Till Death, We Shall Not Part

Derek Worrick is a Worrick. Of course, you could tell that by his name. But what you don't know is that the Worricks have taken centre stage in the Tournaments since time began and no-one has seen a Contender this good since... well, a millenia ago.
And seeing streaks of neon blue is not helping at at all. Not when his life is at stake. The Tournament permits only life to leave the ring - only one soul to live.
It is is nearing however and is Derek ready to take what is his without being distracted on the way? Or will he allow it to slip through fingers?
(This is for the Legacy comp. A bit late thought =D)

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2. Grotesque Reminders

-Day of the Tournament-

I wanted to fade away. To allow myself to fall into solitude and focus on a pointless bit of rubbish. It was the best way, as Dad had once told me. Before the crash that is, when we would talk. It seems so immature to be sad about those kinds of things now, now when my life was in danger, but it was what kept me from losing my cool. And, right now, I really needed my cool.

My opponent was strong this year; just as they’d planned. He was a big bulk of a man, probably around three or four hundred pound where I was a mere two-ninety. However, I had the unparalleled advantage of height. I towered above him like a grandfather clock, wound and accurate.

I was better than him, I kept reminding myself. No-one was going to take my title. No-one.

 I had been built for this, my mind and body. Dad needed me to do this and I for him. It was the only way for me to repay him for all that he had done. He had trained me for the majority of my life until the crash five years ago. It was unexpected, just a normal drive to a normal restaurant where he was taking my mother for their anniversary.  

I laughed at the memory. Everything was normal until it was unexpected. That’s why I was not very much stunned when a flash of blue caught my eye again.  I inwardly groaned.

 A punch crashed into my ribs. It was a good one and a ghost of a smile found its way onto my face. Not that my opponent could see it - I was wearing a steel mask with only small eye slits where I was able to gain full view of the ancient arena. The seats were filled to the brim and nearly flowing over the stone edge.

All of these sick, infested people here to see one life wither away. For one of us to die. If I were not in this position, I would scorn those who watched for pleasure. But I was in his position and there was nothing I could do about it now.

Minutes morphed into hours and we were still going. I was trying to weaken him and now I could see how unlikely that prospect was. I decided to quicken my moves, ignoring the words my trainer had drilled into me aggressively. A kick here, a swipe there, and duck everywhere… I kept repeating those few words to myself, constant, never changing like a mantra.

I could see him losing his accuracy a bit more as each second passed. The punch he aimed for my shoulder would fall loosely onto my arm. I heard him breathe heavily in defeat as he began circling me from a safe distance He knew this was over already. His eyes, a calm grey from what I could see, drooped in anger, frustration and emotions that I could not even name. And, oddly, I felt regretful for him.

I had never felt like that way before and jumped back slightly in surprise. My spear moved fearfully, cutting the air fiercely. I turned and slammed it onto his unguarded thigh. A long line of scarlet blood slithered from the gash.

After a few more mere attempts from the dishevelled opponent, I had him secure under body where I would be able to execute him safely without harming myself. I could feel his breath tingling my neck and his short gasps of fear. Tears were streaming down his grubby face under the mask.

He closed his eyes and I could hear him softly counting.

I could not do it. How could my hands, ones that had never taken a life, kill someone helpless now? I could hear the audience chanting something incomprehensible now, they were getting restless.

I saw Dad’s face again; his bloody, grotesque face… No, I refused to be a murderer. Not for myself, or for anyone else stupid enough to respect the Tournament. All my life it had always been – “Derek, do this.. Derek, do that…” Not anymore.

I stood up cautiously, never losing eye contact with the boy I had pinned below me. I nodded.

He cried some more.

I dropped my weapons on the floor and turned to view the whole arena and said softly, “I am not a executioner.”

The silence that followed shortly thereafter was worse than death itself.

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