...
Darkness.
Then light.
Lucius opened his eyes. Bathroom stall. Sitting on the closed lid. His own clothes, his own body—just a completely different location. The air felt immediately colder, sterile.
Something covered his face. He reached up, feeling cold, smooth metal. A mask with eye sockets, locked at the back of his head. He could see through it—narrow slits that limited peripheral vision but allowed forward sight. He tried to pull it off. It wouldn't budge.
Security measure. Limits what contestants can see on the way in.
Next to him on the floor sat a dark blue duffel bag. His change of clothes.
He grabbed the bag, checking himself. Everything was intact. The swap had just relocated him perfectly.
He waited minutes went by.
A PA system crackled to life above: "Contestant Number 27, King, report to Security Checkpoint Alpha."
That's me.
He exited the stall. Industrial bathroom—white tile, fluorescent lights, cold. Empty.
Outside lay a waiting area. The space stretched wider than he'd expected—probably designed to hold dozens of masked fighters during peak arrival times. Rows of metal benches lined both walls, bolted to the floor. Scratches and dents marked the seats, evidence of years of nervous contestants waiting their turn. Fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh white, making the few remaining people look washed out and skeletal.
Only a handful remained now—late arrivals like him. Most sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, masks making them all anonymous shadows. Armed guards stationed at intervals watched with professional disinterest.
Down the hallway beyond the waiting area, Lucius could see a checkpoint glowing in the distance.
He walked past the remaining contestants. A few looked up, but no one spoke.
---
Security Checkpoint Alpha sat at the end of a long corridor.
The checkpoint itself was a wide room with armed guards at every corner—full tactical gear, assault rifles, the works. Three staff members in white uniforms sat behind a long counter: two men, one woman.
Beyond them, the hallway split three ways. Straight ahead: massive reinforced doors marked ENTERTAINMENT DISTRICT - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Left: signs pointing to branching corridors. Right: TOURNAMENT ARENA.
The woman in the center looked up as Lucius approached. "Number 27?"
"Yes."
"Come forward." She pulled out a specialized electronic key with a built-in biometric scanner. "Removing mask."
She inserted the key into the back of Lucius's mask. A click, then a hiss. The mask came free.
The woman paused. Her eyes lingered on his face—longer than a professional assessment required.
One of the male staff members glanced over, doing a double-take at her reaction.
Lucius kept his expression neutral. He was used to this by now.
The woman cleared her throat, her professional demeanor sliding back into place. "Take out any items or weapons you have on you. Nothing will be allowed past this point."
Lucius set the duffel bag on the counter first. "Here. Change of clothes."
One of the male staff members unzipped it and quickly rifled through it. Pants, shirts, underwear, socks. He zipped it back up. "Clothes are fine."
Lucius opened his jacket. "Sure."
He pulled out his handgun and placed it on the counter.
Then four grenades. One by one.
The staff members stared.
Brass knuckles. A folding knife. A small canister of pepper spray. A length of heavy chain. A second knife. A jar of—
"Is that jam?" one of the male staff asked.
"Strawberry." Lucius kept going. Protein bars. A flashlight. A roll of duct tape. A screwdriver. Another grenade. A small first-aid kit.
The guards were watching now, expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion.
A lighter. A pack of gum. A USB drive. A small notebook. A pen. Three more protein bars. A chocolate bar. A—
"Oh, that's where it was." Lucius pulled out a banana, slightly bruised. He peeled it, took a bite.
The woman behind the counter looked at him. Just looked.
Lucius kept pulling. A coil of wire. A small hammer. Zip ties. A whistle. Another flashlight. A bag of trail mix. A—
"Is that a rubber duck?" the second male staff member asked.
"For morale." Lucius set it down.
Finally, he shook his jacket. Nothing rattled. He patted himself down, checking his pockets.
He finished the banana and casually dropped the peel on the floor.
"That's all."
The woman's expression was somewhere between professional and deeply tired. "Is that all?"
