The figure vanished from sight. A cold chill ran down Lucian's spine as he spun around. In an instant, it was behind him, boots crunching on the sand.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears. He gripped the dagger tighter. His palm was slick with sweat. His breath came too fast. He tried to slow it, but his chest stayed tight.
'At ease, kid,' the figure said, his voice deep and rough.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, broad shoulders under a patched vest, a faded dog tag around his neck. His face was blurry, never settling no matter how hard Lucian looked. But he knew him.
His past self.
Lucian forced his shoulders to relax but didn't lower the dagger.
'What are you doing, sulking around?' his past self asked.
"I'm tired," Lucian muttered, barely steady.
'Tired? Tired of this?' He swept his arm toward the arena.
Ahead, Mr. Stitch chased the Number One girl. She stumbled through the red sand, her dagger shaking in her hand as she tripped and screamed. Number Four crawled forward, steam rising off his skin as wounds stitched themselves shut. His bloated body twitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Yes," Lucian whispered, his voice cracking.
His past self chuckled. 'Are you stupid? This is where we belong. The screams. The blood. The chaos. We were made for it. That's why we became a soldier.'
"You're not real," Lucian said, his voice shaking. "You're just in my head."
His past self grinned, his voice echoing strangely. 'Really? Can a thought do this?'
He snapped his fingers. Then the bell on Lucian's collar chimed. Mr. Stitch stopped, its head turning toward him.
Ding.
"Shit. How?"
'Come on,' his past self said. 'You can kill that thing.'
"I'm still a kid."
The bell rang again.
Mr. Stitch lunged, twitching forward. Lucian was about to run, but his past self stepped ahead instead, passing straight through Mr. Stitch's body like smoke.
'Here!' he called, pointing at a spot.
The whip-like arm lashed toward Lucian. He jumped sideways. The strike missed, the air slicing past his cheek. He slashed across its shoulder, cutting deep, then stabbed the dagger where the figure pointed and rolled away.
'See?' his past self said. 'You can do it.'
"Shut up!" Lucian barked, grabbing Fynn's collar. His chest clenched, every breath shallow, his ears ringing.
'You're starting to feel it, aren't you?' his past self whispered, stepping closer. 'This is who you are. Always fighting to survive. Just like before.'
Lucian shook his head, hands trembling. "Stop."
His past self glared, his voice sharp and cold. 'You want a little motivation?'
"No!"
'Come on. For old time's sake.' He grinned.
"Don't," Lucian said again, already knowing what he was going to say.
His past self leaned close. 'You saw the headlights. You heard the truck. And you froze.'
Lucian's breath caught. The arena flickered. For half a second the sand was asphalt.
Ding.
'You didn't even scream. You could've warned them. You just sat there and let it happen.'
"No. I... I didn't..."
His past self didn't let him finish.
'And the city. The bombs you called in. You remember the screams under the rubble?'
The crowd's roar warped, turning into something else. Voices buried. Coughing. Crying.
Lucian flinched. "It was an order."
'Excuses.' His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, almost gentle. 'Like when you ran away. Left them behind. Your team. Bleeding in the dirt while you saved your own skin.'
Faces he hadn't seen in years bled through the sand around him. Just flashes. Then gone.
"Stop!" His voice broke. A tear slipped down his cheek. "That's not what happened!"
Ding.
Mr. Stitch lunged again, snapping forward like a spring. Lucian slid under its arm, slashed at its legs, then stumbled behind it.
His past self's voice echoed in his head, merciless. 'You are the reason. Always the reason. The only reason.'
"I... I didn't!" His voice cracked. "I tried..."
He stabbed deep into its back, jamming the dagger through the collar. The bell rang against its body. Mr. Stitch jerked and twisted violently, both battered arms clawing at its own back, trying to tear the collar free. Its long arm whipped over its shoulder, scraping at the metal, but the angle was wrong. It couldn't reach.
Ding.
The bell rang louder and faster every time Mr. Stitch moved. But Lucian's vision was getting worse, previous memories overlapping with the arena as his past self's voice echoed in his ear, drowning everything until it was all he could hear.
'Reason!'
'Lies!'
'Coward!'
Mr. Stitch flung its limbs wildly at the noise. Lucian dodged one swing and tried to run, but another wild arm caught his left arm with a crack. Pain shot through him as he hit the sand, rolling onto his back, the world spinning.
