The early morning stench wafted through the arena, shaking Si, making his stomach feel weak and his breakfast rise slowly to his throat, where he had to swallow it down again.
Port stood in the spectator's box, almost alone, save for the fans who had likely been up all night and wanted to catch an early morning match and the guaranteed death of a newcomer.
The mirrors were cleaned overnight, and now ready to be christened with the blood of either Si or his opponent, whom Port had not bothered to look into the history of.
Zelos himself was not present, but had sent Port as more of a representative in order to ensure that Si fought properly, and that the money was placed on his winning. A fifty fifty chance didn't matter to Zelos. As Port had frequently mentioned, it was the principle. The money was back in an instant, but the point is you don't steal from Zelos. He was powerful, and known by everybody to be merciless and cruel. A dangerous opponent, whether as a mob-boss or...
Port was shocked out of his daydream by a flash and bang. Somebody had fired. Strictly for Si's benefit, Port hoped that either the bullet had come from Si's gun and been an accurate shot, or that his opponent had been a little too trigger-happy or nervous and missed. Turning three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, Port looked for blood, and his efforts were rewarded with a large splat of ruby red and very viscous fluid dripping down a patch of glass. The head was missing from this player. Either Si was a pretty good shot, or his opponent was. Scanning up and down the corridor, Port saw Si, hunched in a corner, holding his knees, obviously shaken by what he had done.
A siren sounded, indicating the end of the match. Si had won, and with his victory came Zelos' money reimbursed, and the fate of Si's family secured.
It could just have easily been the other way around, and Si was obviously feeling that. Port applauded slowly. He was almost happy for him.