The loud clanging sound of metal batons slamming against distant bars drew Aizrah out from his slumber. He snapped awake with a jolt, chest rising with vehement force as his widened eyes stared out past his darkened room and into the shadowy hallways.

  There was a louder clang—nearer—just as a voice cut through the gloomy atmosphere.

  “Get up, wretch! Time for your morning exercise!”

  Sitting up on his concrete bed—those degenerates hadn't even bothered to give them a foam—Aizrah waited for the baton to get to his jail bar.

  The two-foot metal rod announced the guard’s arrival, and despite expecting it, Aizrah couldn't help but flinch. A beady eyes peaked in a moment later, black with a foulness that made his lips curl. The guard's figure blocked his already darkened cell, and despite the room being entirely dark, Aizrah could easily picture the person who stood on the other side of the cell.

  He was mostly bald, with tiny wisps of hair crowning his wasteland of a head. His face was dried up, like all the life and moisture had been sucked right out of it, and his lips were blackened, no doubt from excessive substance abuse.

  Aizrah would have preferred him obese with a constantly shifting belly, at least just to appease his dreams for revenge. But Karma was not so kindhearted. No, the man that stood opposite him was a beast of a thing, a seven-foot-tall giant with arms the size of Aizrah’s entire body. That was even discounting his chest, which dwarfed Aizrah's entire frame twice over.

  He didn't remember when his hands curled into fists, but he relaxed them the instant he noticed. The guards here were craven and would take any excuse just to harsh out their grievances at life on the prisoners. Aizrah didn't want to give this one any reason.

  The man squinted, and then leaned forward, his lips opening to reveal teeth eaten almost entirely to the base. The stench was gut-wrenching. “Is the icky little slave crying?”

  Aizrah frowned. Crying? He ran a finger across an eye and it came back wet. Quickly, he rubbed both of them off, sniffing in the rest.

  “Aww! The little slave boy is crying. Do you miss dear mummy? Do thoughts of her tits bring you sadness?”

  Aizrah stayed quiet. He wouldn't respond to the bait. He'd wait this out, as any wise person would do.

  That was until the guard slammed his jail bar again, sending the entire thing, including his prison walls, rattling. “ANSWER ME!”

  Again, despite himself, Aizrah couldn't help but flinch. He muttered. “No.”

  He could feel the guard’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him, evaluating. He spoke after a few seconds. “Good. Crying means weakness… and you know what this place does to weak people? Hahahaha! Get up, cry boy, time for your morning exercise!”

  Aizrah grimaced but stood up. He understood all too well what the guard had meant. The bars to his cell opened, rattling aside, and he stepped out.

  There was already a line of prisoners, mostly those from the cells deeper in this corridor. They were already in a queue, so Aizrah moved to join them, the chains on his legs rattling as he mini-hopped his way into one of the lines.

  Aside from when it came to food, nobody ever really cared it anyone were queue-jumped. The only other things aside from meals to queue for were death, and only the most suicidal would jump at being the first in that kind of line.

  “Psst, Aizrah,” someone called. “Crybaby, over here!”

  He turned to the right to find Nuzz, one of the other prisoners, waving at him from two lines away. Aizrah sighed and then began hopping over, eliciting a whole new chorus of curses from people as he stumbled into them.

  Nuzz, or Nuzan, was Aizrah’s childhood friend. They’d grown up together in the same village. Played games in the forest and carried out all sorts of mischief together. In short, they did almost everything together. They had been the first in their group before the others arrived. Well, that was all over now. War had happened to them.

  “Don't call me that,” Aizrah muttered.

  “What? A crybaby?” The other boy leaned back and raised his hands in a signal of surrender when Aizrah glared at him. “Whoa whoa! Okay okay! Don't kill the messenger,” he glanced around, eyes flickering to the noisy room and the single-minded occupants who only had energy for their next task, and then he leaned in with a whisper. “Did you, uhh, actually cry? Dead face over there likes to make things seem more than they actually are. Did you yawn and he just happened to see the water roll down your eyes?”

  There was a pause as Aizrah contemplated his reply. Eventually, he settled for the truth. “He... he wasn't lying.”

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  “Seriously? What could possibly make you cry?”

  Aizrah raised an eyebrow and then dramatically panned his gaze across the whole gloomy hallway, the darkened cells, and the morose occupants—guards and prisoners alike. “I don't know, Nuzz, you tell me. What could make anyone not cry?”

  His friend grimaced. “That was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?”

  “You think?”

  “What I meant to say was that, what caused it? You know what happens to people who cry in this place? Why would you want to give them a chance like that?”

  “I don't know, Nuzz,” Aizrah said, frustrated, “I just woke up and there it was; tears down my eyes.”

  “So it was a dream then? A nightmare?” He paused, seemingly observing Aizrah, and then his eyes widened. “Was it a vision? Did you have another vision, Aizrah?”

  “I don't know. Visions are meant to be remembered, and I don't remember whatever made me cry. It's probably some stupid dream.”

  “A sappy dream, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows, “Is there another crying organ down there, Aiz? Ooh oh, did you dream about Sirlei?”

  “Take your dirty eyes off my beneath, you pervert. There's nothing to see down there. And no, Sirlei did not appear in my dreams. Trust me, I'd remember. Nothing will make me forget that.”

