What was real? What is real?
In life, what can you truly know is real? Not a lot, Gaveedra Seven had concluded. Anything in life could be orchestrated, premeditated and overthought. Routines, times, cues- -life depended on it, human beings seemed to thrive off it, but it was something Shatterstar was yet to willingly experience.
One, two, three, one, two, three.
Counted breaths, feet barely touching the floor of the coliseum, thoughts running overtime. A crowd, held in utter tense silence, all eyes on the pair in the centre. A young girl, and a boy, fighting so gracefully it was almost like a choreographed dance. Lime green stained the white uniform the boy wore, black littering it too, the ends of his swords in a similar shape. One moment, the noise is overwhelming, his face stings, his body screaming to stop, the lights are bright, everything is humid—almost too humid. The pair can hear the whir of cameras behind them, but it’s just white noise by now, like the occasional jeer. And then, all ‘Star taste is metal, all air knocked from his lungs with the finesse of a freight train. Everything smells bloody, dusty. There’s no sun, so all light is artificial, gaslights that burn. The girl, a familiar figure, stands godly over him, sword ready as the crowd screams, bets being won in that moment, the crowds at home on tenterhooks.
One swift move and Gringrave is underneath, ‘Star on top in a scuffle of dust, a jolt of red hair. Red hair, but it was actually more orange. Everything was vibrant, but colours weren’t a statement, simply an identification. Gaveedra raises his sword, he’s about to drive it in—and then he was the one impaled. He’d heal. They’d both heal, but the pain was the same. Being gutted, and...and...
Then, Shatterstar gasped, almost as if his soul had re-entered his body. Tears glazed his eyes for reasons he couldn’t identify, despite his reels of nothingness while looking for an emotion...any emotion. The boy began talking to himself in what one could only describe as backwards Russian as he sucked in sharp, almost painful breaths, bracing himself for what anyone else would deem as nothing. Then, something much more animalistic left his mouth as he ran, throwing all his strength into the stronger than average hits, the swords that adorned his back seemingly almost glowing.
Shatterstar didn’t stop until his masses of hair was obstructing his view so that he couldn’t see the broken punch bag anymore. The boy moved his hair, brushing it back so it came just below his backside, out of the way, making sure to tuck the braids back too.
‘Star prided himself on not feeling
emotions, on being the best gladiator Mojoverse had ever seen, so he wasn’t so sure why he all of a sudden took issue with the void that his feelings belonged in, with the flashbacks and phantom pains. Picking up the broken bag and replacing it, Gaveedra Seven repeated this until his knuckles were bloodied beyond anything he’d expected, but even then he didn’t stop. He had no other purpose. That was his purpose. The almost rattling swords, the scars, the six foot three boy almost shouting at himself in something wicked, it all showed a purpose. Disciple.
What was the point of anything if you couldn’t serve in the job you were meant to do?