A single droplet of blood dispersing in the water caught my attention. Its dance in the clear liquid was mesmerizing as it twisted and angled its way into oblivion, neatly avoiding the floating bits of shaving foam. My submerged hand shook in the sink, the coarse stubble from my head pulled free from the straight edged razor blade by the tension of the water.

I looked in the mirror, gently sliding my other hand along the contours of my head. Pulling away from my skull I saw a trickle of blood across my palm. A repressed memory from a separate lifetime flooded to the surface of my mind unbeckoned, unwelcomed.

—

I lift my hand and see a trickle of blood across my palm.

“Good fight, dog.” Master Cho says to me, though I hear disgust in his voice more than pride.

Our relationship had changed lately. He had been spending more of his time with the young boys, and while I felt jealous and somewhat neglected, I was also happy to be away from his beatings.

Ironically, it was those same abuses that had developed the mindset I now possessed; that enabled me to endure a beatdown in the slave arena and still stand afterward. My mind knew how to act when in shock. My body knew how to push aside the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, to subdue the fight or flight instinct, to a degree, and do what needed to be done to ensure I survived.

I put my fingers to my lips and taste the metallic tinge of my life’s essence. My head throbs, though I doubt it is from the injury I sustained in my last fight. Vitoc is still running through my nervous system, poisoning me until I die or get just enough antidote to keep me productive for another day or two. It is how the cowardly Amarr have always controlled us until they break our wills; how they indoctrinate us to their bullshit.

“Three” has been working on an herbal treatment for Vitoc dependency, a method that will completely eliminate the need for the drug at all. That would certainly change things around here. Unfortunately, every one of his volunteers has died from the concoctions, and fewer slaves are stepping forward for his tests. ‘Better to live with dependency than to not live at all’, they say.

“Rest up. You have another fight in ten minutes.” This time, Master Cho sounds genuinely excited, though I don’t think it’s for my continued survival. I’m sure he has a heavy wager on my death.

I have come to realize he has given up on me, and that our relationship will never be as idealistic as I had envisioned it to be when younger. He knows I won’t be turned. And though Amarrian Law prevents the outright killing of slaves without provocation, it’s easy to generate any valid enough reason in the eyes of the regional magistrate. “My slave gave me a dirty look. He had to be put down.” “He smelled of more filth than usual.” “He was breathing too often.” You get the idea.

Through sheer coincidence and greed, the spontaneous murder of slaves had become increasingly rare. Instead, the Amarrians had figured out they could profit from slave deaths through gladiatorial games. Lovely.

So once per week all the “rebellious” slaves were gathered up and pitted one against another, until a single champion of the day remained. His/her reward? To live for another week until the next combatant games, assuming they didn’t piss off their master by breathing too often in the meantime.

I had watched many friends from my caste die in the arena, which was nothing more than a glorified cesspool.

As Master Cho continues to speak I can only fantasize about what I would do to him in that arena if given the  opportunity.

My head throbs again, the Vitoc ravaging my body. My vision starts to blur. I need another shot of antidote soon, if Master Cho is even willing to give it to me this time. He’s been withholding it more and more recently, but I refuse to die.

“309, you’re up.” the guard says, gesturing towards me.

I hate that we are nothing more than livestock to them. I have a name; a name I have earned; a name given to me by my brothers and sisters.

—

“He fights like a rabid dog!” Serene said, as she easily dodged my sluggish attack. “All bark, no bite!” she teased as I missed another swing at her head.

“Enough.” said Three, whom ironically had kept his slave number as his name, a badge of honour as to how long he had endured the atrocity of Amarrian slavery.

“Do you remember your name, son?” Three asked. I shook my head back and forth. I couldn’t remember anything about my childhood. I didn’t know if I had parents anymore. I didn’t know if I had siblings. All I could remember was this wretched life. A feral glean sparkled in my eye, a burning hatred.

I was snatched up from behind in a full nelson by Tiny; lifted completely off the ground. I hadn’t even see the monstrous brute coming. Everyone laughed.

I hated them.

“He don’t give up. Give him that.” Tiny said as I thrashed about, trying to get free from the man tree. I kicked my heel upwards into Tiny’s genitalia, and as he dropped me instantly, bending over to grab himself, I smashed my elbow as hard as I could into the side of his skull. Disoriented, he fell onto his ass, much to everyone’s amusement.

“He is tenacious.” Three commented philosophically. “Hmmm” he muttered absently, stroking his beard.

“There is a legend of a far off planet in another galaxy, from whence all life in New Eden supposedly originated millions of years ago, though what is truth and what is not is anyone’s guess anymore. And on this planet there were animals bred for fighting; proud, aggressive, vicious beasts that were known to conquer foes many times their size. I believe the most legendary of those beasts was called the ‘Rottweiler’, a short, heavily muscled, majestic dog. Do you like this name?”

From the ground behind me, Tiny chimed in. “He’s solid like a rock. I’ll give him that.” As per usual, Tiny’s brain had missed the conversation entirely.

“Rott Wieler, not Rock Wieler, Tiny.” Three corrected with patience.

I smiled. It was a good name.

As I said, I hated them. Then they became my family.

—

“309, front and center!” the guard snaps, and I realize I have drifted. The following minutes are the usual cacophony of noise and anticipation. I tune it out, focusing inwardly on the fight to follow. I am physically exhausted, mentally drained, Vitoc threatening to overwhelm me with every step.

I hate the Amarr for doing this to me. The Vitoc, having to fight other Matari. I detest them in every way.

Their very essence is a blight on civilization, and one day I will make them pay for their wicked ways.

God isn’t with them. There is no Amarrian God, only fat and corrupt slavers creating rationalizations for their immorality so they can sleep at night with a clean conscience.

My heart races. My hands flex. I spit on the ground, ready to enter the arena.

The massive cell doors open, and I step forward into blinding light. When my eyes adjust, I can see my opponent on the other side of the arena, waiting for me, his look of shock and remorse almost as transparent as mine.

It is Tiny.

—

The straight edge blade scraped across the thin skin of my skull once more. I rinsed my head, double checking in the mirror to make sure I hadn’t missed any spots. It was good.

I toweled off, got dressed, and reported for duty.

Today more Amarr were going to die.

For Tiny, my brother, my friend. I salute you.