Survivors

Chapter 1: Xain

          What comes next is a bombardment of quick and strong—but poorly thought out—spear swings, thrusts, and slashes. I block or evade most of them, but a couple make contact with my armor. They don't penetrate, though. I hop back a couple of feet and twist the shaft of my spear, transforming the blade into a trident. That’s what’s so special about Shadow, it’s a multi-weapon—spear, trident, club, sword, or whatever I can think or imagine—with a twist of the shaft. It can also extend or shorten. It was my cousin’s—Xania—before she died during a Team Survivor arena.

          The crowd seems to go wild as the blade transforms into a three-pronged weapon, but Brute is only focused on one thing: my blood. He takes his spear in his hands, twirls it, and then lunges for me. I dodge. Next one ends up right where I want it: in between two of the prongs of the trident. I twist the trident at the same time as I spin, ripping Brute's spear right out of his hands.

          The spear flies about 10 yards before it sticks in the soft ground. Brute, now without has spear, attempts to try and disarm me. He flings dirt in my eyes and grabs the spear. My grip is strong. He's twisting and flinging me around with almost little effort, but I'm refusing to let it go. Finally, I flip up—using the spear as a bar—and kick Brute square in the face, shattering his nose and causing it to spew blood.

          Brute and I both fall back. As I begin to come around, Brute charges me with a small sword—where did he get that sword? I quickly spin around, throwing the knife from my belt, aiming it at his chest. He moves his body, but not fast enough. The knife slices at his right arm, leaving a deep gash in his arm and causing blood to spurt out. Clenching his arm, he swings his sword towards me. I block his sword—a strong attack despite the injury—with the trident, and then spin, taking one of my swords from my back, and slash at his back. Brute stumbles forward in pain. The sword attack only scratched his armor. His right arm and left hand are now covered in red, but he manages to swiftly swing his sword at me again, nearly taking off my legs. I jump back just in time, nearly cart-wheeling away from the attack. Brute leaps, seemingly with all of his strength, with his sword ready to slash downward. I quickly evade, diving under the flying body, slicing his leg as I go.

          There’s a thud on the ground, and Brute is screaming. It may be pain, it may be anger. I get up and look at the now curled up opponent, and he glares at me, a hand cupping his arm and leg. I approach his red and olive toned body, spear in my hand. The look in his eyes are hateful, wishing for my death. Better yet, daring me to end him. I’m just about to drive the spear through his throat—heart being covered—when I realize a greater victory.

          Hazel-brown. I’m the first to ever see his eyes and live to tell the tale. I have brought down Goliath. I don't need to go any further. I minimize my spear back into a single spear head shrink it into its 2 foot length, and walk away, not even worrying about where my knife went—I could buy another at the market.

          “And the winner is....Xain Austin!” The announcer booms as I walk away. The crowd begins shouting and calling for me, and some throw down bouquets of flowers. I hate the crowds, but I can't much complain about the fresh flowers that are tossed. We only see fresh flowers during a victory—unless you go and try to pick dandelions from the field outside the gates of the quarters. I pick up a couple of flowers—a scatter of daisies, a tulip, a lily—but only three are special to me: the red, white, and pink roses that are always in a rarity. I know they cost a fortune, but someone makes it a point to always toss them in front of the doorway before I exit. I never look to see who. I scoop up the bouquet and exit, gate slamming behind me.

          Once inside, I am bombarded by my trainers and prep team. They try and examine me for bruises or cuts, shrieking at the occasional scratch on my armor or blood spot—Brute’s—on my body. I finally, after about two minutes, tear away from them. I’m fine, and any pain I suffer that seems major, I’ll tell them about later. Right now, I want to just go enjoy my “victory” while it lasts.

          The first to approach me are two of my best friends: Abigail and Isabelle Garder. I usually just call them Abi and Izzy. They are a little younger than I am—Abi is 16, Izzy is just a couple months younger than I am—but I don’t mind it much. Abigail was one of my allies when my cousin died. Isabelle made me promise that I would keep her alive.

          Abi is the first to nearly tackle me down. I nearly drop my flowers and fall over. “Congratulations, Xain. I was so scared when I heard you would be fighting that Brute person, but I never stopped believing in you.”

          I rub my fingers through her long, braided, golden hair as I placed a daisy through it. She looks at me and just giggles, wrinkling up her nose. We just stand there, looking in each other’s eyes and smiling, when Izzy finally bursts in.

          “She thought you were dead,” she said in a near emotionless voice. When I looked at her I realized she had a smile—a concerned and happy one—which indicated that she was scared, too. I said nothing, just stretched out my arm. She almost immediately walked over to the group hug. We stood in silence for about 10 seconds, then I realized something.

          “You dyed your hair,” I said to Izzy, stroking her now bright reddish-orange and black braid. It used to be brownish in color.

          “Yeah,” Izzy began, then paused, “I thought it would look hot.”

          Before I could say anything in response, Izzy stepped back, undid her braid, and shook her hair. I was in awe. I could now see what she meant. The orange and black were arranged in a way that made her hair look on fire.

          “Wow,” I say, “you’re right, you look like you’ll burn up the competition.”

          There's a pause. Abi—who I forgot was still holding me—begins to bite her lip and hold me tighter. “What?” I ask.

          “They called her,” Abi says, burrowing into my chest. I look at Izzy, who’s braiding her hair back. I begin to speak, but she cuts me off.

          “It was either me or,” she pauses, looking to her right. I follow her gaze, it leads to the training center. I don’t see why she would be looking there, there's nothing significant—wait, I see her. A girl, maybe 12 or so, is peering out from behind a wall almost 20 yards away.

          I look closer. Her skin is as swarthy and dark as mine and she has wavy dark hair. She’s looking right at us. Does she know we saw her?

          “It was either me or her,” Izzy starts back up, “She was next behind me, and the top 3 opponents were much bigger than she is. I’m so sorry, Xain.” Izzy’s head drops, she's trying not to cry.

          “She just had to save her,” Abi said, letting go of me, “She did it for you, Xain.”

          I have a puzzled look on my face. Why me? Am I missing something? How am I involved in this decision?

          “She's your number one fan, we couldn’t just let her die” Izzy said as she approached and hugged me around the neck. I peek over her shoulder to see the girl—my number one fan—still peering at us.