1 El Colosseum

PEOPLE USED TO SAY THAT CHANGE DOESN'T HAPPEN OVERNIGHT; it takes time to work your way into or out of a situation.

But that was all until the 'invasion' happened three days ago.

It really wasn't an invasion – that's just what the average civilian would call it. For how can you invade a place you were already in? It isn't technically an invasion. What happened was, as some might say, an inverse of powers.

It didn't start first with the breakout; a single facility disbanded by their cunning and deception. No, that didn't happen until much later. Every few months, one Foreigner would show themselves, trying to get civilians to pay attention, trying to invoke bedlam in the public eye, which we government workers were told to disregard. Trying to get the High Government to pay attention to them. Once they broke out, they began dethroning presidents, kings, queens, mayors, governors, etc., i.e. anyone with a considerable amount of power. It was showed on public TV, President Tod Bell the Bull with all of his Cabinet and his Vice President Blake Shaw the Cow tied up and force to revoke their titles.

They dismantled the police with mayhem and mischief in community streets. If they weren't killed or driven mad, many of them quit. The cops, I mean.

For years, Foreigners had managed to keep their true identities hidden, not willing to be taken in by the High Government if exposed. Even if people first genuinely thought it was a hoax.

I guess I can't really blame them though. When you've been put down all your life about something you can't control, and persecuted for these same things – coerced by misunderstanding, jealousy, and let's not forget fear – you'd want to proceed onto the path of world domination too.

But does world domination really have to force civilians to fight like ancient hooligans in a colosseum, and for what little scraps they're willing to give us?

I just thought that when the 'alien invasion' happened, we'd be a lot more progressive than perhaps savages.

It's dirty in here – literally, the floor is made of dirt – and dark and crowded and hot. So hot, you can just lay there and sweat for absolutely no reason whatsoever. People are crying, 'cause who's ever had to fight to the death before? Very few of us, I imagine.

Only two types of people were going into these arenas as fighters; the signers and the taken. Signers, as in they signed up to be here with all the rewards and consequences in mind, and the taken, as in they were caught by Foreigners and are put in to fight for their new societal status. The rules aren't entirely complicated, and neither are the consequences, but the compensation is a bit more labyrinthian. Already in three days, people had fallen to the lowest of the low, and it was an odd sight especially if they'd been someone high up in life. The President, for example, was now shovelling cow shit simply because they could make him.

Ironic.

"Please, Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, please," I hear someone whisper. Without barely turning my head, I take a quick glance over and see a blonde woman in a business suit on her knees, hands clasped together, head bowed as she trembles. She's being so quiet in her corner that no one else can hear her. "I'm so sorry for everything I've done. Please forgive my sins; I was only doing them because I was lost!"

I squint my eyes. This woman, her voice sounds kind of familiar.

"Please forgive my sins. Please get me out of here. I don't want to die here."

"I don't think He's listening."

Her heads snaps up.

Vicky Valentinov.

"Oh," I say, bluntly and disappointed as well, glancing away. The familiarity registers on her own face. "No wonder He's not listening. I think you've made His ears bleed."

Snap!

Knowing exactly what the sound is, I wince. Looks like Mr. Big & Beefy just won his fight. It wasn't even fair. He must've been ten times the size of that scrawny little boy at least. The crowd went crazy, cheering loudly. Foreigners are obsessed with this kind of thing now. Of course, some get no satisfaction out it, but those who've been wronged beyond forgiveness of humans? They don't give a damn who gets hurt. Not like it really matters anyway. We won't really die.

"Y-You." Her voice is breathless. She smiles briefly like she's relieved, chuckling. "It's you!"

"It's you," I repeat after her. My tone doesn't have quite the exhilarated effect that hers does. "Come to support criminals again, have we?"

"I-I – "

"Don't bother, Vale." I hope she gets her ass kicked in the arena. "There's no one to protect you now."

I lean back, but hiss as I do. The callous stone wall presses against the bruise at the back of my head. Soon enough, the bruise at the back of my head would be the size of a chicken egg.

The bar door rolls up, clinking unlawfully loud, and a head pops in. Bright green snake roll around the room – ah, I think it's too strong a word – and land right on me. He blinks his second set of eyelids and yells, "You! With the lab coat!" He sneers at me, probably knowing exactly who I used to be to the world. He doesn't say anything else though, just motions me forward with his hand.

I grumble standing up. On my way out, I catch a guy staring at me. He's standing along the wall, arms crossed over his chest and his ankles folded over one another. Dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. The only thing that doesn't make him so non-descript is the scar over his left eye.

The door slams down once again. "What is your name, human?"

"Charlie. It's Charlie Deckard."

"Stand over there, human."

What was the point of him asking for my name, only to degrade me by the inevitable term of my existence. One that may not even be completely correct to some standard.

He points to a big red X in the sand-like ground. There's two of them, several metres apart, each on either side of the arena. On one side where the winners went, and the other where losers went.

Not the doors we – me and the enemy – came out of.

Speak of the devil.

She came out looking somewhat like the woman from the We Can Do It posters from World War II. Red bandana tied over short, dark brown hair, blue collared overalls unbuttoned to show  a white wife beater underneath. I think she's got a unibrow and her muscles have muscles.

Over what could be some magical intercom, a metallic hype-man introduced us to the people. "You know her, you love her. The greatest, the best, MISSYYYYY REEVERRRRRRRRRRR!"

The crowd goes absolutely mad. She twists her neck from one side to the other and cracks her knuckles in succession, eyeing me like I'm the missing turkey and greens at an old black woman's Thanksgiving dinner.

I glance up in an attempt to find where the voice is coming from. High up, in – I don't know what the definitive term is but – what I can only describe as a tent – a ripped cloth tent with thrones – was a floating disk. A Zorg to be more specific, though I guess you could call it a drone. Zorgues in any case are made by Foreigners – a Foreigner, I should say – the smartest of them, a certain one by the name of Imorzan, AKA Immanuel, his human persona. He's a bit of an...eccentric character, no matter who he's pretending to be.

We'd have to have a talk when I get out.

But, as I was saying, a Zorg has the ability to express human emotion, both in physical and in mental. There's a screen for the face in which they may smile, frown, seethe, etc. Their voice boxes, as well, can display any level of human sadness, anger, or delight, mayhap better than a human can. Unless, of course, there is either a defect in their voice-box or one in their brain. And yes, they have brains.

It isn't what caught me off guard though.

It was Dominick.

And it seemed he'd recognised me as well.