Upon the sands two men faced one another—one clad in rags, with but an old and rusted Roman short sword in trembling hand, the other a gladiator in heavy armor, bearing a finer blade and a shield upon which a serpent had been painted in coiling menace. As the armored man moved, he turned aside the slave's desperate strike with practiced ease and answered with his own, swift and clean, opening a shallow wound across the other's stomach.
At once the crowd rose to it.
Their roar came like a terrible storm breaking upon stone. It rolled along the tiers of the arena, struck the pillars, and returned again upon itself, until the very air seemed to tremble with it. Men leapt to their feet, shouting and stamping, calling for blood as though it were wine and they had long thirsted. Below, upon the pale sand, the two figures circled still, the weaker stumbling, the stronger unyielding, as the promise of death hung thick in the air.
Beneath that thunder, far below the sun and spectacle, lay the slave pens of the condemned.
There the world was dim and close, the air heavy with iron and sweat. Dust filtered down through the seams of the wooden planks above, thin as winter snow, settling upon chained shoulders and bare skin alike. In one such pen, pressed tight between stone and shadow, a small figure sat with wrists bound in iron and ankles ringed and linked, the weight of it dragging upon slight limbs. The garment upon that frame was little more than a torn cloth dress, hanging loose from narrow, feminine shoulders, stained with earth and long travel. And the hands that lay within those chains were narrow and fine, too slender for a man who had known war, though the marks of hardship lingered there all the same.
The figure stared at those hands as though they belonged to another, as though by long enough looking they might be understood. A faint tremor passed through them, scarcely seen. Above, the roar of the crowd deepened, and with it came a dull shower of dust. Slowly, the figure lifted their gaze.
Opposite, in the gloom, another sat—taller by far, broad in the shoulders though worn lean by hardship. His dark hair fell long about his face, and he was stripped to the waist, save for a cloth about his hips. His skin bore the memory of war and binding alike. He watched the falling dust as though it were a sign, then turned, and his eyes found the smaller one.
For a moment he said nothing.
Then, with a quick glance toward the passage beyond, he reached within the fold of his cloth and drew forth a small thing of dull metal, worn by time and handling. Leaning forward as far as the chain would allow, he pressed it into the other's hand.
"Take it," he said quietly. "Quickly."
The smaller one hesitated, then closed slender fingers around it. It was a little medal, crude in make, yet marked with a small smiling bunny giving a thumbs up, and beneath it words scratched by some patient hand: the brave one. The letters were uneven, but clear enough.
"I—" The voice that answered was light and sweet, yet full of uncertainty, caught between breath and thought. "What is this?"
The man's mouth curved, not in mockery, but in something softer, almost distant. "You said you had never been given a medal in your life," he replied. "Then take this. It is yours now." He dipped his head in a small, companionable gesture, as though they sat not in chains beneath a killing place, but beside a quiet fire. "A gift."
The smaller one's grip tightened. "Thank you," they said, and after a pause, "What is your name?"
The man looked toward the ceiling a moment, listening perhaps to the world above that would soon claim them both. Then he answered, as though the word bore little weight now.
"Spartacus."
The name struck like a spark.
"Spartacus? You—"
The rest was lost, for the door at the far end of the pen groaned open, iron against stone, and the light of torches spilled in, pushing back the dark. Four Roman soldiers entered, their armor dull in the half-light, keys clinking at their belts. One seized the smaller prisoner by the arm and hauled them roughly to their feet.
"Up, slave."
"Wait, what are you doing?" the voice rose, sharper now, edged with fear. "Let me go! You can't do this to me, I'm a United States citizen, okay? I have rights!"
A gauntleted hand struck the chain, silencing the protest with a harsh jolt. "Move."
They were driven from the pen and into the passage, where the air was thick and close, heavy with the smell of blood and death. Through a wooden door they were forced into a small chamber, and here the roar of the crowd was louder still. In one corner lay a heap of bodies, cast aside without ceremony, bloodied and still.
