Porte de l'enfer is where Gladiators go to die. Fortunately for me, I'm not a Gladiator, and I've definitely not come to die.
Thats what I tell myself at least, as I reach for the dial behind my ear, turning the painfully loud cheers and pounding music down to a low drone.
Three hundred and seventy three million, the numbers flash in bright yellow at the center of the arena, so big I can see it from where I'm standing in the lockers. There's almost 400 million dollars on my death.
"I can't believe someone was crazy enough to bet 15 million on that chick."
I feel a muscle tick in my jaw, yanking the wrappings around my knuckles with a hard jerk. Somehow, looking at the 400 million bet against me, is easier than looking just right of that number, where the small, yet still obscene number, 15 million, looms over me.
Part of me is surprised my father only bet 15 million, the other half is relieved.
I slam my locker closed, trying to ignore the mutterings growing around me. The girls I'm surrounded with are all my age, albeit taller and a lot more menacing looking.
A countdown begins outside the arena, bright numbers counting down from 60 seconds that blind my vision momentarily.
Through the sea of thousands of spectators, I pick out my father. He's standing in a studio-box above the crowds, sipping from glass as he shares pleasantries with another man standing near him. After a couple seconds, his gaze connects with mine. Sharp, steely gray eyes hold mine. Then he looks down, tapping on his device.
The bright 15 million illuminating the arena shifts, replaced by the number 30 million.
"Thanks, dad," I deadpan, even though I know he can't hear me. I step out into the hallway that leads into the arena, tying my black hair behind my ears as I walk.
A camera zooms into my face, capturing my blank expression as I stop in front of the gate. On the other side, I can see my opponent doing the same. I tilt my head to get a better look at his face, through the camera footage displayed above. His face is made of hard lines, muscles running up and down his back and torso. He's easily twice my height and weight-class. Ink covers every inch of his skin, including his bald head. They announce his name, but I don't bother to pick it up.
Five seconds. Four. Three.
I closed my eyes briefly, sucking in a deep breath. I checked my oxygen levels and heart rate, before turning off the blue display of text information in my eyes.
The gate shook, lifting up, and I stepped into the roaring crowds.
My opponent lunges forward, raising his arms to flex and roar back into the crowd. He pumps his chest, waving around a nasty looking battle axe.
"BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD," the crowd chants. Their excitement infiltrates my blood, and I feel my heart rate quickening, my hands flexing with anticipation.
They aren't here to witness a fight. They want to see a massacre.
The gladiator stalks toward me, raising his axe over his head. It's clear from the look on his face, that he believes its going to be a quick fight. When we're less than three paces away from each other, he swings.
I fall to the ground, the blade swishing over my head as I maneuver behind him. The heavy weapon sets him off balance, and he swings again.
I dodge again, but this time, he lets go of the axe, using its momentum to heave a fist into my stomach.
YOU ARE READING
Artificial
Romance*UPDATES EVERY FRIDAY AT 9 PM PST* 3.8 billion dollars. That how much it had cost Billionaire Lewis Bronson to create his daughter. 3.8 billion, and decades of research. Nothing about Mirabelle Bronson was a mistake. From the exact HEX number of he...
