Fan Fiction ❯ The Lotus Deception ❯ The Lotus ( Chapter 1 )

 

The blue sun and red moon rise together to spew upon the dank, previously shadow inhabited planet, an odd mixture of light that illuminates that one region where all dreams, desires, and realities come together and shatter into oblivion. The Lotus, perhaps the most prominent Arena in all of Sector 11, is an odd coliseum, unusually aesthetic for such a beastly gathering of psychotic heroes forced to prove their courage, sapphire roads and ruby sidewalks, the black grass blowing in invisible zephyrs as the two orbital stations bless the land with their bountiful lighting. The indigo sky seems to weep for the potential victims of The Lotus, bloody crimson tears falling to the planet, exploding on contact, to form a watery substance. Lines of humans and other species are slowly examined and pushed through the two great doors to prepare themselves for that honorable state named death. If deemed unfit, too weak, or otherwise lacking the ability to entertain, the poor prisoners are taken to the back of The Lotus, where the heap of other unusable masses lay. Granted, their futures were not always so bleak, but in The Lotus, you needed more than brawn to survive. As a matter of fact, strategy holds little place in this wretched realm, raw skill and talent surpassing all other means of obtaining victory. Potential combatants are pushed into small, dirty cells, the smell of peculiar molds and damp fungi lingering in the salty air, guardsmen of unbelievable proportions standing before their doors. This is where they would outfit themselves for future matches, nicknamed “Hell's Kitchen.” Hell's Kitchen (Hereon dubbed “HK”) is an odd means of weakening potential victors, as it handicaps those with talent, providing them with less equipment and options as time goes on. HK is linked to a massive cyber network named “Cephalin” which is proof of the most technological advancement any species has managed to create, being capable of materializing any armor, weapon, or item chosen from the list in each individual cell. Ironically, the list slowly becomes less generalized and useful as time goes on, again, this being of important notice. Audible screams and crying fills HK, being of male, female, unspecified, and even child origin. Torture was not uncommon when one lost-in fact-it was almost always encouraged by the mindless crowd of blood lusting psychopaths deemed spectators. Shouts of disappointment and anger fill HK as apparently a victor allows the prey to survive, the reward for doing so being a blighted title; idealism and good nature only hindered the strong, and eventually, it was fated they would all be extinguished in the fiery heat of battle. The heat produced by zealous belief and fervent emotion was always surpassed by the bloody battlefield in which seemed to taunt those of good morals, and soon, drove them to insanity. The Lotus is not known for its happy endings; it was a means of putting sinners to death, whether those imprisoned be innocent or not. There was no justice system, this was a sentence of death declared by the highest courts, and there was no escape. If one possibly managed to defeat all opponents and clear all rounds, they would not be spared. The title of hero was never given, and the fighting will never stop. The theory is that there is always another more powerful than the strongest; all that is required is time. Therefore, The Lotus only advances victors to other Arenas, where the previous defender would continue to fight for his or her life. The cycle ends at one point, but the name of such a place is unknown, only the most elite combatants actually being capable of reaching it. Rumor is, the final Arena is one where the most politically powerful figures attend, and is for personal amusement. Tales of the creatures and beings within it are long remembered, and often times backed up with odd truths and sayings. Nonetheless, The Lotus is the first of many of such Arenas, but is often the point of death to the prisoners. Another screech pierces the silence within HK, and the audience screams words of ecstasy as the sound of some liquid spraying the nearby cells. Crying emits from the youngest of prisoners, and parents attempt to cover the eyes of those precious dears, themselves too terrified by the happening. A crimson stream flows down a small drainage system that leads to a drain within the middle of HK, and all gaze upon it for a moment, wondering as to what it was, until it clicked. The wrenching of stomachs, upheaval of bowels, and yelps of horror begin as the blood is recognized and reacted to, and the guardsmen of each cell smile malevolently. One particular young man sits on a small bench in his cell, rocking back in forth, eyes wide and mouth trembling.

 

 

`Wha..Why am I here!? Just what is this shit? Blood! What's with all this blood!? Am I going to die? Who are they….why are we all here? Shit, shit, shit…what the hell!? How is it that I can't remember how I got here, or why? DAMMIT!' The thought falls first into place in his mind, as his hands clutch at the skin upon his thin face tightly, pulling it by some extent. Sweat begins to swell upon his fevered brow, before sliding down his face leaving trails of tear-like appearance. Inhalation results in the scent of blood and mold, and he curls towards his legs, expelling the contents of his stomach upon the floor, which provokes more gruesome sight. Shakingly wiping the sides of his mouth with his sleeve, he turns to the Cephalin screen before him, as the screensaver slowly dissipates, revealing the area by some camera angle. A small man garbed in some primitive armor slowly creeps towards a monster of a human, wielding only a club of immense measurement. Glancing towards the side of the screen, the statistics of each combatant appears. The challenger, a meek sixteen-year-old standing at a short height of five and one-half feet, weighing one-hundred and thirty pounds, is competing against the monster nicknamed “Atrophy”, standing at a gigantic eight feet, and weighing three hundred pounds. Staring into the screen, the young male's eyes dart across it, back and forth, up and down. `I don't get it. Why does this kid have to go against such a beast? He's gonna die!' He concludes, bringing a hand to his mouth, feeling the potential urge to once again vomit rising in his stomach.