Without pause they were thrust onward, before a barred gate of iron. Through its narrow gaps the arena lay revealed, and upon its sands a gladiator held his blade at a slave's throat. The crowd demanded death, and the sword answered. A single stroke—clean and final—and blood spilled upon the sand as attendants hurried forth to drag the body away.
With wide eyes, the two watched.
Their chains were struck away.
In their place, weapons were thrust into their hands—if such they could be called. The blade given to the smaller one was rusted, its edge chipped and uneven, its weight heavy and unfamiliar. It trembled, though whether from the hand or the steel itself could not be said.
The gate creaked open.
Light poured in, blinding, and with it the full voice of the multitude. The sand stretched wide before them, marked already by dark stains not yet dry. At its center stood the armored gladiator, shield raised, sword ready, his stance eager and hungry.
The smaller one faltered. "No… no, this cannot—"
A hand came down upon her shoulder, firm and steady.
"Just stay behind, girl," Spartacus said calmly. "I will not let him touch you."
The smaller one looked up at him, confusion and fear warring within. "What? But I'm a man."
He glanced down, his gaze passing over the slight hourglass form, the bound chest beneath ragged cloth that could not wholly conceal it, the fine lines of face and limb that no dirt could hide. For a heartbeat, something like understanding flickered there.
"Well," he said, "you are then the most striking man I have ever seen, my little friend." His voice was low, yet carried quiet certainty. "Now stay behind me."
He stepped forward.
"Time to die, Thracian dog!" the gladiator spat.
Before steel could meet steel, another gate crashed open across the arena, and from it came three more—men armed with whatever tools of death had been given them: a spear, a heavy axe, a long blade too large for its bearer. They spread, circling, the sand shifting beneath their feet.
A horn sounded.
The man with the spear lunged first, a desperate thrust, and the smaller one moved without thought, slipping aside, the rusted blade cutting across his arm. He cried out in pain, and the crowd roared at the sudden spill of blood.
Yet as the man turned to strike again, he found that she was already running.
She fled across the sand, light and swift, while the crowd jeered and shouted. The spearman gave chase.
Meanwhile Spartacus engaged the others, his beginning harsh, his face struck by shield and force, though he yet endured, slipping between blows by instinct and will.
The smaller one ran for her life toward the stands where the high-born sat in shaded comfort, watching. She raised her voice, desperate and wild.
"Hey! Please, let me out! I'm not supposed to be here, okay! I'm American! You know—USA! And my name is Bruce, and I'm not a girl!"
But the men above only sneered, unmoved, their faces distant and cold.
Then she heard it—the roar behind her.
The spearman had not charged.
Instead, with a motion like a fisherman casting upon the sea, he flung a net.
Bruce rolled aside just as the net struck the wall with a heavy snap, the cords tangling uselessly against stone. She rose in the same motion, blade still clutched in trembling hand, and fled once more across the burning sand.
The heat bit at her bare feet as she ran, slipping and catching, breath breaking sharp within her chest. Around her the roar of the crowd pressed in from every side, vast and unrelenting, as though the arena itself were alive and hungry.
"Oh no, no, no—why me? Why is this happening to me?!" she gasped, the words spilling out between ragged breaths as her eyes darted wildly, seeking escape where none could be found.
Behind her, the pounding of footsteps drew nearer.
Closer.
She dared a glance over her shoulder—
—and stumbled.
Her foot struck against a jag of stone half-buried in the sand, and in an instant she was thrown forward, crashing hard to the ground as the breath was driven from her lungs. The world spun, sky and sand tearing across her vision.
The crowd answered at once.
A surge of sound—laughter, cheers, a terrible, eager hunger.
"YEAH!"
"Kill the slave!"
"Finish it!"
Near the railing above, a man leaned forward, his face lit with cruel delight, his voice cutting sharp through the roar.
"Die, girl! Die, slave, die!"
Beside him stood two boys, their small faces bright with excitement.
"Yeah!" they shouted. "Kill him! Kill him!"
Bruce stared up at them, dazed, disbelief flashing through her fear.
