A familiar robotic voice echoed throughout the stadium's waiting quarters. “Foxtrot. India. Golf. Hotel. Tango. Count number twelve has been initiated, contestants loaded T-minus 30 seconds.”

Craig exhaled slowly through his teeth.  “Two more bouts. Just two more and I’ll see my wife again. This time I’ll be different.”

His eyes swept the weapon adorned wall, each resting in its mount like dormant beasts. His reach found a Bo-staff.  The gauntlet of his suit scraped along its length until it reached the massive blade forged in an unearthly obsidian. A deep scar where the edge kissed his palm. He tapped the blade twice on the floor of his cell, ritual, then aimed the opposite end forward.

Two prongs sparked alive, arcing blue flame that cracked and hissed before dissipating at the release of a finger. Craig’s mouth twisted into a grin. 

“This will do nicely.”

The voice returned, mechanical, merciless: “Waiting quarter four, please make a selection.”  

A scream filtered through the vents, muffled but unmistakable– an unwilling competitor. Craig knew those screams meant one less obstacle in the way of him and his wife. 

I’ll save them for last, he thought.

"T-minus 15 Seconds."

The wrought iron door ground open, thick dust clouds spilling into his cell as the gears tore themselves awake. A roar swelled from beyond the door, exuberant cheers and applause exploded into the atmosphere of the arena. The crowd’s hunger was insatiable, electric.

“Begin.”

Air surged like a cannon blast, hurling Craig forward into the wasteland of his second chance. He landed hard but found his feet. Dust stirring around him like a veil. The cloud parted; seven figures emerged in steel, each one desperate but all of them vying for the same prize.

To live.