trans_9 | To the victor go the spoils [Semi-open]

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To the victor go the spoils [Semi-open]

The arena was vast and raucous, its seats not only cramped but exorbitantly expensive for the typical inhabitant of Epicurea, with even the seats set farthest from the staging area easily costing a full day's wages. It was also packed solid.

Huge holographic screens were projected high into the air above the arena itself, depicting each match (especially the end) with gruesome, crystal-clear detail. Not a drop of blood was spared, not a millimeter of shattered bone was missed, and everything was on display at multiple angles to allow the spectators the fullest extent of the experience.

The observer's box that they were now approaching was as ostentatious as they'd come to expect from their host, luxuriously decorated with fine cloth curtains, plush carpeting, absurdly cushioned seats, and a delicately carved, intricate railing that appeared to be made out of some no doubt ludicrously expensive precious metal. It was a stark contrast to the simple stone benches the other observers were afforded. And of course, their host's pterosaur was once again present at the top of the box: a tethered, living reminder of its owner's exalted status.

As Anwei and Howard were ushered onto the balcony and seated, workers were already busy scrubbing the stage clean of the loser of the last match -- or what was left of him, which by now was only a blue-black smear on the ground. They had arrived just in time for the short intermission before the next match would start.

All viewers, place your bets.

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Anwei sat down a bit gingerly on the overstuffed chair, and sighed. She had thrown herself about rather hard earlier, and she probably had bruises from the dress' undercarriage. But she would only have to put up with this overblown place for another hour or less, she hoped. Just let Zouichi do whatever he was going to do, and they could leave. For now she could sip from the iced juice glass at her elbow, look at the fruit bowls and the heavily muscled attendants with much the same air of appreciating something edible, and relax.

She smiled, and the attendants shifted back a pace.

But it was strange that the stage was dirty enough to need to be cleaned. What, were they doing paint wrestling or something? That might be nice to watch. But the smell...the smell that carried over the juice and the cushions' perfume and the crowd-sweat; it was the smell of animals, and blood. Blood and rot. And the crowds were screaming in a way that seemed very – primal, for a beauty contest or athletic competition.

Her fingers played nervously with the silverware laid out at the table by her side, and her smile was a little too wide in her face with nervousness.

Howard recognizes that smell - and those sounds - immediately. It doesn't sound like an audience. It sounds like the mob back when Hunter was getting lynched. People are calling for blood, and if the stench of the arena is any indication, their thirst should have been slaked by now but hasn't been.

It's a setting that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his insides feel weak and watery. More than ever he wishes he were standing next to Orc, not Anwei and the troupe of Glimmering Prosperity servants.

And what about Zouichi? That was an impressive show he put on in the pavilion, but Howard's pretty sure that even if Zouichi wins against whatever they throw at him, the arena masters won't let him go that easily. And even though they could complete the mission without Zouichi, he finds that he actively dislikes the idea of leaving Zouichi behind. Even if only because that's one less person to talk to on Stacy.

He tries to catch Anwei's eye and mouth "we've made a mistake, plan B?" to her.

Catching Anwei's eye is easy; both of hers are darting in every direction, trying to see what trap she had put her head into. Soft, soft, she was screaming to herself; how could she have ever fooled herself that anything here could be safe? That Stacy had any interest in keeping her safe?

Here and now, she has to think of a way to get all of them (and the Orb) out of here. The time was getting near when they would have to leave - or else.

She considered all the factors, probabilities rolling through her mind in spiky waves of mathematics, and decided that they had to get the Orb first. If they could get that, and then distract the guards and escape, they would just steal a vehicle and head for the shuttle, and hope the Countess would not have time to call the local security.

Anwei stretched luxuriously in her seat, letting the deep neckline of her dress ride open a bit more than was seemly to distract the attendants.

"Howard," she yawned, "I was just thinking of the extra storage container of our delicacy in the shuttle - you know, the one for personal use? Go and place a wager with the Countess, that Zouichi will put on a performance the likes of which has not been seen here in years. That the entire crowd will scream for him. I had been intending to keep that container for myself, but, well, under the circumstances I think we should go to Plan B. Yes?"

Oh, thank God they're going to Plan B. Exactly what Howard said way back at the start. Although right now he's seriously regretting hoping for any excitement. The smell of rotting flesh and fresh blood can do that to a person.

He comes forward and lowers his head demurely, falling easily into his role as servant now that lives are on the line. "So we'll wager the extra container. And what shall I ask the Countess to wager, Mistress? And shall I tip my hat to her?"

He's already planning what to do when he gets to the Countess' box. He knows which Advisor has it, so now it's just a matter of getting in, out and back. Even with his oversized robe he probably won't be able to hide the Orb for long, given its size, so he's hoping Anwei's willing to hide it either in her dress or hat as soon as he gets it safely back to the box.

Right now, he really wishes he weren't wearing traffic cone orange as he goes to do this.

Zouichi is escorted by several heavily armed arena guards to what he can only assume is a kind of windowless backstage, where he's instructed to wait for his appearance. Easy enough, he thinks -- but what kind of room is this? There's nowhere to sit, but there is a series of cases, in which are stored countless melee weapons, some familiar in shape, others baffling. Most are polished to a high shine.

The feeling he's getting now might best be described thus: "I've got a bad feeling about this drop."

He's not sure whether he'll even need a weapon, but it can't hurt to follow instructions, can it?

Zouichi picks out a long halberd, which is not quite as elaborately filigreed as some of the other choices. Then, he waits.

