Season 2 - Blogisode 15

1998 – LOCATION UNKNOWN

Rows upon rows of flat metal sheets, tables, each one strapped to it the body of a child. Each child draped with a thin white sheet, each sheet stained with the dark clot of blood some days past pour.

Strapped to their beds with aid of thin steel cord the children sleep without dream, eyes open, yet no sight found past the sliver of light that hazes a fog of distraction over their dimly dilated pupils.

The combined symphony of a thousand small machines humming in synchronicity fills the dark tomb with its hypnotic drone.

Thirteen beds line either side of the room, forming a long isle leading down line to a single entrance/exit sealed tight from the outside, no knob or handle.

No light.

The doorway swings open, slowly scraping across the stone floor with a chalk board squeal. Light pours in from the hallway beyond, illuminating a thin strand that runs length over the bodies of the children stationed to the right side of the room.

“And how are we today my little bundles of spice and steam?”

The thin figure struts malicious up the center lane; fingers run slow and methodic over the exposed feet of the stationary slaves.

His body is draped from head to toe in a thin grey garment. Silk to the sight, it hoods him to a wave that runs behind along the floor; His face tucked to shadow.

He finishes his snake like saunter to the far wall then turns to rerun his catwalk, stopping for a moment to address his captive audience.

“And in the red corner wearing the blue trunks, weighing in at a disappointing ninety eight and three quarter pounds, we have… God damn it what is that little shit’s name again?”

A rasp of static and whirr echoes over the scene as the loud speakers kick in. “Eric sir.”

“Ah yes, thank you. We have… Eric! Yaaaaay! Whoooooh! And the crowd goes wild!” The man with the silk cloak pivots in a peculiar dance-on-the-spot, his hands cupped around his lips as he hoots into the air.

The speakers kick in again. “Uh sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“We actually do need to get them prepped for trials before the numbers get here.”

The man composes himself, straitens a nonexistent tie and humps his way out of the room with a brisk stomp.

“Carry on then.”

He exits, slamming the door behind him.

2 HOURS LATER

The familiar scene, concrete arena, floor caked in the remnants of battles past. The twenty or so children form a small semicircle round a thin column of light that sets the boundaries of the battle ground.

A young woman steps into the center, eyes tainted with the thin veil of fogged hypnosis. No expression on her face, naked save for the wisps of shadow that dance over her body in between the cuts of awkward light. She grips a blade in both hands, the length of which runs from her neck to naval.

The young girl takes a deep, monotonous breath.

A voice squawks out from the speaker system above. “Eric step forward.”

A quick rustle from amidst the line of silent youths, a young man enters the scene, patch over one eye, three piece suit clings casual to his frame, complete with bow tie.

SAME TIME

In the comfort of a room run with décor suited to royalty sit nine men round a large monitor, each wrapped regal in a cloak and hood of a different color. Behind them stands the silken man, pen and pad in hand.

On the screen a familiar scene shines out at them; live feed from the arena where two children now stand at arm’s length prepared to fight to death.

One of the nine turns to the man at the back. “Why is that one dressed in a suit?”

The queried pipes back nervously. “Who Eric? Oh yes, well… it’s like a James Bond sort of thing, you know, like a secret agent?”

Now all nine men turn in their chairs to face the fellow at the back of the room.

“It’s ah, I just felt like having some… oh for fuck sake it’s not going to affect the outcome.”

“And the eye patch?”

“Oh I don’t know, it seemed to fit the costume I guess. Who cares?”

“As much as it may feel like one to you at times this facility does not constitute your own private circus Abaddon. Do you understand?”

Abaddon stares cold from beneath his grey garment at the lazy beast dictating to him from his cushioned throne. His skin crawls and twitches with the instinctual desire to run claws across the fat human’s throat and bathe himself in the weak thing’s blood as it drains out onto the floor. He stifles. “Yes sir.”

“Good, then proceed please.”

The attention of the room is drawn back to the monitor where Tara and Eric stand ready.

SAME TIME

The two youths stand in posture to strike, both with blade in hand. The other children hang like zombies round the rim of the ring, docile anticipation blended with a fractured trauma buried deep behind the curtain of slave that now coats them all.

The loudspeaker chimes in. “Commence.”

A slow second passes between the two, then…

SPLUK!

The thick slap and chunk of a blade running rush through cartilage and bone, Eric’s head slumps forward to rest deep down the blade.

His eyes clear to crystal, the fog lifts.

The pain, fear and sadness on the face of a child just pulled away from a terrible game to realize that it was all too real.

A tear blends with the blood that trickles thin from his lips as he stares pleadingly at Tara, her hands still wrapped firm round her weapon, now dug deep into Eric’s neck.

Two words escape in a whisper with his final breath.

“Get out.”

The weight of his body falls on the knife, Tara drops them both to the floor.

She looks down at the twitching mass pooling life at her feet, the mist of subservience flutters wisp from her eyes, the waking world pushes through the haze. Her slumber is broken.

“What did you say?” She looks about with the mind of someone expecting to wake from a dream.

“What the fuck is going on?” Confusion fights to push tears to her eyes.

The loudspeaker picks up once more. “Renaissance respite!”

All of the children in the room drop to the floor like dominoes with a simultaneous thud; every child except for Tara, and the young man standing farthest to her right.

The boy named Christian turns to her. “Come on.”

He sprints into the black; Tara follows without thought or question.