"…What the hell is wrong with you people?" she rasped. "You brought your kids here for this? What is this—some kind of family show?! And I'm not a girl, okay?!"
Behind her she heard it.
The rush of sand. The shift of weight. The breath of a man closing in.
She rolled and scrambled to her feet. Forcing herself upright just as the weapon came for her.
Not a spear, but a trident.
It lunged toward her face, swift and brutal, the three prongs aimed to pierce.
She reacted quickly not with thought, but pure instinct.
Her hand snapped out, striking the shaft, knocking it aside just enough—
The blades slid past her cheek, grazing flesh, leaving behind a thin, burning line.
She stepped in.
Close.
Too close.
Her sword slipped from her grasp, forgotten.
Her leg hooked behind his.
Her body turned beneath his arm—
Her palm struck his face with sharp precision.
And in that brief moment, with his balance faltering, she drove forward.
It was enough.
The man staggered, his weight shifting not back but sideways—
—and he fell.
Hard.
The crowd roared.
Bruce stumbled away, heart hammering, staring at him in shock.
"I—what—"
She turned, snatched up her fallen sword, spun back toward him, and raised it with shaking hands.
"Surrender! Just—just stop, okay?! I won! It's over!"
The man snarled, humiliation blazing in his eyes.
He rose.
Empty-handed now, his trident lying behind her.
He lunged.
She stepped back quickly, creating space, breath sharp, hands trembling.
"Don't—don't do this—"
But he came again with absolute rage which seemed to gift him speed.
He threw himself forward to tackle her and she reacted faster still.
The sword moved like a baton.
Pulled back high, and quickly slammed down towards his large leg muscles.
The blade bit deep into his thigh.
Blood spilled.
The man cried out, collapsing to one knee.
Seeing it Bruce froze.
"Oh shit—! I didn't mean to—! I forgot it's a sword—I thought I was using a baton—I'm sorry, it's just—my training instincts—"
She stared at the wound, panic rising like a flood.
"I wasn't—I didn't mean to cut you, I just—"
But he was already moving.
With a roar, he lunged at her again and they collided hard.
The world vanished in impact as he drove her to the ground, his weight crushing, his breath hot and furious.
"Damn you!" he spat. "I'll kill you for that!"
His fist rose and came down towards her, but she turned her head just in time.
The blow struck sand.
In the same motion her arm shot upward, and the sword hilt cracked against his nose.
Blood burst out.
His head snapped back, and for an instant—space opened between them, just enough.
Bruce forced the blade between them, arms shaking with the effort.
"Stop! Just stop!"
He hovered above her, breathing hard, blood pouring down his face, rage blinding him. The rusted blade pressed against his abdomen—but he did not see it, or did not care.
With a snarl, he drove forward again and impaled himself. The blade sank into him.
His own weight forced it deeper, and the hilt slammed into her ribs.
"—AH—fuck—!"
The air was driven from her lungs as pain flared through her chest.
He hung there, trembling, his face inches from hers.
His lips moved—
No words came.
Only blood.
Warm and thick, it spilled from his mouth, splattering across her face.
Bruce's eyes widened in horror.
"…oh, no—"
She winced, recoiling as the blood struck her skin, and shoved at him in panic, hands slipping as she forced his body aside. He rolled from her, collapsing onto the sand, hands weakly clutching at the blade lodged within him.
She scrambled back, shaking, staring.
"Oh God—what did I just—? I didn't mean to—why would you—why would you do that?!"
Her voice broke as she looked around wildly.
"First aid—okay—okay—what do I do—where are the paramedics—?! Please don't die, just—just hold on—!"
The crowd roared louder. They loved it, every second, and every drop.
Bruce looked up at them, horror etched across her face.
"You're all insane… what is wrong with you people?!"
Then she saw him across the arena, Spartacus stood there.
Around him lay bodies—two already fallen.
Before him, the last man dropped to his knees, disarmed, trembling, hands raised in desperate plea.
"Mercy!"
