cage door. He nodded and they opened the metal gate, closing it behind him and locking him in. This was done more as a formality, but there were cases in past games where the Knights’ opponents tried to climb the metal fence and escape the cage.

The crowd began to settle down while they anxiously awaited the Samoan’s return to the arena. The announcer’s aim was always to keep the crowd on its toes, to drag the show on. Traditionally, Knights’ opponents had little chance of surviving for more than a few minutes.

The metallic click of another spotlight turned the crowd’s attention to the gate on the north side of the arena. This time there was no waiting, just the Samoan running out of the rising gate.

He was quite a sight with axe in hand, screaming, barefoot and naked except for a small tan cloth covering his genitals. His naturally tan body was peppered with tribal tattoos that snaked up his legs to his neck. The man was built like a wild animal, his chest muscles bulging and his biceps balls of strength. Even his short legs were swelling with muscle. He knew what was at stake. If he beat Royal Knight Tinus, he would be a free man and would be the first to have ever done so.

The crowd knew the stakes as well, and while many stood and cheered for the Samoan, most of them sat and watched in disgust.

Alexria and Roni sat quietly, watching the games unfold. They had come out of curiosity and were smart enough to not show any biased support for the Samoan, even though deep down they both secretly hoped he would win the battle. The couple watched the two arena slaves open the opposite gate, allowing the Samoan to enter.

The announcer stepped in between the two warriors to explain the rules, raising the microphone to his mouth. “Royal Knight Tinus and…” he paused to look over at the Samoan but purposely refused to acknowledge him with anything but a quick glance.

“I’m now to instruct you on any rules you must abide by during this historic battle. And, I’m happy to say, there are no rules!” he said, flailing his arms in the air with a laugh. Once again the crowd roared with excitement, their blood lust quickly growing.

“Once I leave the arena the battle will begin. Until then go to your corners,” he commanded.

Slowly the Samoan made his way to the middle of the hexagon with his axe raised in both hands. Tinus carefully maneuvered himself to the outside of the hexagon, creeping along the metal fence and drawing his sword from its sheath. He appeared calm, almost stoic, staring through his metal visor at the Samoan. The warrior stared back, his face bright read, his chest heaving in and out.

The crowd watched in silence as the two men carefully navigated their way through the hexagon, trying to find the proper footing for their first strike. Tinus had always waited for his opponent to make the first move. Patience was his game, and it appeared he was going to follow this strategy. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the anger building inside of the Samoan to overtake him. For what seemed like hours the warriors stared at each other, the crowd waiting for the first strike.

Before the crowd could react, the Samoan screamed with rage and raced toward Tinus with his axe. He swung, but missed. Tinus skipped to the side and lashed out with his sword. He narrowly missed the Samoan’s head; the warrior moved with surprising speed, ducking and going down on one knee. He rose, recovering rapidly and swinging his axe at Tinus’ armored feet. The blade connected, knocking the armored Knight to the ground.

The crowd erupted into pandemonium. In a blur the Samoan rushed the disabled Knight and brought his axe down swiftly. The blade grazed the side of Tinus’ helmet, sending sparks exploding in all directions. The sharp edge of the axe peeled back the metal skin of the helmet, temporarily blinding the Knight.

Tinus screamed and kicked the Samoan in the chest, his feet planting firmly into the immigrant’s rib cage and sending him flying back into the cage.

The Knight jumped to his feet without hesitation, grabbing his sword and discarding his now useless helmet. He threw it with his free hand at the recovering Samoan and struck him in the face with the rough edge of the sharp helmet. The crowd erupted again, roaring with satisfaction.

“Should I kill him now? Or make him suffer?” Tinus yelled, turning to face the crowd.

“Make him suffer, make him suffer, make him suffer!” the crowd chanted.

Tinus peeled off his chest armor and dropped it to the floor, revealing his own bulging muscles and a scar that ran down the length of his back.

Behind him the dazed Samoan rose to his feet. He raised a hand to the gash on his face and spat out a broken tooth. The gaping wound dripped, adding to the puddle of red on the floor, and his vision swam. It was the first major injury he had sustained in the ring, and it shocked him into motion. He yelled something in a foreign tongue and rushed forward, his face streaked with blood like war paint on his skin.

The immigrant was dangerously skilled with the axe, and although he appeared careless, the power behind his strike was what his opponents feared the most. He had decapitated several of his victims with one swift swing in countless previous matches. But his next swing went wide, allowing Tinus to swing with his own blade. The sword clipped the Samoan’s back and sent blood spraying into the air. He grunted in pain but recovered quickly, turning and swinging his axe with all of his strength.

Tinus moved hastily and much faster now without his armor. He spun around in time to meet his opponent’s axe with his own blade. The metal connected perfectly, sending sparks into the air. For a split second the two warriors stood, their legs firmly planted on the ground, neither yielding ground to the other. Their eyes locked, revealing a combination of pain, fear and anger.

It was at that moment both men knew neither of them was immune to fear. They both felt it. And they both knew the obvious. The fight would be to the death. Both had killed many men, but this battle was different. This battle was to determine whether the Council of Royal Knights would remain undefeated in the arena against the best the immigrants had to offer. Tinus was a man of honor, a man who had spent his entire life defending his country. His scars, his medals, they were parts of him now, telling the story of his career as a Knight.

Tinus, trusting his instincts, pulled his blade out of the stalemate and slid back to the chain fence to regain his footing. He planted his right foot back into the floor and gripped his sword with his left hand.

The Samoan remained in the middle of the arena, snorting and beating his chest with his free hand to tempt the Knight back into the battle. But Tinus was too smart to fall for his mind games. He was used to being taunted, and each time he waited patiently for his opponent to lash out with a careless blow.

