Chapter 1: Zak

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The sound of half a million screams isn’t as loud as you would think. 

It's a dull and droning hum, like a fly stuck in a spiderweb, wings twitching in panic. The buzzing digs into my ears and nestles deep in the back of my skull. All around me, spectators scream for blood from the safety of the stands.

Moments ago, I was tossed into this giant colosseum, my atmosuit torn and bloodied. One hand claws for a bottle of meds that isn’t there while the other shields my eyes from the searing artificial lights. Above me, a hologram firestorm burns across the dome ceiling, casting flickering shadows over the arena. The daunting vortex may be fake, but the blood staining the sand is as real as it gets.

The crowd roars. Dozens of alien species pack the stands. Beside a group of metallic-skinned Gygan warlords sits a few shifty, bat-winged Gernyi. A cluster of spiny Shenoa click their pincers menacingly. Further up, a mass of armored Voyrata watch silently, as if they’re waiting to see if I bleed blue or green. There’s even a few species so foreign I couldn’t name them—and I’m a supplier who’s travelled to most known sectors. One six-legged reptiloid whips its tongue while a snail-eyed blob waves a flag embedded in its gelatinous chest. Most of them wave paper money in the air. I wonder how many had bet on me winning… I sure as hell wouldn’t.

I shut my eyes, just for a second, and I see them. My wife and my daughter, frozen in time when I last saw them. Ella had tugged on my shirt and begged me not to leave. Jaymie reassured her I’d be back, her ice-blue eyes burning a hole into me. 

The announcer’s voice cracks over the speakers. “People of Vo!” he booms. “Please welcome one of Hullios’ newest recruits to Arena Skulva! This Earth-Human is a former supplier who found out what happens when you fly too close to our welcoming planet. Go easy on him now, this is his first official match, and we don’t want it to be over too quickly!”

But the crowd doesn’t take his advice. They swear and spit. They throw trash and discarded food my way. Someone has a hell of an arm, because a cup of something brown and hot and chunky hits me dead on. God, I hope that’s chili.

I try not to take the sour reception too personally. These people don’t know me. All they see is a calf awaiting slaughter, fresh meat that exists only for their sick amusement.  

A gate thunders open from the other end of the arena, slow and ominous. 

And then he appears. 

Every hair on my body raises. My sweat goes cold. My teeth begin to chatter like a cartoon character. 

He’s a Torr. Massive, four armed beasts with heads like a bull crossed with a deer. One arm is missing, leaving a jagged scar that looks like it had been manually ripped from his body, but the remaining three are as thick as tree trunks. His fingers are so big they make the battle axes look like toys. His armor is crusted with generations of dried blood. 

The worst part is his goddamn mask. 

A plastic baby face with smooth rosy cheeks and pouting lips strapped over his snarling maw. Black horns jut from behind it like charred branches.

​

The crowd loses their fucking minds. A vendor walks up and down the stands selling replicas of the mask and inflatable battle axes.

“And here he is, folks! He’s been culling the meek for more suns than I can count. Give it up for the empress's own Guyt, Devourer of Children!”

So, he belongs to the empress, huh?

I peer up at the giant balcony levitating above the crowd at the north end of the arena, squinting to get a better look at the royal highness herself. It’s hard to make her out, but I know she’s there from the glint of her bejeweled crown. Sitting all comfortable on that balcony, eating and drinking while I stare down the barrel of an inevitable demise.

The announcer begins listing off all of Guyt’s great accomplishments, how he’d become an unbeatable giant, well loved by all except, of course, his opponents. Looking upon his disgusting dirt-caked body, I’ll admit it’s hard to see what makes him so lovable.

Guyt steps towards me and raises his axes to the sky, eliciting huge favor from the crowd. “This ingrate is who they’ve laid before me? I’ve taken shits bigger’n you!”

I wonder what his poor toilet looks like. The thought makes me stifle a laugh. 

“You think Guyt is funny?” he snarls, his neck veins bulging, his chest puffed out like a barn owl.

Another alarm sounds and the arena lights dim as a spotlight locks onto us in the center. The vortex above churns to a stormy grey. Guyt wastes no time. He charges forward and drives a colossal foot straight into my chest. I fly backwards, skidding across the sand. Bone shards dig into my skin. The goliath stalks towards me, a towering silhouette against the glare. As he closes in, the pungent smell of cadaver and unwashed crotch wafts over me. I gag, my eyes stinging. Through the blur, I see him raise two of his axes high above his head, and a survival impulse kicks in. I roll to my right, barely escaping decapitation, his weapons clanging against the ground with such force it makes my ears ring. He swings the bottom axe at me, giving me just enough time to hold up my arm and block it with my weapon. 

Two curved blades called t’nurae are strapped to my forearms, like oversized talons bound tight with metal bands. They stood out in the armory because they looked easy to use, like I could just flail my way to victory. I don’t know the first thing about wielding a sword. I’m an intergalactic supplier, for Christ’s sake—I deliver food and medical supplies. I'm also a fucking farmer. I can handle a hover tractor no problem, but a sword? Why would anyone know how to wield a sword in this day and age? Yet here I am, deflecting a goddamned battle axe with these glorified can openers.

Screw it. Maybe if I draw first blood I can mess up his morale. “Hyaaaaah!” I scream, lunging forwards. I jab both t’nurae at him, but he swats me aside like a mosquito. This Guyt guy is spry for his size, and obviously no stranger to one-on-one combat. He spins, oddly graceful, and slams an elbow into my face. I stagger, clutching my nose, which begins to spurt blood. The crowd erupts at the sight. Bloodthirsty animals. I choke on the very same blood that arouses them. 