The crowd did not want mercy, their roar demanded death.
Spartacus did not hesitate. He raised both blades, set them at the man's neck and with a single, brutal motion he cut.
The head fell.
Blood sprayed across the sand.
For a heartbeat, something like silence gathered around him, as he stood tall and unyielding, a sword in each hand, the dead at his feet.
Then the roar returned.
Louder than ever.
Bruce stared at him, breath shaking, eyes wide.
"…what the fuck…"
Then her gaze broke.
It fell to the man beside her—the one who yet clung to life, his hands weak upon the blade buried in him, his breath ragged and fading.
"Please—!" she cried, her voice breaking as she stumbled toward him. "Somebody, help! He's dying—please, you have to help him!"
Her words rose into the vastness of the arena—
—and were swallowed.
For a moment there was only silence.
Then, slowly, laughter began.
It spread through the crowd like a ripple across dark water, soft at first, then swelling, until it became a cruel and mocking chorus. Faces leaned forward, amused, delighted, as though she had said something wonderfully absurd.
"But he's dying!" she shouted, turning wildly toward them. "What are you laughing at? What's so funny?!"
The laughter only grew.
Then—
A movement among the high seats.
Above the arena, where shade and silk replaced dust and blood, a man rose.
He stood tall among the gathered nobles, his presence commanding, his bearing effortless. Light caught upon hair of pale gold, and his eyes—cold, piercing, a clear and icy blue—looked down upon the sands as though they were his alone. His features were sharp, almost regal, and upon his brow rested a crown.
At once, a voice rang out:
"Silence!"
The laughter died.
The arena stilled.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Below, she looked up at him, her eyes narrowing, confusion flickering through her fear.
"…Frank?" she said, her voice small, uncertain. "Is that you?"
The man smiled, a knowing smile.
"Come now," he called down, his voice clear, carrying across the arena as though it belonged there. "The show is not over yet, Bruce."
A tremor passed through her.
"Get up," he said.
The words were no longer a suggestion.
They were a command.
"Get up… and face him."
He gestured lightly toward Spartacus.
"Let the two of you decide who lives. Kill each other!"
The crowd stirred again, their silence breaking into eager murmurs, anticipation rising like a gathering storm.
"What?" she whispered, shaking her head. "No—I—I can't—"
Spartacus moved.
He turned toward her.
His eyes, dark and steady, held no cruelty—only a quiet, unyielding acceptance.
"…I am sorry, girl," he said.
He stepped forward.
"But it is time."
The blades in his hands lowered slightly, then steadied.
"Time to die."
Spartacus advanced, and the sand shifted beneath his feet in a slow and certain rhythm, as though even the earth itself yielded to his coming. The twin blades in his hands caught the light, their edges dark with blood, and for a fleeting moment the world narrowed to that single point between them, to steel and breath and the space that separated life from death. Bruce did not rise at once, but trembled where she knelt, her body seized between fear and instinct, until at last her hand found the shaft of the fallen trident and closed about it with desperate certainty. Then she stood. Across the distance Spartacus came for her, swift and unrelenting, and the crowd stirred once more, their silence breaking into a low, hungry murmur that seemed to crawl along the stones like something living.
Then the earth trembled.
It was no mere shaking of sand, but a deep and growing unrest, as if the bones of the world had begun to stir beneath the weight of what was to come. Yet Spartacus did not falter.
"Dont fear, I'll make it quick," he said.
And then he came.
Steel met iron. The clash rang out, sharp and terrible, and Bruce felt the world snap forward around her, time itself seeming to lurch and bend as her body moved without command, without thought, as though guided by some hidden memory not her own. The trident struck and turned and flowed, her movements sudden and precise, too swift for fear to follow. In her own mind she watched herself as if from afar—some skilled spear-wielding warrior, fluid and sure—though she was certain, in some distant and crumbling part of her, that she was no such thing, that she was not even meant to stand there at all. The arena cracked. Lines split through the sand beneath her feet, glowing faintly as though the earth itself were breaking apart. Spartacus' blade met the shaft of her weapon with a force that shuddered through her bones, driving her back as the ground slid beneath her heels. Again he struck, and again she turned it aside, barely, the edge passing her throat by the width of breath, and she answered with a thrust that forced him to leap back into the widening chaos.
