Massacre at the Stadium.
‘There by the grace of some unseen diety, go I.’ you chant mentally as the remnants of the opposing team gather in front of your own. Broken. Bruised, some barely standing with blood pouring from their faces and torsos. A hard won game, brutal even. But this was the norm. Some cried as they stood, knowing what was to come, the score on the megascreen clear as night for all to see. But you had to keep a strong face as you looked on, if only for your other team mates. You couldn’t let them see how much it bothered you.
The crowd cheered as the announcers’ mic queued up, his deep, rumbling voice hyping the crowd into a chant as he introduced the executioner after repeating the score. A death sentence.
“Are you ready for a blood bath, kids? I SAID. ARE YOU READY FOR A BLOOD BATH??” The crowd is deafening. The eight or so left alive visably droop as the audience chants for their death, trash beginning to litter the arena as they throw it towards the losing team. You swallow tight. You’ve seen this a hundred times over..and if you had any sense about you, you’d see it a hundred times again. Better them than you, but the scene is still tragic all the same.
“Before we splatter the walls in Yellow, let’s introduce the troll who’ll be running this Rodeo! Give it up for our special guest executioner, Thse infamous bounty hunter; PLESMO GAIRAL!!”
If one thought the screaming was deafening before, it’s all but white noise at this point. Your sympathetic gaze laying squarely on the yellow blooded captain. You want to say something..anything. But you know the cameras are on you. You stand firm as the blueblooded celebrity guest is welcomed on stage.