12-18-2015, 05:51 PM
The stillness of the arena was almost unnerving as the woman stared down the long, dark chute that led to the killing field. The crowd’s anticipation was strung tight, like the strings of a guitar waiting to be played. She took a long breath and forced the butterflies that fluttered in her chest back down, slapping her face back and forth between her hands.
“Alright,” she said solemnly, “let’s do this shit.” She looked to the nervous looking guardsman that had been her escort to the gates and nodded. “Hit it.”
The young man, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, shook his head. “I dunnae know if this be a ghood idea, m’laidy!” he stammered in a thick Scottish accent. “I think tha’ o’r lord will take such jest poorly!”
Scowling, she took the man by the front of his breastplate and jerked him in, staring him down past her fresh corpse-paint. The boy swallowed hard when he smelled her liquor-tainted breath, and flinched when she growled, “I ain’t in ‘jest.’ It took me over an hour to set all this shit up.” She narrowed her eyes and shoved him away, his body slamming into the wall with a clatter of his armor. “I said hit it.”
The young guard nodded and quietly stammered back, “As ye wish it, m’lady.”
The hush of the Black Gate was suddenly broken when a female voice seemed to echo from nowhere. The audience collectively gasped when they realized what it was saying.
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK, NOT A SINGLE FUCK,
NOT A SINGLE SOLITARY FUCK
COZ I DON’T GIVE A FUCK, MOTHER FUCKER!”
The enthusiastic anthem blared, and the bandit stepped into the light.
A pair of canisters erupted into a shower of crackling pyrotechnics, heralding the woman’s entrance with a display of over the-top -dramatics. Draped in a bright-red boxer’s robe emblazoned with a large, white skull that was framed by a hot-rod fire decal, she trotted to the rhythm of the song’s angry drumbeat, tossing a few light jabs into the air.
About halfway to the altar, she pushed the hood off of her head and looked up, taking in the cheers and jeers of the adequately riled-up onlookers. The sound of the people was near-deafening, and the lyrics of her walk-out song were almost drowned out. She reveled in the moment, appreciating the fact that thousands of eyes looked upon her now, expecting of her, no, demanding of her, a gloriously entertaining battle. She thrust both fists up in the air and the cacophony of their roar was lifted with them.
She tossed the robe to the side and jogged up to the stairwell, quickly sprinting up the steps until she reached its peak. Stepping onto the flat platform, she bounced back and forth, getting a feeling for the final place of battle. Looking back down to the pit she has ascended from, she nodded to the guard, and the music slowly faded away.
The crowd slowly quieted itself, and once again waited in hushed anticipation for her opponent to enter the ring. It was then that the sky went black.
Darkness consumed the arena and screams began to echo from the seats all around them. A single light suddenly gleamed, drawing the attention of every man, woman and child to the chute opposite the one the bandit had come from.
A gong sounded, and a distant announcer yelled,
“TEST YOUR MIGHT!”
To the excited beat of steel drums, Shang Tsung entered the Colosseum.
The ancient warlock strode in to the sight of flaming skulls erupting from the ground, casting eerie green lights over his grinning countenance. He wore nothing out of the ordinary but his posture: arms politely folded behind his back, back straight, and chin raised high, informing every one of his fans that he was prepared to do battle.
He calmly ascended the stairwell, his gaze never moving from his opponent. When he finally moved into the ring, he unfolded his arms and coolly stepped into a fighting stance. The spotlight that had magically illuminated him died out with the supernatural darkness, and the crowd put their souls into their applause.
“Nice entrance,” the bandit scoffed, brushing a bit of dirt from her shoulder. “I wonder where you mimicked that idea from?”
“Well, I’m not one to be outdone,” he hissed back, his voice more like a snake’s than a man’s.
The woman laughed and flipped her deadlocks from her face. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” he purred, “we will.”
The final contestants, the last among thirty-two, stood on opposing sides of the altar, their expression neutral as they waited for the sound that would start the final combat. Then the gong rang.
“Alright,” she said solemnly, “let’s do this shit.” She looked to the nervous looking guardsman that had been her escort to the gates and nodded. “Hit it.”
The young man, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, shook his head. “I dunnae know if this be a ghood idea, m’laidy!” he stammered in a thick Scottish accent. “I think tha’ o’r lord will take such jest poorly!”
Scowling, she took the man by the front of his breastplate and jerked him in, staring him down past her fresh corpse-paint. The boy swallowed hard when he smelled her liquor-tainted breath, and flinched when she growled, “I ain’t in ‘jest.’ It took me over an hour to set all this shit up.” She narrowed her eyes and shoved him away, his body slamming into the wall with a clatter of his armor. “I said hit it.”
The young guard nodded and quietly stammered back, “As ye wish it, m’lady.”
The hush of the Black Gate was suddenly broken when a female voice seemed to echo from nowhere. The audience collectively gasped when they realized what it was saying.
“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK, NOT A SINGLE FUCK,
NOT A SINGLE SOLITARY FUCK
COZ I DON’T GIVE A FUCK, MOTHER FUCKER!”
The enthusiastic anthem blared, and the bandit stepped into the light.
A pair of canisters erupted into a shower of crackling pyrotechnics, heralding the woman’s entrance with a display of over the-top -dramatics. Draped in a bright-red boxer’s robe emblazoned with a large, white skull that was framed by a hot-rod fire decal, she trotted to the rhythm of the song’s angry drumbeat, tossing a few light jabs into the air.
About halfway to the altar, she pushed the hood off of her head and looked up, taking in the cheers and jeers of the adequately riled-up onlookers. The sound of the people was near-deafening, and the lyrics of her walk-out song were almost drowned out. She reveled in the moment, appreciating the fact that thousands of eyes looked upon her now, expecting of her, no, demanding of her, a gloriously entertaining battle. She thrust both fists up in the air and the cacophony of their roar was lifted with them.
She tossed the robe to the side and jogged up to the stairwell, quickly sprinting up the steps until she reached its peak. Stepping onto the flat platform, she bounced back and forth, getting a feeling for the final place of battle. Looking back down to the pit she has ascended from, she nodded to the guard, and the music slowly faded away.
The crowd slowly quieted itself, and once again waited in hushed anticipation for her opponent to enter the ring. It was then that the sky went black.
Darkness consumed the arena and screams began to echo from the seats all around them. A single light suddenly gleamed, drawing the attention of every man, woman and child to the chute opposite the one the bandit had come from.
A gong sounded, and a distant announcer yelled,
“TEST YOUR MIGHT!”
To the excited beat of steel drums, Shang Tsung entered the Colosseum.
The ancient warlock strode in to the sight of flaming skulls erupting from the ground, casting eerie green lights over his grinning countenance. He wore nothing out of the ordinary but his posture: arms politely folded behind his back, back straight, and chin raised high, informing every one of his fans that he was prepared to do battle.
He calmly ascended the stairwell, his gaze never moving from his opponent. When he finally moved into the ring, he unfolded his arms and coolly stepped into a fighting stance. The spotlight that had magically illuminated him died out with the supernatural darkness, and the crowd put their souls into their applause.
“Nice entrance,” the bandit scoffed, brushing a bit of dirt from her shoulder. “I wonder where you mimicked that idea from?”
“Well, I’m not one to be outdone,” he hissed back, his voice more like a snake’s than a man’s.
The woman laughed and flipped her deadlocks from her face. “We’ll see.”
“Yes,” he purred, “we will.”
The final contestants, the last among thirty-two, stood on opposing sides of the altar, their expression neutral as they waited for the sound that would start the final combat. Then the gong rang.
Quote:800 words exactly.