Chapter Text
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The voice rung out into the large stadium like thunder. All around the arena-like structure spotlights shone and roamed over the swarmed crowd dazzlingly. Projections of glittering animals and creatures stampeded over their heads, crashing into each other in giant explosions of coloured sparks and shimmering sound. It was a spectacle to behold.
"Are you ready for what we have in stall for you tonight?"
The roar of the audience was deafening. Their feet stamped in uneasy synchrony and it shook the foundations of the gigantic structure. Their chants filled the air; anticipation buzzed in a hot, palpable, delirious cloud.
The sight made the host laugh encouragingly from their small podium high above, flanked by royal velvet curtains of the richest red with gold trimmings. They bathed in the heat of the blinding spotlight, welcomed and familiar against their scales.
All eyes were on him. The applause was for him.
He grinned handsomely at the mystic cameras. His image was projected on the panoramic screens that mounted the walls of the stadium. They sat above the seats, so no matter where you looked, the battlefield was close enough for the audience to see. Whether it was first row or last, no one would be without a good view.
The host stepped further out onto his platform to let the entire stadium bask in his presence. It was like his debut all over again — eccentric, bright, eye-catching, attention-snatching. Every entrance and exit was as grand as his first, and the host ensured this every tournament.
Eyes blue, scales green, stripes red, smile beaming and handsome. A black silk mask covered his eyes, lined with shimmering gold, with long tails that flittered about behind him in the uproar of the opening ceremony. Though the mask wasn’t to disguise himself; everyone in the Hidden City knew his name, and that’s the way he liked it.
"Because boy, do we have a show for you tonight!"
His eyes scanned the crowd as he announced into the retro microphone stand. He winked at the drone cameras that whirred around him, and the crowd squealed in response. From this high, he couldn’t discern a single feature of the audience below. They were a sea of mottled blobs, of colours, of flashing lights and movement that danced beneath his feet.
Like the bugs they were.
With the dramatic snap of his fingers the small stage detached from main entrance. It hovered out into the centre of the arena, high above the depressed oval covered in sand where his champions would soon debut.
The long tails of his mask flickered excitedly behind him, as did the long glittery red of his ringmaster’s coat. It was decorated with gold chains, epaulettes, ropes, and trimmings to make it all the more grand. Beneath that was a brocade waistcoat and a garnet bolo tie encrusted with gold that gleamed under the spotlight. With his white-gloved hands he tipped his black top hat to the audience with a charismatic chuckle and a smirk that promised nothing less than excitement and danger. The screams and cries that rattled the stadium only furthered the announcer’s ego.
It was hard not to swoon when he looked this good.
From the rare, plumed feather that coiled from the gold ribbon around the crown of his top hat, to the polished dancing shoes and embroidered slacks, he was bathed in wealth. His scales were perfect, his outfit without blemish, and his smile was the cherry on top. He was beloved by all.
"We have some familiar faces, some new ones," he continued to introduce, to the delight of the audience, "And, of course, a night full of entertainment for the whole family! Even old Grandma Xandullia will get up and cheer with what I have in stall for you tonight folks!"
A roar of laughter bellowed from below and the announcer joined in as he righted his top hat on his bald head. The sound was music to his ears; it was a symphony that showed him he still had it even after years of presenting. Years of flaunting himself about like a pompous bird of paradise, and they still ate it up like the starving mongrels they were.
His smile beamed despite his hatred. He saw passed their cheers at right at the monsters they all were beneath. Animals, the lot of them. But that was fine — he considered himself a farmer, a shepherd, a butcher. He would wrangle his cattle, his crop, and milk them dry before he slaughtered, carved, cooked, and ate them with a bit of garlic.
Delicious.
"So hold onto your seats folks!"
Fireworks erupted overhead; the stadium was bathed in shades of oranges, reds, golds, pinks, and blues. Above them all stood him, haloed by the rainbow light like a god as his shadow cast over the unworthy filth below.
"And give it up for our wonderful competitors! The real stars of tonight's show!"
He applauded as the commencement horns sounded. It vibrated the inner ear bones of the audience and could be felt underfoot. The sheep followed his lead with doubled vigour — they roared, screamed, stomped, clapped, cheered. Mindless delight for mindless violence.
He laughed good naturedly as his podium slowly returned to the velvet curtains, but his canines flashed harshly among the wide expanse of his pearlescent teeth.
The audience no longer watched him. Their eyes were drawn to the screen and the introductory animations rolled out to introduce the rules, the competitors, and the schedule for tonight’s events. A few strays hollered up to him, waved, or held up signs of admiration and affection. He laughed and winked to them as if it meant something, and the squeals that burst forth showed that they thought it meant everything.
The platform slid and clicked into place. The man gave one final wave and blew a kiss to the few who watched before he picked up his microphone stand and disappeared behind the velvet curtains.
Behind the curtains was a small mudroom. There he hung up his top hat, his ringmaster’s coat, and continued through the large doorway into his private suite. There, the man could relax without eyes on him and commentate on the match.
The suite had a giant one-sided window, floor to ceiling, that ran to the corners of the adjacent walls and peered out onto the arena. Screens hung from the ceiling in front of it — black and lit up with names and arrows in various colours that rapidly flicked in and out as the first match commenced. On the back wall was a bar manned by a single mutant woman in uniform with many bottles on the wall. To fill out the large space was a pool table, a mystic crystal chandelier that hung down in illuminated strings from above, a set of plush black couches facing the window, and a desk along the far wall. Scattered about were decorative plants, rungs, and a particularly nice painting above the bar.