He was not rushing her. He was not overwhelming her.
He was testing her.
Above, a voice rang out, clear and terrible.
"Do it, Bruce! Kill him!"
The words struck deeper than steel, echoing strangely, too sharp, too loud, cutting through her thoughts like a blade that knew her name.
"I don't want to!" she cried, stumbling beneath another strike, her voice breaking as the ground quivered beneath her. "Please—I don't want to do this!"
But Spartacus came on. Relentless.
The trembling deepened. At first it was only a shiver, then a rumble, low and rising, until the arena itself split apart in jagged lines of fire. Heat surged upward, flame bursting forth from the fractures as the world was cast in red and gold. And still the crowd did not flee. They cheered. Even as fire took them, as flesh blackened and fell from bone, they roared louder still, a chorus of death that would not be silenced.
Bruce's breath caught in her throat.
"…what—what is happening—?!"
The sky above darkened, choking with ash, the light of the world swallowed into a dim and dying glow. The arena broke in two, the ground tearing open as fire and molten stone surged upward like the wrath of some buried god. Figures fell screaming into the depths, and among them she thought she saw Frank, vanishing into the blaze.
"No—!"
And then through the fire he came again. Spartacus leapt from the rising flame, his form wreathed in heat, blades raised high as he descended upon her. Bruce's eyes widened, and in that instant she raised the trident, and he fell upon it. The force drove the breath from her lungs as the weapon pierced him through, and she was forced to release it as his weight carried him down. His swords came loose in that same motion, and without knowing how or why she caught them, one in each hand, as he collapsed before her.
He sank to his knees.
And she stood above him.
The blades found his neck.
Spartacus looked up.
And he smiled.
"…good," he said softly. "You have learned well, girl."
There was no anger in him. No fear. Only certainty.
"Now… do it."
Around them the world decayed. The crowd twisted into something no longer human, their faces hollowed, their skin falling away, yet still they cheered, their voices rising higher and higher in a sound that belonged not to life but to death itself.
Bruce looked around in horror.
"…Frank… where are you…?"
But Frank was gone.
And then memory came.
Not as thought, but as fragments—sharp, broken, undeniable. Snow. Fire. Hands dragging her through frozen ground. Frank shouting, his voice desperate. The fuel tank—exploding. Heat swallowing everything. His body over hers, shielding her as the world burned.
And the truth came with it.
It was her fault.
"…I didn't mean to…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry…"
Then Spartacus spoke again, and his voice was no longer his alone.
"Do it," he said. "What are you waiting for? You killed him. You failed again. Because of you he will never see his family again. You failed, Bruce. You failed, just as you always do, you useless, overgrown thing."
The words struck like blows, and suddenly she saw herself—not as she stood now, but as she had been. A large, awkward man in cheap, worn clothes, sunglasses perched foolishly upon his strange egg shaped bold head, trying to be something he was not, and failing, always failing. In his hand she saw the medal—the small, smiling bunny, the thumbs up, the words: the brave one.
And then he heard it.
"Bruce… wake up."
At those words the world shattered, not as glass breaks, but as something deeper—like a dream torn apart at its roots—and he was pulled from it with sudden force, his body lurching as breath returned to him in a sharp and startled gasp. He found himself in the car once more, the dim glow of the dashboard before him, the radio casting a pale light that marked the hour as one in the morning, the twenty-fifth of December. Beyond the windshield stretched the cold and silent mountainside, cloaked in darkness and snow, and there ahead of them stood the great three-story mansion, looming still and watchful beneath the night.
