Page 18 of This Cruel Fate

“Here, this will be your number; if you come back to the next fight, the number remains the same.”

They each took their numbers. Xolia’s was 8540.

“Domains?”

“What?” Atlas lifted his head from where he was affixing his number.

“What’s your element?”

“Why does it matter?”

Xolia smirked. It gave her some satisfaction to see him flounder, even if it was over something small.

“Guests like to make bets. This helps them make their decisions. First-timers don’t normally get too much audience support without a history of wins, though.”

“How long have these been going on?” Xolia asked. The whole thing was well organized and efficient, nothing like the backwoods skirmishes she had imagined.

The man regarded her with narrowed eyes and his mouth set in a thin line. “What’s it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Atlas intervened. “Earth. Hers is water.” Atlas turned his head, and again, it was up to Xolia to guess how he looked at her. Disdain, she supposed.

The organizer made a note on his tablet and nodded at them. “Stay in here. Your numbers will be called when they’re ready for you.” His tone was guarded, on edge. Xolia winced; she was so out of her element here, so clearly an outsider.

Atlas shoulder-checked her on his way to join the twenty other fighters lounging around the room in varying degrees of silence. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

She didn’t bother to follow Atlas further, their brief camaraderie over and done with, and she slid down the cold and dirty wall until she was sitting against the floor. With only glimpses of exposed skin and facial features, she didn’t see any people she recognized. She leaned her head back and waited.

Though she didn’t have her phone and there were no clocks in the locker room, Xolia estimated she had been sitting there for two hours by the time half the room had cleared out. Atlas wasn’t in the remaining group of people.

Her number was called alongside another woman’s. They appraised each other, her opponent was broad-shouldered, with corded muscles running down her arms. Her face was entirely obscured by a flesh-colored, transparent mask that took away all defining features. It was unsettling. Both remained silent as they walked through an exit on the other side of the locker room. Xolia tried to formulate a plan of attack, but without knowing the other woman’s element, it was all conjecture.

She remembered the training arena well enough; however walking into it revealed it had been transformed into a theater of sorts. Stands and rows of seats surrounded a large wire cage in the center of the room. The upper level of the building still had its windows intact in what was once a viewing room for high-profile military and political officials to watch the progress of their youthful and nigh unstoppable soldiers. Lights shone from behind the slightly smudged windows, and Xolia wondered who was up there now, watching the chaos and carnage unfold.

A pair of organizers ushered Xolia and her opponent into the cage and locked it from the outside. Lights shone down on them, making it nearly impossible to see anyone who might be watching. Briefly, she wondered where Atlas was, whether he had won his fight or not. Limited to only one element, he would have been severely disadvantaged against people whose experiences were built around using just one. She hoped he had lost.

The announcer introduced them and their elements; if the cheers were anything to go by, her opponent was a crowd favorite. While she was not. She bristled under the weight of their heckling. It made her blood sing with desire for revenge. The announcer gave them their fighting style: a melee fight. A small mercy for Xolia, it was easier to maintain the shape of an element when she was in contact with it.

A loud ding sounded over the roar of the crowd.

Xolia hesitated a moment, reeling between the crowd, and their adverse reaction to her, and to her competition. What’s your domain?

The other woman, whose number was 513, crouched as if waiting to see what Xolia would call to. Xolia remained still, calling back all of her training and fighting exercises. 513 lunged for the rocks, lumped in a corner of the cage, and formed a hammer, swinging it over her shoulder.

Xolia stepped back and called the water, all resting in a tub in the opposite corner. After a brief hesitation from the water, it flew gracefully to her fingertips. Once the first few drops dripped down her skin, she shaped it into a long spear, the tip sharp and hard as diamond.

The extra reach the long handle provided would, hopefully, compensate for the brute strength of her opponent and the hammer she wielded. As long as Xolia could retain a grip on the spear, she considered them evenly matched. In her week of practice, she had managed no more than a few seconds of holding a shape without direct contact with water.

Armed, they circled each other. Xolia fell back into an old defensive pose, stepping back from the advancing woman. The crowd fell into a hushed pause.

Xolia considered the merits of a full-frontal attack; if she was quick, she might surprise 513 enough to get the upper hand. A loud shriek pierced her ear drums, pulling Xolia’s attention to the audience.

The cold hit of the stone hammer slammed its full weight into Xolia’s left shoulder. Xolia collapsed, the pain sending her brain into overdrive.

She let go of the spear, and the water trickled between the boards of the floor. How long had it been since she felt like this? Her shoulder was probably broken. It needed time to heal, time she didn’t have.

513 advanced again. The raucous cheers and screams from the audience almost made Xolia angrier than getting knocked on her ass. She scooted back and swiped 513’s feet out from under her. Her adversary fell, and the cheers turned to leering shouts.

It was a cowardly move, but it gave Xolia time to scramble to her feet and command more water into her waiting right hand.

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