'Pathetic,' his past self muttered, his voice fading.
The dagger slipped from his trembling hand. The bell gave a faint chime as everything went black.
. . .
Rows of wooden coffins appeared, covered in pale flags. The air felt heavy and still. Quiet crying echoed in the dark. The ground shifted beneath his feet.
Cold, blood-slick hands grabbed his shoulders and one foot, dragging him downward. The world thickened, sound dulling, pressure closing in like he was being pulled underwater.
Then flames rose from burning buildings. Windows burst. The sky turned red and filled with ash. Shadows ran through the fire. Screams twisted in the smoke. Faces flashed by, wide-eyed and lost, reaching out. Sirens wailed in the distance, fading into chaos.
The world spun.
Headlights exploded out of the night, blinding and huge, rushing closer. He tried to move his hand. Something held him down, and he could not move or speak. A horn wailed. Tires screamed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Then everything was gone.
He woke up gasping, his heart pounding, cold sweat clinging to his skin. He couldn't tell if he was awake or still trapped in the nightmare.
His body ached everywhere. Above him, black clouds crawled across the sky. The crowd was still screaming, their voices mixing with echoes from the dream.
A soft voice spoke beside him. 'Do you think you can forget the past?'
He turned his head. A hazy-faced kid with black hair crouched near him, watching with pity. For a moment, the world felt stretched and unreal.
"Why are you doing this?" Lucian asked. His voice was rough.
The kid shrugged. 'I guess being a child again changes you.'
Lucian tried to lift his head, but pain shot down his neck. Blood filled his mouth. His hands scraped at the ground, searching for something solid. He glanced around the arena. The Number One girl was gone.
"It must be nice. Right?" He picked at the sand while he said it. "Forgetting about your past."
Lucian started to think of an answer, then stopped. There was no point lying to this one.
"Yeah. I tried to forget you." He swallowed. "Can you blame me? That life was horrible. Orphan before I was old enough to know it. Getting beaten just to survive. Doing what other people told me to do. What part of that was worth keeping?"
He could not see the kid's face. But something in the way the boy went still told him the answer had disappointed him.
"You really did become a child," the kid said. He was quiet for a moment. "Maybe just let go and hand it over to Him."
Lucian was still wondering whether this was all in his head when the ground shook.
Nearby, Number Four was locked in a brutal fight with Mr. Stitch.
His bloated hands slammed into Mr. Stitch's body repeatedly, each impact sending wet, heavy sounds across the arena. He roared as he fought.
Mr. Stitch slashed at him with its long arm, but Four twisted his body at the last second, the arm missing by inches. He staggered, then rushed forward screaming, wrapping his swollen arms around Mr. Stitch's torso.
With brutal force, he tore Mr. Stitch in half at the waist. Flesh ripped apart with a sickening sound. Black blood sprayed across the sand, splattering his chest and face as the two halves fell apart. For a heartbeat, it looked like he'd won.
Then Mr. Stitch's arm moved, screeching.
The severed limb lashed upward without warning, driven by pure reflex. It punched straight through Four's throat, bursting out the back of his neck in a spray of green liquid. His roar cut off into a choking gasp.
Some cheered. Others shouted and cursed, trash and scraps flying as bets were lost.
"What an unexpected turn!" the announcer shouted, waving his wand. "Number Nine is the last one!"
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Lucian's collar rang frantically. He tried to stand, but pain locked his side. Using his left arm, he crawled backward, gasping. Mr. Stitch crawled too, dragging what was left of its body, one long arm scraping across the sand.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!" the crowd roared.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Mr. Stitch's claw clamped around his leg, pulling itself closer. Lucian stopped crawling and lay flat, staring blankly at the ceiling of black clouds.
"I guess it doesn't matter. In this world we're going to die miserably too," the hazy kid said, lying beside him. "But this isn't the time. Right?"
"What?" Lucian whispered.
The kid offered his hand. "You still have a chance. I'm you. And the only way forward."
For a moment, Lucian just stared at him. His breath rattled in his chest. He thought about stopping. About letting go. About how easy it would be to do nothing.
But he slowly reached for his hand.
Ding.
Something surged inside him.
