Transient Legacy

    With every passing second the dank walls seemed to close in. The dark consumed everything, limiting sight and awareness. Others resided here, their presence known only by the sound of loneliness and desperation quietly fluttering through the halls. Distant voices and indistinct sounds echoed off stone walls, suppressed by door or other machination, but every so often an exuberant, crowded cheer would drown out the sounds of trauma.
    The students trapped here had begun to ignore the occasional uproar. Some knew what it meant. Others paused to listen with intense curiosity. Communication never got far in this place. The long-term residents had no interest in learning the names of those they would later kill. They had become warped in their fight for survival, but mostly they had grown tired of answering the questions from every newcomer.
    The mantra remained, Die alone, all too easily. Humanity proved a hard thing to hold on to in times like these. But all you need is a reason. And family is a damned good one.

    Lysander rose to his feet when the familiar squeak of poorly oiled metal slid along stone. The gate to his cage opened, seemingly of its own volition, but he would not be the only one. He recognized the same sound screeching further away in the dark, indicating that others in this pit would soon be joining him. Stepping out of his cage, satisfaction and relief washed over him as a slender, familiar hand touched his chest. She reminded him of why he kept living.

    "Pyrrha," He began, his voice syrupy with reprieve; a stern nudge silenced him and he could feel her body heat pass him by. He followed easily, ultimately reluctant to greet their fate, but whatever it would be would be together.


    As the crease of light showed itself, doors opening wide for them, Lysander covered his eyes to shield from the familiar blindness. Absolute darkness into shadowless light, the change from prison to arena held more than just one contrast. Lysander looked to his sister with worry. Every time they entered the arena together, he had noticed her worsen.
    Eyes had faded with disinterest and loss, hope abandoned. Her skin had paled and her flesh thinned; her lips cracked dry, mouth stained with blood. Pyrrha's once straight, lively auburn hair now looked wild and unkept. Scorched by fire, ripped by force, tangled with sawdust, and dry without care, the girl looked to be living in a pig sty.
    He could only imagine how he appeared.


    With a quick glance behind them, Lysander acknowledged three other contestants that had found their way into the arena. This would be a team fight. Against who? He wondered, A super or a team? The three behind him were each males, lost, confused, gazing up at the audience in terrified wonder. Soon they would realize the blood stains on the floor and their meaning. Soon, more blood would be shed. He turned his attention forward, attempting to decide on the count of their opponents. Five versus one, or five versus five?

    "Whoa, she looks like shit," One of the boys voiced, neither him or his companions yet recognizing that such would be their fate. If they survived that long. Lysander sighed, Four versus five, he decided.

    Pyrrha's spirit riled, turning with fury to seek the culprit. Eyes surfaced from a hollow daze, burning an intense cognac when she found her target. Her dried, pale, and tired features were overcome with dark malice, a wrath seeking bloodshed.

    She had lost so much of herself.

    Lysander proved quick to intervene, gripping her shoulder to pull her off target. Her hand, dripping with a ghastly dark energy, plunged for his heart, but he caught it expectantly. "They're cannon fodder, sis." He spoke softly, fingers entwining with hers. A mutual gaze held until recognition and familiarity returned to her senses. She relaxed, the dark energy disapparating harmlessly.

    "I'm sorry, Ander..." She began, but was quickly silenced when the doors on the far end of the arena opened.

    "Survive, Pyrrha. Survive."

    Fresh blood stained sawdust and sand, soaking into the coarse grain beneath corpses and discarded weapons. Cheers and jeers roared from the crowd at the result of the match, which had been stopped short by a timer. Renata sat high, in her position of ultimate power, with those she had twisted to her will by her side. The only ones with no expression of joy, regret, or fear. They were simply dolls now.

    The arena had seen quite the display. Sand and bodies had turned black from char, limbs were severed entirely from bodies, and blood painted the walls in splats. Ten had entered, and each, one by one, had incurred injury.
    Three remained standing.

    Lysander rubbed a wound along his arm, more out of irritation than concern, taking the time to observe the crowd and its leader. The three boys at his back had died, not by Pyrrha's hand, without providing any useful assistance at all. They had been new; their opponents experienced.
    The fight had been a long, flashy one, but it became clear to all in the stands that Pyrrha had been the most capable. She took survival to a different level. Turned it into slaughter. Lysander would blame her power. Even now, she harvested the dead; black, sickly energy poured into corpses and extracted the very soul of her victims for her consumption.
    He could feel it, by a shared link: the sensation of life returning to him. The enhancement of his abilities. She had fallen into their use much more rapidly than he, exhausted their joined souls to keep flesh alive, and now fed on the dead to restore their loss.
    No wonder she lost herself so easily.

