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The Military

Journal FictionalAccount's Journal: Bad Day In The Arena


VistaRunsSlow knelt and sifted the sand of the arena through his fingers. The sand mixed with the blood on his hands forming a dull red paste. He knew he probably wouldn't live to see the day's end.

Throughout the day the battle in the SlashArena had been fierce - many had fallen before him, including some of his beloved brothers in arms: Cluster Beowulf, the great Russian InSoviet, 123Profit!, and yes, even his beloved brother CrysisRunSlow. One by one he had seen them beaten to death for the mere amusement of the crowd. It didn't even seem like they enjoyed the spectacle, but were duly observing the match like some kind of gruesome ritual. There was no honor here! Only death, and pain. Is this what they wanted to see? Did this actually amuse them? VistaRunsSlow could not see how. Already today he had fought 385 battles, and not one ModTrophy to call his own. It was like he didn't exist - his life had little purpose than to fill the arena with mindless content.

No matter - the time was before him. He slowly rose to his feet, to the quiet murmor of the crowd. PhasmatisApparatus approached him, shield in hand, grinning from ear to ear. There was no hint of subtleness in his eyes, no mirth, no telling glance that someone of nobleness approached him. VistaRunsSlow could only pray for an end to the merciless beating - a quick death, that was the best this day could afford him. Yet still, if he could, he would fight on. This day he would live proud - this day a joke would not die in vain!
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Bad Day In The Arena

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"my terminal is a lethal teaspoon." -- Patricia O Tuama