[M] Retribution IV: Rebirth

[Proto Man]

The woman had seen the battle theaters in her home world… both in the annals of history and the ruins they’d left behind after generations of disuse.

Here, in the endless expanse of the Omniverse’s Hell, the coliseum was an attraction with very few rivals. Day after day, its sand and dirt was stained with the blood of the slain. Those who kept coming back for more claimed that there was some sort of prize at the end. Did they really believe that? Better yet… did they really expect to survive long enough to find out?

Her hair stained red with a mixture of her blood and that of a now open-chested man, Scylla stumbled toward the pit-like chambers where the contestants waited for their next challenge. In just a few short months, the woman had accrued a couple minor victories. As someone who had willingly offered their services as a gladiator, she was mostly pitted against slaves and anyone who had fallen from the graces of the rulers.

Thirty feet behind the woman, the corpse she’d left behind was that of a man who thought he could threaten some sort of local thug. Instead, he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and thrown into the coliseum for what amounted to a mercy killing at the hands of the somber woman with the ‘dead eyes.’ No one seemed thrilled when she competed, and why would they? She could mentally overwhelm all the drivel and human filth they threw at her feet. Fights weren’t entertaining when one of the contestants willing gouged out their own eyes.

People with more importance than her told Scylla she needed to fight with ‘a little more flair.’ They spoke of earning sponsors and ‘friends in high places,’ but the woman was concerned with none of that. Rumors spoke of an escape by weaseling ones way through to the ranks of the champions, but she was concerned only with growing her own strength. She would murder this place’s filth until she grew strong enough to escape of her own volition… she would not see herself subjugated or devoid of free will. The irony that she, an Archdemon, could be reduced to the role of a hapless minion was not lost on her.

With the gates creaking shut behind her, Scylla walked over to the closest empty bench and stared at the opposing wall. Once her eyes were closed, her thoughts were inward—focused on the wounds she had been unable to mend before he most recent summoning to the arena floor. The dog-man who had given her the wounds had been the closest thing to a genuine challenge for her in weeks. His claws had torn through her pale white flesh, and his mind was strong enough to resist her attempts at domination. Despite his ferocity (and oh how the crowd had loved when he tore her open), he failed to finish the job before she uprooted a piece of the arena floor and crushed him.

As her flesh shimmered with omnilium, Scylla opened her eyes and took a silent moment to glance around. Like usual on these nights, the room was filled with other individuals who had volunteered to put themselves into these gruesome public events. They knew she was there, but like always, no one spoke to her. Scylla appreciated that on many levels. She sat in silence as they exchanged their usual bits of pointless gossip.

“You see that fight earlier? They threw that crazy-eyed prisoner in with that marksman.” A lizard-faced gladiator asked to a smaller warrior with four arms.

“The guy who put an arrow through Green Steve? They must have wanted her gone.”

“You’d think, but I guess she gutted him like a fish. Shrugged off a few arrows and shanked him like a prison bitch.”

“Fuck, I don’t want to deal with legitimately psychotic prisoners… That’s bullshit. Shouldn’t they be locked safely away where they can’t hurt any innocent bystanders or something?”

“You’re just a little chicken-shit… I’d tear that broad in half like wet paper.”