    The third, an opponent halted by Renata's rule, simply observed the necromatic display; contrite with his own failures. To end such a dangerous beast's life would have been mercy.

    Quickly, without time to tend to each other, they were ushered out of the arena, into the consuming black and confines of their cages. The grind of metal and stone signaled absolute silence, none in the prisons dared speak a word, lest they be selected. Soon, another fight would commence, but Lysander had earned a break.


    "The Fury. We should kill her." The voice crept in the shadows, clear and distinct, yet quiet and directed. It felt as though every ear in the prison listened intently.

    "She is my sister," Lysander replied, his voice open and careless. His back settled against the metal bars of his cage where he had finally decided to sit. The soft glow of an ethereal light remained hidden under his palm as he fashioned it, directing the energy to feed his wounds. Muscle, ligament, and flesh stitched together, leaving no scar.

    "Then, I will do it." The reply felt succinct. Unintimidated. Driven.

    "No. You won't."

    The arena smelled of death and fresh blood, stagnant with decay and repulsive with defecation. The brief rush of warm air had never been eagerly accepted, even with the only alternative being cold, wet filth. The stage had not even been cleaned since the last display, and bodies remained littered everywhere. Something big would come this time.

    The trio stepped into blinding light, unstable in their footing as they were greeted by a noisy crowd. Following, two new faces wandered, slow and bewildered, into the arena. Lysander's first instinct had been to check on Pyrrha, but the voice from the dark clung to his mind. He half turned, giving their opponent-turned-ally a warning look.
    This was not an expression that said, 'I'll kill you if you try,' but rather seemed to hint at a more reasonable approach. 'You'll survive longer with us.'

    The third understood the stakes. He flexed his fingers and toes with impatience; the point need not have been made. The enemy had not yet shown themselves, but he knew the best chance at survival would be at this pair's side. Not against them. His shoulders slacked before he loosened them in resignation, signaling an unspoken agreement.
    He turned to account for the two newcomers, observing them briefly. Youthful, soft faced and inexperienced. Dead in three.


    Pyrrha was off, propelled through the air for the far door. It had barely even begun to open. Black swirls of energy trailed behind her. Forged along her arms. Extended past her knuckles.
    Sickles curved downward. Her arms spread.
    Die! Die! D-?
    Eyes went wide.
    Too late.
    The black, ghastly blades sunk into children's flesh. The sickening crunch of bone echoed loud. The crowd went silent. Horror gripped her.

    Oh, God. No! What have I done?

    Sand impacted her chest like an explosion, sending Pyrrha flying back the way she had come. The puzzled opponents had been spurred with rage at the display. The attacker still flailed with madness, letting out an anguished cry.
    This was not a five versus one. Not even a five versus five. A dozen enemies rushed from that gate, charging like wild beasts. Lysander had eyes only for Pyrrha.

    "Shit," The Third added, sprinting ahead of the group to face the onslaught alone. He had to buy them time.


    Just kids... just kids...

    A warm embrace met her in the air, her mind a fog to the gentle spin. Momentum slowed and the world drifted. It felt like falling.
    Lysander's feet touched ground, laying Pyrrha down in one smooth motion. He leaned over her, ignorant of the sounds of chaos and powers and bloodshed.

    "Just k-kids, Ander," She shook, eyes wide and wet.
    "Sh, I know. I know," He cooed, offering hollow comfort.
    "I c-can't. I can't," She cried, brought her knees to her chest and rolled to her side, "I won't. Won't... won't."
    "Stay, little sister. Brother will."

    Evil.
    It was all evil.
    The crowd manifested it. Swam in it. Waves of undeniable bloodlust overflowed from the stands, cascaded into the arena and twisted the fighters in the pit. Above it all, exuding her dark presence, Renata reigned supreme. Her desires twisted the audience. Urged them to seek vicarious glory. Only those at her side remained unaffected. Clean.
    Except for the dozen prisoners now released into the arena.
    The bloodthirst had been like a haze over the entire arena, influencing the contestants in every match. Pyrrha could recall how easily it permeated the fighters; how easily it had prompted her to kill. But in that final moment of her last charge, the air had cleared. As if a new light had shone, the evil essence had parted away from that door. And Pyrrha had annihilated the cause.
    The two children, untainted by the darkness of the arena, lay lifeless where she had struck them down. No hate or fear had plagued them or the dozen new arrivals. They had been, prior to Pyrrha’s introduction, pure and lost like sheep.
    And we are the wolves.

    Now, though, they had been spurred out of their clueless daze into a maddened frenzy. Vengeance burned as they raged against the Third and her brother, Lysander, yet no evil grew on them. This was a fight for survival. As it had begun with each of them.