Beside him sat Frank, steady and composed, though a faint crease had formed upon his brow as he glanced over. "Come on, man, at least try to stay awake," he said, his voice low but firm. "This is a stakeout, remember? I'm calling it in. Just keep an eye on those windows—if lights turn on or there's movement, say something. We don't want to mess this up. By the looks of all those blacked-out cars in the yard, there's at least fifty guys in there. Armed and dangerous."
Bruce heard him, yet the words seemed to drift past like wind through branches, for his gaze had already fixed upon something else—the fuel tank, long and silent beside the mansion wall, half-hidden in shadow as though waiting to be seen. Without quite knowing why, he raised a hand and pointed toward it. "No… wait, Frank… what if we blow that thing up?"
Frank did not hesitate. He shook his head at once. "Absolutely no."
And yet—
The moment slipped.
It was as though the world had shifted beneath him, the ground of it giving way without warning, and suddenly he was no longer in the car but outside, the cold air biting at his face as he moved across the snow, his breath rising in pale clouds before him. His steps were heavy, too loud, too certain, and yet he did not stop. In moments he had reached the tank, his hands already moving, already searching, already drawing forth the lighter from his pocket. He set it down with care, as though it were something small and fragile, a timer born of desperation, and then turned to the valve and forced it open.
The metal groaned.
Fuel spilled.
And in that instant—
the world changed.
A man stepped from the darkness beside the building, drawn by the sound, his voice sharp with suspicion as he moved forward. Bruce did not think. He reacted. His body surged forward, too large, too sudden, crashing into the man and driving him down into the snow. There was struggle—brief, frantic—and then his fist fell.
A crack.
Bone.
Silence.
Bruce froze.
Blood spread beneath his hands, dark against the white, and for a moment he could not move, could not breathe, could not understand what he had done.
Then the lights came.
Floodlights burst into life around the mansion, harsh and blinding, tearing away the shadows. Voices rose—shouts, anger, confusion—and then gunfire erupted, sharp and violent, ripping through the stillness of the mountain night. Somewhere behind him Frank was shouting, returning fire in controlled bursts, his voice cutting through the chaos, but it was already too much.
There were too many of them.
Bruce stumbled back, his hands shaking as he grabbed his weapon and fired again and again, the recoil jolting through him as figures fell into the snow. Each one struck him deeper than the last, not with pain, but with something worse—a weight he did not know how to carry. He did not want this. He had never wanted this. He only wanted to do the right thing. Why could they not simply stop? Why could they not just… get along?
"I didn't mean to…"
The words fell from him, lost beneath the gunfire.
And then the memory broke apart.
Fragments.
Voices.
Snow.
Frank shouting.
Hands dragging him across the frozen ground, his body heavy, unresponsive, leaving a trail behind him.
"Stay with me!"
"No… leave me, Frank… I'm done… just go… think of Sarah… the kids… you promised her…"
"Yes—but I promised you first!"
The words rang clear, fierce and unyielding.
"We are partners. In this life and the next—it doesn't matter. I'm not leaving you, Bruce. Never. I intend to keep my promise, even if I die!"
Then—
light.
The tank ignited.
The world was swallowed in flame.
Heat surged outward, devouring everything, and in that final moment Frank came over him, shielding him, holding him fast as the fire took them both.
"I've got you."
And then—
nothing.
No sound.
No thought.
No pain.
Only silence.
And yet—
as the memory settled, as it folded in upon itself like something closing at last, Bruce became aware once more—not of cold, nor of fire, nor of the world he had known—but of something else entirely.
Warmth.
Soft.
Endless.
He floated.
Weightless.
His body was no longer his own, or if it was, it had become something smaller, distant, half-forgotten. He could not see. He could not open his eyes. He could not even tell where he ended and the world began, for all around him was a gentle enclosing presence, living, breathing, pulsing with a steady rhythm that was not his own.
It held him.
Carried him.
Moved him without effort.
And though he did not understand, though his thoughts drifted and slipped like something unformed, there was a quiet certainty buried deep within him, beyond fear, beyond memory, beyond even the pain he had left behind.
He had fallen.
He had burned.
He had died.
And now, in that silence and in warmth, he was beginning again.