A futuristic gladiator arena and a cold dark corner cell. The very last place anyone wants to end up.
Particularly when your cellmate is something from beyond your worst nightmare.
The guard dragged me along the metal-lined corridors under the Arena. In the endless turning and twisting of the passages I soon lost all sense of direction, the cold hard metal of the walls sending my heart plummeting into the bottom of my chest, thumping on despairingly in time to the steady thud, thud, thud of the guard's steel-toed boots. I'd thought about trying to escape a few times; overpower the guard, grab his keys and make a dash for freedom, but now I'd simply given up.
What was the point in trying to escape? It wasn’t as if I had anything left to fight for. I had lost everything; my home, my money, my family, my friends, my life, what more could happen to me? I had done terrible things, treacherous, heartless things, and now I was getting my come-uppance. They could have hung me, finished me off swiftly, or even beheaded me for the traitor I was.
They had to condemn me to a fate worse than death. Sent to the Arena to be a fighter to entertain the crowds of Alarbor. I’d either die, or spend the rest of my life fighting for survival.
My life was as good as over.