Getting ready.

The house lights started to turn up, section by section they enlighten the seats that the average punter will sit on. The luckiest have seats at the very edge of the pit with only a small plasticised glass screen protecting them from any weapons or players thrown across the ten meters of pit. Slowly the seats start filling as the punter are allowed in, each carefully guided to their seat by a armed ushers, any attempts at swapping seats or pushing other punters around is quickly and violently stamped on. Set around the arena different boxes fill with the sponsors and high flyers of the combat zone, each one has the best view of the arena floor and extra televisions to show off any area that might not be one hundred percent visible. Nothing escapes the eyes of the sponsors not a drop of blood or missed hit from their player is unnoticed and every action is evaluated against how much it will cost to keep the player in the season. If it all ends up costing too much or the player just doesn't preform good enough they might just find that no one is paying for their regeneration and that is the end of the line for their lives.

Down in the waiting room the player's chains unwind from the wall, allowing the players to reach the table and pick their weapon of choice and any extras from the pile that they can hold onto. The champion stands, his red armour twisting into the new position, his combat name across the back, Red Blade, a name passed down from his grandfather to father and now to him, both were champions in the years past until they finally retired in fame and glory...and death.

Finally he looks up at the people around him, taking note of the different star players, all familiar faces to him from years past. The Butcher grabbing his meat cleaver, new people and punters hear that he worked as a butcher in City North before he snapped and started killing people. Older players new he was really a clean up artist for the Mafia before he snapped and killed his entire Mafia family over a pay dispute. He was quickly picked up for the combat arena, getting to fight and spill the blood he loves was far better then taking the chair. Flab Man stumbled over to the weapon table, his huge girth meaning he is heavily chained and seated aside from the other players, grabbing up his metal pipe ripped from a street sign the only weapon big enough to fits his huge hands. A large baseball bat, stolen from some museum picked up by Ol Slugger, Red wonders how much longer he is going to last in the arena surely his long years must be weighed against him soon. Looking around Red sees Ulysses staring at him, his large face lusting with the enjoyment of pain and blood, Red stares right back hoping his face reveals nothing to the former gun runner. Nobody wanted Ulysses focusing on them in the round, his dark skin colour was hard to see on the field at times, rumours said that he had chameleon implants surgically installed back in the day but the real fear was due to his large knuckle dusters, made from a gold alloy and swung by his strong arms they had smashed many a player's face into nothing but pulp. He had been picked up by the Mobile Armoured eXterminator unit in his local area after killing a dozen or so cops coming to shut done his gun running ring. The captain of the MAX unit saw a valuable commodity for the arena, an easy way to make some money to help him with his sideline activities. Ulysses was more then happy to join after being told he would be living in luxury with all the women he could handle. With a smirk Ulysses turned back towards the other players then spitting on a lowly thug signalling his first target for the night.

In the corner a new man stood, unlike the thugs and volunteers from the local area he was in a suit, well pressed and well tailored. He caught Red's eye as he stood in front of the table but refused to pick up any weapons, even after a guard punched him in the back of the head trying to force him to take a weapon. Who had brought this guy in, he couldn't be from the jail and someone clearly as rich as him wouldn't have volunteered and why wouldn't he take a weapon. However all that had to be put aside, his chains had moved to the channel on the floor in the channel a ring hooked onto his chains and  would lead him to his starting place in tonight's match. Each player would be connected to the rings in the floor and taken to their start point and held there until the start, the champion went out first and was always placed on a small platform in the middle cheered and booed all the way. There was no more time to wonder who was going to be out on the floor, now was time the time to stand in front of his people, then to kill and maim anyone who dared to challenge the champion on his arena's floor.

The beginning!

The arena is dark, all the lights on the main combat floor off the house lights too dim to light up anything but the small bugs flying around them for a brief moment but one point of light spews out of a doorway. The doorway is gated off and at the bottom of the pit surrounding the combat floor, past the gate a room is lit by large lights. It is a room filled with the smell of fear, with the smell of sweat and with the sounds of people preparing themselves for what is to come. Some mutter prayers to what ever god they hope will help them tonight, others mutter threats and grunts towards the other people around them. Each person sits on a bench running around three walls of the room, chained to the seat by there feat and arms. The chains are too short to allow them to grab or lunge at each other but some still try, two guards in the room keep those people under a careful eye ready to lay the smack down on any of these thugs trying to start the nights activities too early. No one wants to bet on a player if he is injured before the show or tired from giving another person the beating that they want to see, the guards are there to ensure that each player gets to the combat floor in one hundred percent shape or if needed to make sure that a trouble maker is beaten into submission so they wont cause trouble the next time around.

In the middle of the room a large wooden counter is stacked with weapons, some are generic weapons from the streets, knives, bricks, bottles, shivs. Others are laid out in front of the star players, their weapons of choice, the weapons they have used over and over to come out on top or at least close to the top. One sits far from the rest, a large curved sword waiting for the champion of last years games to pick up. He sits in front of it, head down, eyes closed not a sound coming from him. Every muscle tensed and ready, inside his head the mantra of his family ringing clear and true preparing him for the battle ahead the battle he wants to win, no needs to win. Behind him a camera watches the room, moving from player to player, from thug to thug and finally resting on the champion in his special armour coloured to represent the winning line he comes from. In the announcers booth an editor quickly adds in names and stats on each person, getting this footage ready for the punters outside, taking special attention to point out the champion and how much they could win on betting for him winning or losing.