His face went blank. Mr. Stitch leaned down, jaws opening wide, so close he could smell blood and rot. He didn't move.
It screeched, a high-pitched shriek right in his face, his ears ringing instantly.
He pressed the dull blade into its neck. Slowly. Gently. The flesh parted under pressure. Blood welled up, warm and sticky, running over his fingers.
The weight of molten iron on its head dragged downward as blood sprayed. It poured across his mouth and chest, metallic and bitter, then oddly sweet as it slid down his throat. Warm, heavy liquid spread across him, each pulse making his head light.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Every eye in the pit was fixed on him. The dagger was still clenched in his hand, blood soaking through his shirt.
The silence pressed down on the arena until someone in the stands let out a wild, broken cheer.
Above, the shirtless announcer's voice cracked with excitement. "Unbelievable! Number Nine has done the impossible!"
Lucian lay there, gasping. For a moment, he wished he hadn't survived. But all he felt was numb, staring upward, unsure if he'd won anything at all.
. . .
When the crowd finally started to calm, Lucian pushed himself to his feet, gripping the dagger, staring blankly ahead. He could still taste blood in his mouth.
Strangely, it felt good.
He finally understood why the kid had looked disappointed.
He looked down at his hands. Covered in sand and blood, and steady now. Not shaking.
The iron gate creaked open. A man stepped inside, moving slowly, holding a pair of shackles.
"Raise your hands," he said.
Lucian ignored him.
"I said, raise your-"
Lucian rushed toward him and cut his throat before he could finish. Blood sprayed everywhere, hot and sticky, splattering his face.
The crowd froze, then erupted.
"Whoa, look at this one!" the shirtless announcer yelled. "Number Nine is losing it!"
"You'll regret that, freak!" one of the guards shouted.
"Don't kill him, idiot!" another man in a fancy coat barked.
"Shut up and get him already!"
Two men rushed him at once. He didn't think. He just moved.
He ducked low as the first man tried to grab him. His blade came up hard and fast, cutting across the man's throat. He made a wet, choking sound and fell before his body even understood it was dead.
The second man was already on him. Lucian stepped into him, drove the dagger straight into his chest, felt it slide between ribs. The man's eyes went wide. He staggered, tried to grab Lucian, then collapsed face first into the sand as blood spilled out beneath him.
"Fuc-"
Pain exploded through Lucian's neck. His whole body froze as the collar sent a violent jolt through him. He hit the ground, teeth clenched, gasping.
"Argh!"
The shock stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving him shaky and dizzy.
"Now! Grab him!" someone yelled.
More men came. They didn't rush at first.
They spread out, closing the circle step by step. Four of them. Then five. Lucian turned slowly, dagger held low. Every face watched his hands. Every step was measured.
Then they saw a chance.
They jumped at him all at once.
Hands slammed into his shoulders and arms. Someone grabbed his wrist. Another locked an arm around his neck from behind, crushing down. He staggered, feet sliding, the dagger jerking uselessly between bodies.
"Hold him!"
"Get the dagger!"
He thrashed, screaming. A fist smashed into his ribs. Another hit his back. Someone tried to pry the dagger from his grip.
But he drove it blindly to the side.
The blade plunged into something soft.
"My eyes!" a man screamed.
He stumbled back, clawing at his face, blood pouring between his fingers as he ran, shrieking, "Damn it! Damn it!"
The grip on Lucian tightened.
A punch slammed into his stomach, knocking the breath out of him. He gagged and bent forward. He kicked hard, his heel catching someone's face. The man went down screaming.
Arms locked around him again. Too many. They dragged him backward, trying to pin his arms, forcing his wrists down.
He twisted with everything he had.
He lunged forward and bit the man in front of him.
His teeth sank into the man's throat.
Hot blood flooded his mouth. The man screamed once, then choked. His hands loosened on Lucian's shoulders as he collapsed, twitching.
"Dem-"
He fell still.
Then another shock tore through Lucian, harder this time. His muscles spasmed. The world blurred.
The crowd went wild, screaming and hollering, everyone pushing for a better view.
"You're crazy, kid!" someone shouted.
He had no strength left.
They hauled him upright anyway. His feet dragged uselessly through the sand as the crowd's noise crashed back in around him. Shackles clamped tight.