Anwei stroked her throat meditatively, deliberately defocusing her eyes - the giant screens hovering over the audience were showing highlights from the previous match, and they were making her hungry. Very hungry.

"I think I can afford to be generous - after all, I have every faith in my - in Zouichi. So why don't we ask for," she tilted her head, carefully judging just how far back that great feathery sweep of her headgear would make the attendants retreat, "her fine flying beast, all its harness, and a year's worth of food and board." She actually batted her eyelashes - although that might have just been trying to get out the glitter falling into her eyes from the ceiling.

"And you will tip your hat, with the greatest politeness, or I shall have to give you hat-tipping lessons. Harsh lessons." Her eyes went needle-bright on his face, then she leaned forward just enough so that only he could see her eyes, and they softened. You can do this, those eyes said. I have faith on you.

She leaned back again, all ice, and barked, "Go!"

Howard follows Anwei's eyes to the screens, although his expression isn't hers of contemplative desire but one of barely suppressed nausea and fear. He does note her hunger, though. It doesn't encourage him any.

He nods curtly, keeping those terms in mind. It's a good thing Anwei seems to have some faith in him - he could read it in her expression - because while he knows it's possible he can do this, it'll be another issue entirely to actually go through with it. Especially since he doubts the Glimmering Prosperity clan will go all too softly on thieves.

Suddenly, getting the Orb has not become just the necessary thing to do, but the brave thing to do. He doesn't know what fate awaits him if they let Stacy down, but he's willing to bet it's not as immediately terrifying as the Glimmering Prosperity bodyguards who, in addition to having two or more feet on him, are also heavily armed. And some of whom are riding dinosaurs with very sharp teeth.

Once out of Anwei's box, Howard takes a second to lean against a wall, swallow and close his eyes. Theft is easy. He nicked things all the time back before the FAYZ, back after the FAYZ, too. Usually he had Orc around to cause a distraction, and usually the worst that could happen would be that the sheriff would pull him in and threaten him with juvie, but he's stolen before. Even valuable things.

He considers trying to grab the Orb and just steal the dinosaur there, ditching Anwei and Zouichi and making it back to the shuttle with time to spare, but that'd be too risky, and besides, he doesn't know how to fly a dinosaur. Not even close.

He wishes for confidence. It doesn't magically appear. Neither does a mystical well of courage.

He doesn't spend much time meditating on this, since they are on a time limit. He makes his way to the Countess' box, his virtual invisibility still strong.

"O most heralded Countess of Feminine Roundness," he says with a deep bow. "My superior wishes to place a wager with you."

The Countess nods to one of her advisors, who stomps up to Howard in those impossibly tall shoes with that impossibly tall body. Howard's heart skips a beat when he realizes it's the one with the Orb, or so they think. "A lowly male servant should not address the Countess directly. It is only for pity's sake that I deign to address you."

"I apologize for my stupidity. It must be my Y chromosome," he says, half-pleading and secretly sarcastic. "It won't happen again."

"Tell me of this wager."

"My mistress wagers that her servant will put on a performance of a lifetime, to be remembered throughout the years. The audience will all scream his name after his triumph. For this, she will put forward an extra twenty-gallon container of her most delicious substances, and..."

The lightbulb goes off as Howard realizes how he's going to do this. He turns to the Countess.

"And she expects that you will wager your fine flying beast and a year of food and board, ma'am."

The Countess' nostrils flare and Howard shrinks back, but she rounds not on him but on the Advisor. "Is it really such a task for you to keep worth-nothing male servants from addressing me? And not even by my proper title! I should have you whipped and beaten for your inattention to your duty! The only reason I've bestowed such a illustrious position upon you is because of your family, to whom you serve as an utter disgrace! Perhaps they'll find you more honorable when you've been fed, bit by bit, to my pet!"

The Advisor flinches and hunches her shoulders in mortification, unwilling to break eye contact with the Countess even to shoot a glare at said worth-nothing male servant. And Howard uses that opportunity to sneak a hand through one of the Velcro'ed holes in his robe and slip it into the Advisor's bustle - thankfully, the structure is solid and large enough that the Advisor doesn't feel it. He settles his hand on a box and quickly undoes the clasp, hoping to God that it's the Orb he's wrapping his hand around. It feels warm and vaguely like it's vibrating in his hand. He slips his hand back out, silently and skilled, and back into his robe. Then into his pocket. He's slipped away, out of the box, before the Countess has even finished her tirade.

When he returns to Anwei's box, still no less anxious than he was ten minutes ago - they still need to get a dinosaur, after all - he gives her the slightest nod and a twitch of his lip to tell her he's got it.

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Anwei had been alternating her time between peeking at the attendants to see them flinch, and toying with her candy-box. Every time she rattles it, the pterosaur on top of the Countess's box rolls its deepset eyes at her, and by the beading on its saddle, she was confident that she had fed this one before.

But would a treat be enough to bring the beast to her? And would she be able to ride it? Well...of course she could. It couldn't be that different than riding an enhanced war-bear, could it?

Such a thin thread to hang all their lives on. And what if they returned to Stacy and she told them they had done it wrong? What then? Could she take the Violations on herself, say that she had given the orders that led to this? Hopefully.

"Did the Countess accept my wager?" she asks Howard when he returns, not missing the gesture of his lip. She leans closer to him, letting her ruffles form a frothy mound between her and the side of her chair - a mound that could hide almost anything. "Because if so, I might have another errand for you."

THE ARENA

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THE ESCAPE

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THE RETURN

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