Arena One: Slaverunners

He smiles back, even as he winces in pain. “The last one. When you decided to crash into a train. Nice move,” he says, and I can’t tell whether he means it or is being sarcastic.

“My brother was on the train,” he adds. “Did you see him?”

“I saw him board,” I say. “Then I lost him.”

“Do you know where the train was going?”

I shake my head. “Did you see my sister on it?”

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t really tell. It all happened so fast.”

He looks down, distraught. A heavy silence follows. He seems so lost. The sight of his crooked finger bothers me, and my heart goes out to him. I decide to stop being so edgy, and to show him some compassion.

I reach out and take his injured hand in both of mine. He looks up at me, surprised.

His skin is smoother than I’d expected; it feels as if he’s never worked a day in his life. I hold his fingertips gently in mine, and am surprised to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.

“Let me help you,” I say, softly. “This is going to hurt. But it needs to be done. We have to straighten it before it sets,” I add, lifting his broken finger and examining it. I think back to when I was young, when I’d fallen in the street and come in with a broken pinky finger. Mom had insisted on taking me to a hospital. Dad had refused, and had taken my finger in his hands and snapped it back into place in one quick motion, before my Mom could react. I had screamed in pain, and I remember even now how much it hurt. But it worked.

Ben looks back at me with fear in his eyes.

“I hope you know what you’re doing – ”

Before he can finish, I have already snapped his crooked finger back into place.

He screams out, and backs away from me, holding his hand.

“Damn it!” he screams, pacing around, holding his hand. Soon he calms, breathing hard. “You should have warned me!”

I tear a thin strip of cloth off of my sleeve, take his hand again, and tie the injured finger to its neighbor. It is a lame stint, but it will have to do. Ben stands inches away, and I can feel him looking down at me.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and there is something in his voice, something intimate, that I haven’t sensed before.

I feel the butterflies again, and suddenly feel I am too close to him. I need to stay clear-headed, strong, detached. I back away quickly, walking over to my side of the cell.

I glance over and see that Ben looks disappointed. He also looks exhausted, dejected. He leans back to the wall, and slowly slumps down to a sitting position, resting his head on his knees.

It’s a good idea. I do the same, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in my legs.

I take a seat opposite him in the cell, and lower my head into my hands. I’m so hungry. So tired. Everything aches. I would do anything for food, water, painkillers, a bed. A hot shower. I just want to sleep – forever. I just want this whole thing behind me. If I’m going to die, I just want it to happen quickly.

We sit there for I don’t know how long, both in silence. Maybe an hour passes, maybe two. I can’t keep track anymore.

I hear the sound of his belabored breathing, through his broken nose, and my heart goes out to him. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. I wonder when they will come for us, when I will hear those boots again, marching us to our deaths.

Ben’s voice fills the air, a soft, sad, broken voice: “I just want to know where they took my brother,” he says, softly. I can hear the pain in his voice, how much he cares for him. It makes me think of Bree.

I feel the need to force myself to be tough, to force myself to stop all of this self-pitying.

“Why?” I snap back. “What good would it do? There’s nothing we can do about it anyway.” But in truth, I want to know the same thing – where they’ve taken her.

Ben shakes his head sadly, looking crushed.

“I just want to know,” he says softly. “For my own sake. Just to know.”

I sigh, trying not to think of it, not to think about what’s happening to her right now. About whether she thinks I’ve let her down. Abandoned her.

“Did they tell you they’re putting you in the arena?” he asks. I can hear the fear in his voice.

My heart flutters at the thought. Slowly, I nod.

“You?” I ask, already guessing the answer.

Grimly, he nods back.

“They say no one survives,” he says.

“I know,” I snap back. I don’t need reminding of this. In fact, I don’t want to think about it at all.

“So, what are you gonna do?” he asks.

I look back at him.

“What do you mean? It’s not like I have any options.”

“You seem to have a way out of everything,” he says. “Some last-minute way of dodging things. What’s your way out of this one?”

I shake my head. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but to no avail.

“I’m out of ways,” I say. “I’ve got nothing.”

“So that’s it?” he snaps back, annoyed. “You’re just going to give up? Let them bring you to the arena? Kill you?”

“What else is there?” I snap back, annoyed myself.

He squirms. “I don’t know,” he says. “You must have a plan. We can’t just sit here. We can’t just let them march us off to our deaths. Something.”

I shake my head. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hurt. I’m starving. This room is solid metal. There are hundreds of armed guards out there. We’re underground somewhere. I don’t even know where. We have no weapons. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.

Except one thing, I realize. I can go down fighting.

“I’m not letting them march me to my death,” I suddenly say, in the darkness.

He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to fight,” I say. “In the arena.”

Ben laughs, more like a derisive snort.