  His friend chuckled. “True. Now in all seriousness, what if it was a vision? A vision of something important. That's what visions are, aren't they; important events? What if you saw the cult of Order or Karma descending to rescue us? It's possible the sight must have overwhelmed you that you couldn't help but cry? Eh, stay with me.”

  Aizrah snorted. “I doubt anyone from those cults will come down from their lofty realms to rescue us from this cesspit. I've given up on such dreams, Nuzz, when will you?”

  Nuzan firmed his expression, filling it with conviction. “As long as I draw breath, I won't lose hope of freedom.” The next he said with a whisper so tiny Aizrah almost did not hear it. “That's the only thing keeping me moving at this point.”

  Aizrah sighed and squeezed his friend's shoulders. “There's a point in time we have to leave delusions and face reality, Nuzz. Hope is good, but when all evidence points against it, then we just have to accept it and make do with what we have. Delusions has never helped anyone.”

  “You’re wrong. Delusions are how miracles are born.”

  ***

  They emerged into a vast arena ground. It stretched for as far as Aizrah's Mid Foundation realm eyes could see… which was not that far, come to think of it.

  Hot sand lined his bare feet, filled with sharp stones and broken glass. He also knew that hidden somewhere beneath those grainy earth were weapons, many of them. The guards never bothered to confiscate any weapons after each game. What did they care if their prisoners died from infighting? The victims were simply weak, not worthy of their sponsor’s dime.

  The tiered seating was unlike anything he'd ever seen, still eliciting looks of awe from many of the prisoners. Aizrah felt like an ant before the structure, which rose for almost a thousand feet into the heavens, filled with tiers that were almost countless.

  Unsurprisingly, those were meant only for the commoners, the miners of this godforsaken asteroid.

  No, the lords of this place, the masters, as they liked to be called, watched from the many castles, manors, and other opulent structures that drifted leisurely over the open ceiling.

  Aizrah turned his face away from them. He couldn't glare or show his displeasure, to avoid their displeasure, so he made sure not to give them his attention.

  “WELCOME, WELCOME ALL!” A disk-shaped creation moved through the air. A man stood above it; thin, almost entirely made of bones, oddly enough with a face so bushy that only his eyes could be seen. Aizrah wondered how someone like that was made a commentator. “I'M SURE YOU'VE ALL HAD A RESTLESS NIGHT THINKING OF THE BEAUTIFUL SHOW ABOUT TO TAKE PLACE.”

  The crowd roared, their thundering voices shaking the massive colosseum. Aizrah's lips tightened. Those men and women shouting were the same as them, just saddled with different tasks. They knew it, and yet took joy in the misery of others. His pity for them had long dwindled. They deserved their fate.

  Somebody ran out from the line of prisoners, and Aizrah turned just as a man with maddened eyes ran towards the hovering commentator. In his hands was a short spear, likely picked up from beneath the sands.

  “You killed her! You killed her, you sadistic pig!” He screamed, almost frothing at the mouth.

  Aizrah closed his eyes. He knew what was going to happen. They were going to let him try his luck, futile as it was, and then there would be screams.

  Truly, as he'd predicted, that was what happened. The old man was allowed to throw his spear, which sailed pitifully to crash into the sands about ten feet away from him. It hadn't even gone halfway towards his target.

  Like a cloud of fog had been washed from his eyes, realization set in and terror filled his face.

  “No, no, no, no, no, it was a mistake! Ple–” but he'd already been whisked away, vanishing courtesy of a forceful teleportation into god's nowhere. His screams were the only thing they heard, projected loud and clear into the sound projection devices lining the colosseum.

  Aizrah flinched as the audible sound of cracking bones filled the air, mixed with the dreadful screams of the man. Somebody gripped him and he turned to Nuzz, who looked at him with reassurance.

  “It's okay. They won't get you, Aiz, not while I'm here.”

  Aizrah took two deep, calming breaths, and then he nodded. Nuzz released his arm soon after.

  “WELL, I DON'T KNOW WHAT WOMAN HE WAS TALKING ABOUT, BUT IF SHE WAS THE LASS I SPENT LAST NIGHT WITH… WELL, SORRY TO SAY, BUDDY, BUT SHE'S ALIVE... IF A LITTLE BIT CATATONIC.” He shoved his bulge forward, his beard shifting as he smirked. “WENT ALL MUTE FROM LITTLE BIG WILLY HERE, HEHE!”

  Aizrah's lips tightened, and he was glad to say not even the audience so much as laughed. The crowd stared at him, all in unison with expressions of disgust.

  The commentator coughed. “WELL, UM, GOOD RIDDANCE ‘N’ ALL. I'LL BE SURE TO SEND FLOWERS.”

  Aizrah's hands twisted at that, and he was shaking with so much rage that was bound to lead to bad decisions. Thankfully, once again, Nuzz came to his rescue, gripping his hands and shaking his head when Aizrah turned to him.

  Thankfully, the commentator moved on. “FOR BREAKFAST, THE ROLL MASTERS—YOU DEVIOUS BASTARDS—HAVE PREPARED A REALLY SPECTACULAR LINE OF EVENT FOR US, WITH THE DEBUT BEING BETWEEN A ONCE DOTING WIFE… AND HER CHEATING HUSBAND. COME ON OUT, PRISONER NUMBER 298 AND 321!”

  The crowd roared and Aizrah turned his head towards the assigned prisoners. One look at both of them and Aizrah was certain that none of the allegations laid on the man were true.

  This place was hell.