The Samoan grew angry and taunted Tinus more, waving at the Knight and motioning him back into the middle of the arena. “What? What waiting for?” he yelled.

Tinus stood, his stance unchanged, gripping his sword with both hands now. He expected that it would be only seconds before the refugee charged him, but both warriors stood their ground. The crowd began to grow impatient. They had come to watch a battle that had been advertised for months as the, “The Fight of the Century.”

There wasn’t supposed to be a stalemate. There would be no truce. The crowd wanted blood. And they didn’t care from whom, as long as it was plentiful.

The crowd’s boos aggravated the Samoan. He wiped the blood off his chin and switched hands with his axe. Seconds turned into minutes, and the Samoan’s patience began to lapse sending him into a fit of rage. He rushed Tinus once again, swinging his axe horizontally, aiming for the Knight’s torso. Tinus simply took a step back, narrowly avoiding the axe. He took in a short breath and struck his sword at the Samoan, slicing a big chunk of flesh out of his leathery back.

The Samoan screamed in pain, sprinting back to his corner, holding his fresh wound with one hand and gripping his axe in the other. The weapon was heavier now, his muscles weaker, his breathing deeper. He was in trouble and he knew it, but it wasn’t his first brush with death, and victory was still in sight. His freedom could still be turned into a reality.

He regained his composure and rushed Tinus again, swinging his axe with a speed that no ordinary man would have been able to match. Once again the Knight danced around the blade and swiftly stabbed the Samoan in his back, opening another deep wound.

Rage. It was painted on the Samoan’s face. The crowd grew silent, watching Tinus cut the man over and over. Blood flowed from the Samoan’s open wounds, staining the floor a bright red. The weaker spectators turned away.

Alexria sat gripping Roni’s hand tightly, but she did not turn away. “How much longer can this go on?” she whispered.

“I’m afraid not much longer; he will bleed out if his wounds aren’t dressed,” Roni replied, his eyes fixed on the warriors below.

What had been promised to be the fight of the century was turning out to be one of the worst slaughters in the history of the arena.

On his fifth attempt the Samoan fell to the ground, his wounds too severe to go on. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, looking up at the great round lights of the arena, watching his chance at freedom slip away.

Tinus approached the fallen warrior, his sword gripped tightly in both hands. The Knight would not be taken off guard. He approached with caution, knowing the savage was like a wounded dog and could still have bite left in him.

“This is it,” Roni whispered to his wife, squeezing her hand tighter.

The Knight stood over the Samoan, raising his sword to finish the man. His hands raised the sword directly above the Samoan’s neck. The crowd was completely silent. No screams of bloodlust, no requests to punish the warrior any more. And as the Samoan looked up into the eyes of Tinus, something unexpected happened, something never done in the history of the arena.

Alexria stood up, dropping her husband’s hand. She cupped her hands and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Mercy! Show him mercy, Royal Knight Tinus!” The words traveled through the packed arena rapidly. State employees stirred, many trying to see the woman who made such an odd request. Even Tinus, who usually remained completely focused on the fight, looked into the dark crowd for a few seconds before peering back down at the savage, who was slipping in and out of consciousness. His hands did not tremble, and he prepared to strike the final blow with his sword.

“Mercy!” Alexria yelled again. This time, Roni grabbed at her hand and hushed her, “What are you doing? Sit back down!” he pleaded.

But Alexria would not be deterred. She repeated her request. “Mercy, Royal Knight Tinus, show him mercy,” she yelled. And then another State employee, a man who Roni and Alexria did not recognize, stood up and yelled the same request. One after another, the crowd began to stand, pleading for the Samoan’s life. They had watched the Samoan fight bravely for his freedom, and many of them had watched him fight many times before. He deserved his freedom, and they would not stand to watch him be executed. Not like this.

As the crowd began to protest, louder and louder, Tinus stood back, his sword dropping to his side. His chest heaved up and down, baring the scars he had suffered in so many fights before. He looked down at the savage, who had slipped into unconsciousness. He had no idea why the crowd was trying to save him. What a pity, Tinus thought, waiting for the announcer to calm the crowd.

Within seconds, a dozen Knights came rushing into the arena. They were dressed in full regalia, their armor shining brightly under the intense spotlights.

“Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!” the crowd chanted. Some began to throw items at the cage as they grew more enthralled with saving the Samoan’s life.

The announcer, who hadn’t appeared since the beginning of the fight, stepped back onto his platform outside the hexagon cage. He raised the microphone to his mouth. “Citizens! Calm yourselves. There is no mercy in the arena. You do not come here to see mercy. You come here to see blood. And now it’s time for Royal Knight Tinus to finish the savage. Kill him, Tinus!” the announcer yelled.

The crowd erupted into pandemonium and began to throw whatever items they could find at the announcer. They grew louder as they ran the man off the stage, prompting more Knights to rush into the arena, assault rifles drawn.

The crowd finally quieted, watching cautiously from their seats. They knew the Council of Royal Knights would not hesitate to kill civilians, even State employees. They should have known mercy was not an option. With the crowd nearly silent, Tinus raised his sword again.

“There is honor in this death,” he muttered under his breath, bringing the sword down on the Samoan. The last hope for the immigrant cause ended with the blade parting the warriors head from his body, sending a fresh red splatter onto the ground. A tear crawled down Alexria’s cheek, but she did not turn away. She watched, her heart throbbing with anger as Tinus dropped his sword and shook his head at the crowd.

It was over. The TDU was finished, and so was the Samoan. The State had further secured its iron grip. She knew no immigrant would ever gain their freedom as long as the Knights remained the gatekeepers.