Lucius nodded.
One of the guards pointed at the floor. "Oy! Pick that shit up!"
Lucius looked down at the banana peel. Looked back at the guard. "Nah."
The guard's expression darkened. "What did you just say?"
"I said nah. Pretty sure you got guys whose job is to clean shit up down here," Lucius said, keeping his tone casual, almost bored. "Let them do it."
The guard's hand tightened on his rifle. The tension in the room spiked. Other guards shifted, readying their weapons.
But they couldn't act. Contestants were valuable merchandise. The Big Boys wouldn't appreciate a damaged fighter before the first bell rang.
The guard settled for a glare that promised future pain.
The woman cut in. "Proceed."
Lucius turned toward the body scanner—
"Oh wait, I forgot something."
He reached into his jacket one more time, pulling out a small glass container. An ant farm. The kind kids kept, complete with branching tunnels and a colony of ants moving through the blue gel and sand.
He took a step toward the counter—
His foot hit the banana peel.
Lucius's arms pinwheeled. The ant farm flew from his hands, tumbling through the air.
It shattered on the hard floor.
Glass exploded everywhere. Sand and gel spread across the tile. And the ants—dozens of them—scattered in every direction.
"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" One of the staff rushed forward, but the ants were already dispersing, crawling rapidly into cracks, between the heavy security equipment, and under the baseboards.
The guard who'd demanded he pick up the peel gave a satisfied scoff, grinning at the instant karma.
"Shit, sorry, sorry." Lucius picked himself up, brushing glass off his knees, playing the part of the loud, clumsy idiot perfectly. "Accident. My bad."
Behind the flustered apologies, his sharp eyes tracked the ants as they vanished into the facility's deep infrastructure. Perfect.
The staff scrambled. One grabbed a comm: "We need maintenance in Checkpoint Alpha. Biological contamination."
The woman looked at Lucius with exhausted patience. "Just—go through the scanner."
Lucius did, arms raised. Clean. One of the male staff performed a pat-down. Also clean.
"You're good." The man handed him back his duffel bag, then called over one of the guards—not the antagonized one. "Escort him to fighter quarters."
As they walked toward the left corridor, Lucius noticed it split again—left fork marked STAFF QUARTERS, right fork FIGHTER QUARTERS. They took the right path.
The guard gave rapid-fire instructions. "Fighter quarters down this hall. You'll be assigned a room. Training area is open 24/7. Meals three times a day in the mess hall. Public toilets are in the hallway if you need them, but your room has a bathroom. Tournament arena opens once matches begin. Entertainment District is completely off-limits unless personally invited by an executive. Don't even think about trying."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They stopped at a heavy door marked 27. "Your room. Someone will get you for the tournament briefing. Until then, stay in quarters. Don't cause trouble."
"I'm the picture of good behavior."
The guard's expression suggested he didn't believe that for a second.
The door locked from the outside after Lucius entered.
Small room. Bed, desk, bathroom. Spartan but functional.
Lucius set the duffel bag on the bed and waited for the heavy footsteps to fade down the hall. He didn't drop his act immediately. He let out a loud, exaggerated groan, stretched his arms, and began pacing lazily around the small perimeter of the room. He ran a hand along the walls, opened the bathroom door to peek inside, and casually scanned the corners, the ventilation grate, and the seams in the ceiling tiles.
They were watching. They definitely have cameras in here; the Big Boys wouldn't leave a blind spot in the fighter quarters.
Once he had a solid read on the room's sightlines, he flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the concrete ceiling.
Beneath his relaxed posture, his casual demeanor vanished. He frowned, his mind racing.
It was too smooth. Way too smooth.
The backdoor perfectly presenting itself. The registration name being King. The sheer convenience of getting exactly where he needed to be.
Someone had laid out a red carpet right into the viper's nest. Someone wanted him here specifically.
The question was: who, and what did they want from him?
---
TO BE CONTINUED