Guyt brings two of his blades down in an X-shaped swing. I dodge one, but the other slices through my atmosuit and into my flesh, nicking my collarbone and sending me sprawling. The pain is instant and white-hot. I had promised myself I wouldn’t scream or cry, but the tears come anyway.

“Awwww, look everybody. He’s… he’s crying!” Guyt howls, and the crowd follows suit, pointing and cackling like schoolchildren who just watched me piss my pants in class.

I glance up at the empress in the balcony. She's not laughing. A long glass pipe rests between her lips, smoke coiling from her nostrils. Her face is calm, unreadable. Her eyes are locked onto me, burning like a magnifying glass on an anthill. 

“He’s crying like a baby, and that makes Guyt huuuuuungryyyyyy!” The crowd starts chanting his name as he mimics eating a baby, then slaps his distended stomach. 

“Boo hoo. Poor little Earthling,” he sneers, stalking toward me. “Poor little PIGFUCKER!”

 I wipe the tears away with the back of my bloody hand. I don't want to die. Not now. Not yet. Voices from the sidelines cut through the noise.

​

Pigfucker, they jeer, swearing they read somewhere that Earthlings love screwing the Earth equivalent of gubs. 

Is that what xenos think? That Humans are all backwoods hillbillies?

“I’m not dead yet, asshole!” I roar, lunging at him. My blades slash wildly in an attempt to disembowel the bastard, but he dodges with ease. I realize over and over again that I’m hopelessly out of my league. With every block and parry, he counters, bashing me again and again, keeping me alive on purpose. He’s just toying with me, giving the crowd a real show. Guyt is not just some brute, but a true performer. He even continues to sprinkle in little bits of baby gestures, mocking me and drawing laughter from the crowd.

I slice and slash and jab, but he's too damn skilled. He bats me around with the flat of his axes, kicks me, punches me, even headbutts me once with his ridiculous crying baby mask, which would be funny if it wasn’t so damn humiliating. My vision blurs, my movements slowing. 

Death creeps towards me. 

My sweet Jaymie and little Ella back home will never know what happened to me. They’ll wait at first, sure, but over time, they’ll forget. And the crowd will cheer. They came to see blood, after all, and I’m not disappointing them. Puddles of the red stuff glisten upon the sand.

Guyt roars and descends on me with renewed fury, landing blow after blow, yet somehow I'm still alive, barely. That dull vmmmmm rings louder in my skull until even his maniacal laughter fades. He lifts his axes high, standing over me like a god, while I’m on all fours, bleeding out across the cold metal floor.

Here’s something most folks on Earth don’t know: humans have a lot of blood in them. We are easily in the top three in terms of liquid-to-mass ratio.

I glance up from the red puddles scattered about. The axes swoop overhead, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. The insect buzzing swells a full blown swarm. Guyt is about to deliver the killing blow, his blood-soaked horns glowing under the spotlights. I raise a broken arm instinctively against the incoming blow, clutching onto the thought of my family, hoping to leave this world with a shred of warmth.

“Goodnight and goodbye, puny pigfuuuu-” 

But he doesn’t finish. His cloven hooves slip on my blood. The brute stumbles, flails, and then finally topples forward, skewering himself upon my outstretched blade. He lets out a low, shuddering groan as he slides closer to me, blood and drool leaking from the sides of that stupid mask. 
Before he can crush me under his weight, I lift my foot and kick him off the blade. He hits the ground with a thunderous thud. The crowd falls into a hush, whispering in disbelief. My left eye is swollen shut, but I don’t need both eyes to see that Guyt is twitching helplessly.

I force myself to my feet and hobble over to him. The infantile mask lay in pieces on the arena floor, giving me a clear look at the monstrosity beneath. His bloodshot eyes roll aimlessly in their sockets. The stretch of his forehead between his horns has gaps in the flesh where his skull is exposed from old battles. His face is mangled and burned. His nostrils flare with each strained breath. Dark violet blood soaks his leather armor, spilling from the wound I inflicted. His jaw hangs open, his long tongue draped out, resting on the blood-smeared floor.

“No wonder you wore a mask,” I mutter, “That’s a face only a mother could love.” I drive both blades into his chest. His final breath is a rattling, strained gasp, as if his very soul struggles to escape the cruel prison of his body. I look up at the crowd that I had momentarily forgotten, gossiping with uncertainty. They can’t believe I won, especially without landing a single blow. For some reason, I expect them to applaud their winner, or at least boo me out of the arena. But nothing happens. Just silence, save for some puzzled chatter. 

“Are you not entertained?!” I bellow, arms raised, but I get no reaction. These deep sector xenos have no appreciation for the classics.

The announcer crackles, frantic. “Well, uh, folks, there you have it. The... pigfucker… I mean, the Human stands victorious. I guess he gets to live another day, huh?” Apparently not realizing the mic is still on, he mutters, “Dammit, I just lost a prike ton of shar on this little cudd.” The crowd erupts into angry shouts, tossing money to an overwhelmed bookie. The announcer laughs awkwardly at his microphone mishap. “Uh, heh, sorry bout that. Anyways, up next we got a real doozy, a fight for the ages! It’s Krillit the Slaughterer versus... ” 

But I can’t hear it anymore. My head spins in dark, throbbing waves of pain. Everything blurs, and I slump to the sandy metal floor. My vision fades to black.