    Cheers roared, deafening the contestants. Feet stampeded, drawing their attention. Half a dozen enemies rushed for the lone Third; the rest staggered out along the walls. Some delivered ranged blows. Others sought to tear him apart with claws or blades or poles.
    “Ready?” Rylan, the Third, asked quietly. The words were for himself. The prompt in hope of confirmation. Could he possibly face down a dozen enemies at once? Why not?
    A quick step and he lunged forward, bringing fist to bear on a Cambia’s forehead. The beast’s claws fell short of a lethal swipe, stunned and dropped to the ground by the hurt. He would not be out of the fight, but the two flanking him were too quick for Rylan to pursue or evade. A glimmer flanked Rylan as Huye and Rompe attacked, aiming to crush him between speed and power. The sound of cracking bone echoed throughout the arena; Huye’s wrist had snapped. Knuckles bloodied. Voice in agony. Rompe showed progress. The rushed barrier cracked under force, so Rompe struck again. Rylan seemed suspended in motion until the barrier shattered, which allowed him to suddenly dodge free of Rompe’s third strike.
    Fire incoming.
The barrier glimmered into place again. Caught the conflagration. Quema did not hesitate for a second strike. Rylan stared forward, his feet moved dumbly backwards as fire spread out around him. Licks of flame reached for him, but always fell short, repelled by the barrier. Before the red flames had even cleared, Rompe’s fist broke through, bearing down on Rylan with fierce speed, but the swing was high, and Rylan tripped backwards beneath it.
    Successive assaults…
    Nearly too late, he noticed a third assailant rushing in overhead. His barrier deployed against a burst of yellowish energy. The shockwave sent sand and debris flying in all directions. Rompe had been tossed aside. Now, in his place, stood the Fourth.
    “Can you guard me?” Visible energy drew together in swirls, contained and harnessed into a near sphere in the boy’s hand. Short, boyish, and soft-faced. Had it been three minutes, yet?
    “Do it.” Rylan found his feet, positioned at Kaz’s back, so that the two rushed forward together. Huye was quick, but the barrier held him off easily. Rompe was powerful, but still subdued by the explosion. The Cambia was ferocious, but the barrier tamed him. It first became a shield, then inverted into a bubble. A prison. Rylan caught his prey, but left an opening. Kaz took note and shoved his chaotic sphere of energy into the trap. The burst of blood and guts made both boys recoil in frightened disgust. The barrier had dampened the explosive force, but could not contain it all. Blood and bloodied mass splattered outward in all directions, making the pair stumble. The Cambia was no more.
    One down, two neutered.
    But the count had been too soon.
    Quema struck again, the fire easy to see and predictable. The barrier guarded instinctively.
    Sofoca engaged, the wind nearly undetectable and chaotic. It ripped Kaz and Rylan apart from each other violently.
    Huye returned in a flash, caught Rylan and held him. Before he could even see what had happened, or think of a way to fight Huye’s grip, Rompe’s fist drove into Rylan’s gut, breaking ribs and composure.


    The remainder had become distinctly aware. Huye and Rompe held Rylan, while another Cambia, Entierra, and Ahoga chased Kaz. The rest blitzed for the other three contestants. Those at range cared not where their attacks went, pelting their own with fire and wind. Friendly fire was not a concern in this arena. Not to the drugged and induced.
    Lysander held Pyrrha, distracted from the fight and tending to one another. Damian remained, stunned by the display. The entire place had plunged into chaos before he had managed to get his bearings. Even worse, Kaz had been far quicker to react than himself. But the reality was settling on him quickly.
    Okay, what now? He glanced around before realizing the very ground beneath his feet would be his solution. The arena seemed strangely perfect for this. Instantly he sat down, folding his legs under himself as he began to pull sand and sawdust into a pile.
    Let’s see… Can I even make it that big…?

    A white flash of energy shot across the sand, a blinding wake plowing through sand and opponent. Rylan first. The impact snapped Rompe’s arm, sent the pair tumbling over each other. Lysander rolled away for range, finding advantage. White ethereal ribbons trailed from his palms as he rose and rushed, a single step forward for momentum, at Rompe. The ribbons swung wide at first, but with a flick and a stop on his heel, their aim sharpened on target. Real, worked leather snapped Rompe, issuing a cry of agony and surprise. Whip coiled around throat, strangling and pulling the brute off balance.
    Lysander approached, twisting leather around his hand to fight strength with leverage. His free hand, dripping with an ethereal white energy, plunged for Rompe’s heart. Pain and fury exchanged for confusion and fright. Wisps of Rompe’s soul tried desperately to reclaim its rightful body, but Lysander denied it by tossing the shell aside. If Rompe could be said to have been without consciousness or rationale prior, the fool no longer held self or identity now. A vague emptiness settled on Rompe, who remained motionless and vacant. Lysander's attention shifted to Rylan, spare soul gleaming in hand.

    "The things I do for friends."