“Maggie, darling, I’ll have the usual.” The man called out as he walked his microphone stand to his favoured couch.
“Yes, my Lord.” Maggie replied softly as she set to work.
Maggie, the woman attending his private bar, was an axolotl mutant of a pretty pink. She wore her uniform immaculately, and had been in the man’s service for some time now. She was reliable, skilled, loyal, and quiet — everything the man valued in a worker. Maggie was a diamond amongst coal; good and honest workers had become more difficult to find in recent years because of Big Mama’s influence. It made the ones who were trustworthy, like Maggie, all the more valuable.
The man took his seat and leaned his microphone stand against the couch arm. The headache that pounded behind his eyes bloomed forth with fighting rigor. He pinched the scales of his beak with a sigh then rubbed the red stripes over his eyes to soothe it. When that failed, he ignored it and rose his eyes to stare at the screen overhead.
The screens had been installed to give him the advantage over his patrons. It detailed the amounts placed on each champion’s head in the betting pool he supervised, as well as real-time statistics and percentages on each competitor. It showed who people betted on, who people didn’t, who was winning, who wasn’t, by how much, and if recovery was possible. It helped him understand who was popular and take steps to influence who the crowd would bet on. It ensured he would get the largest profit, no matter the outcome.
Agonised screams mixed with excited cheers. His eyes drifted down to the arena where the entertainment resided. Two competitors fought tooth and nail, weapon in hand, and split blood and spit into the sand. The gorilla mutant competitor ripped the arm from his opponent’s body with a roar of adrenaline. The screech of agony was deafened under the enthusiastic response from the audience.
The noise made his headache double.
Maggie placed the finished drink on a black tray. With it, a crystal ashtray and a small plate of prepared biscuits for him to enjoy. She picked it up and balanced it on one hand before she approached the man. Her poise was perfect; back straight, chin up, shoulders back, and stride confident and quiet. She placed the tray on the glass coffee table the man had kicked his feet up on and unloaded the items.
The man sent her a thankful, charming smile. Maggie politely nodded with a bow, then returned to the bar with the tray.
The drink was an amber colour with shimmering gold, poured into a rocks glass. The ice cubes clinked about as he took it in his gloved hands and leaned back against the couch. He sipped the chilled, mystic drink as he watched the bloodshed. On occasion he commented into the metal square at the centre of his microphone — his voice rung out through the speakers of the stadium over the clamour and chaos.
Drama, tension, climax, showmanship. Elements he had mastered to spice up the violence far below. It made the bloodshed look poetic instead of arbitrary. It aided the rigged narrative he told, based on the calculation provided by his analytics team displayed high above his head.
The crowd went rabid as the tiger competitor, one-armed, decapitated the gorilla mutant. Half of the stadium erupted in curses and protests, the other became hysterical with elation. The tiger mutant crashed to his knees in the sand, breath wild and eyes unfocused. The ragged stub of his arm bled profusely, puddled on the ground and stained sand into crimson mud.
The man’s smile stretched widely and he pulled his microphone close.
“Won’t you look at that folks! A true underdog! Or should I say, undertiger?”
The audience exploded with loud guffaws and cackles at his commentary. The man’s grin grew with the encouragement.
“That cat surely lost one of his nine lives to come out on top! What an incredible twist of fate!”
The man took another sip of his drink. His eyes flickered to the screen overhead as it calculated his profits of the match. The grin split unnaturally over the lip of his glass as he formulated a plan.
“Maggie?” He called, eyes on the screen and thumb pressed on the mute button of his microphone.
“Yes, my Lord?” Maggie responded from behind the bar.
“Tell Seanus to prepare a prosthetic for Tigerclaw’s next battle,” the man commanded, “I think he will be a new fan favourite.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Maggie obeyed. She stepped around the bar to the phone mounted to the wall. She picked up the receiver and dialled the desired extension to put through his request.
The man watched as the arena attendants quickly cleaned out the battlefield in preparation for the next fight. He sipped his drink a final time before he took his thumb off the mute button on his microphone stand.
“What an amazing performance from our competitors! An incredible start to the night!” The man praised merrily, “Let our competitors know how much you enjoyed that fight! Make some noise Hidden City!”
At his cue the stadium hollered, stomped, and applauded. The frenzied, wild shouts buzzed through the air with unparalleled energy that promised a whole night of malicious delight.
“Let’s welcome our next fighters with that same energy!” The man encouraged, “So put your appendages together for Gagorie the Relentless, and Mamaloo the Mauler!”
It was utter insanity. The audience was dizzied by the cacophony, and it could be heard all over the city. It shook the walls of buildings, the many latticed walkways, and the infrastructure of the cavern itself.
Let them hear his crowd. Let them get excited and curious. Let them flock to his doors to see him and his competitors, like wayward moths desperately fluttering to his radiating, glorious light.
Across the stands the crowd chanted his name — chanted it for the whole city to hear. It spawned a maniacal grin on his features as his electric eyes settled on his gluttonous fans.
“Duke! Duke! Duke! Duke!”