 

`Oh my God, this guy…he's gonna be torn to pieces! In front of me! I would've thought this would be some sick shit back then, but right now it's too much. This is a life that's going to be extinguished before me, and for the entertainment of others? What kind of shit life has this become!?' He questions, eyes widening as the massive opponent rushes at the young adolescent. Atrophy rises that blunt weapon of catastrophic destruction, and brings it down towards the young man, whom narrowly avoids certain doom. The child swings his medieval blade into the exposed flesh of the giant, whom yelps out in agony, only to grit its teeth in vengeful nature, ripping the weapon from the child's hands. Blood seeps from the small wound, only cutting an inch or two into the monster's torso, and it raises a bloody hand to its eyes. Smiling cruelly, it licks it clean, and grips the bladed weapon with such pressure; it cracks before shattering like glass. The armored youngster begins to back peddle from the beast, but only to the point where cold stonewall meets back, and where the ability to run is forever lost. The crowd reacts with screeches of impatient nature, demanding the blood of the child be spilled shortly. The child begins to lose battlemind, and desperately scraping the wall for some means of escape, just one or two holds that could allow for fleeing…A loud crash is heard, and a cry emits from the young lad, who's arm falls limp to his side. Weeping uncontrollably, he falls to his knees clutching the ruined appendage, bleeding profusely, bruising immediately apparent. The humerus was ripped from its resting place, forming a compound fracture as it shredded through the flesh of the bicep, rendering it completely useless in the battle. “Please…Let me live!” He begs to the creature of cold, unfeeling eyes, and the suggestion only appears to further inflame the killing intent of the giant, whom raises the weapon once more, sending it with exploding force into the other arm of the child. Again, that familiar screech rips through the air, piercing all shouts of the spectators, and tears fall from the poor child's face as the arm is ripped from his torso from the sheer speed and force behind the weapon's decent. Weeping into his neck, the child remains motionless as the giant rests a foot upon his legs, and with one last swing, rising from the ground towards the sky, ends the match. Quietness falls upon the arena at that moment, all joy and elevated emotion completely silenced within the happening. The child's head finally reaches the sandy ground, expression still upon the soulless face, fear contorted into the form of a silenced scream, tears of crimson running down bruised cheeks. The victor raises the head into the air, where a multitude of cheers and shrieks fills the previously motionless stadium, and further expressions of gratitude continue as Atrophy lifts the head above his own, allowing the liquid to fall into his mouth, from the severed neck. Blood coated and satisfied, Atrophy raises his arms in victory, tossing the drained head into the bloody soil, exiting the stadium.

 

Words are uttered not from the sole spectator in HK, vomit seeping from between the closed fingers of the male, salty tears mixing with the disgusting compound, only propelling his urge to vomit once more. Turning from the screen, and falling against the wall, he stares into the ceiling in which drips an odd liquid unknown of substance upon his dirty face, and he begins to breathe in an irregular, heavy nature. “Oh my God…” He whispers to himself, staring at the screen as the announcers chatter about the happening. Weeping into gritty hands, he whimpers pathetically, ignoring the complaining of his personal guard.

 

“Get used to it, you bitch. I wouldn't get too comfortable either, because you never know who's gonna get called next…catch my drift, asshole!?” He demands, leaning close to the caged hell. The young man nods slowly, hiding his tears from the horrific personality, and curls into the fetal position, all sense of security and comprehension obliterated at once.

 

“God, please no, please no, please no…” He begins to chant, pupils dilating, eyes widening. “That's gonna be me…I'm gonna die…God, please no, please no, please…” He is interrupted by a chiming of his Cephalin, and he gradually rises to it, examining a keyboard that juts out from the wall. Nervously pushing the lone button that glows a soft fuchsia, a large list appears before him. “Oh…God no…” He begins, but the guard turns to him slowly, a cruel grin in the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hey, bitchass, guess what?” The guard inquires, turning once more as he clips a small radio to his waist. A chime rings out in the cell from a small PA system `No. 667, prepare yourself for The Lotus.' It states in a monotonous tone, as if referring his very soul to death. The screen quietly begins showing his statistics upon the screen, the announcers quickly granting his name to the eager audience.

 

“Alexander Cescario is on his way, patient audience, and he's lucky enough to go toe-to-toe with Gilant, the Decapitator.”