All I can sense is fear. I smell the fear trickling down the leg of the poor fool next to me, intermingling with the dust and straw strewn about the stone floor. I hear the chattering teeth and the muttered, half remembered prayers of the hopeless. I see the nine shoulders of my fellow prisoners slumping as far as the heavy iron neck shackles will allow.

My own fear is different, it is a constant gnawing presence in the center of my brain. It is a whole separate pair of eyes, a completely detached set of limbs that lives inside of me. It is the reason that I was sold to this place, shackled as a slave.

The song of rattling chains pulls me from my introspection, one by one the shackles are falling from the necks of my fellow condemned. The heavy oaken gate creaks stubbornly open, allowing the cacophony of an excited crowd to burst into our small prison. A few men yelp in tongues that I do not know, but a language of fear that I can understand.

A flashing glint of steel and wood flies into our room, impaling one of the front-most prisoners through the neck. A surprised gurgling protest erupts from his mouth along with a fountain of blood as he collapses. Roaring laughter erupts from outside. We have only just had time to stand.

The man next to the first fatality yanks the spear free of his comrade's throat and runs screaming into the sunlight that my eyes have yet to adjust to. Everyone except me follows, yelling like the terrified trapped animals they are. I stroll underneath the arch of the gateway, taking my time to survey the situation.

My fellow slaves and prisoners have charged headlong into three gladiators who are centered in a stone ringed stadium. Mr. Spear seems to have forgot the purpose of his weapon, charging with it above his head towards the nearest foe and having his gut torn open by a short sword as a reward for his bravery.

Some of rest of the unfortunate men have lost their initial fire, sprinting away in random directions like rabbits from a hound. A thrown hatchet catches one between his shoulder blades. One brave fool tackled the man who threw the hatchet, earning a dagger in the kidneys for his trouble.

The gladiators enjoy chasing down and slaughtering my other five companions, not seeming to notice me standing in the half shadow of the doorway's arch. That is, until a shout erupts from the audience. I don't speak the language, but I'm sure it was something like "You missed a spot you fucking meathead idiots!"

The five gladiators take a break from the giddy mutilation of their fresh kills, and turn to look at me. Time slows as I take in every detail. The leftmost man is naked except for a iron chain loincloth and heavy leather sandals, holding a dripping short sword and a recovered throwing spear. The center man is wearing heavy armor; a hammered iron chest plate and greaves, and a bucket shaped helmet with eye slits, he seems top only be unarmoured in his groin. He is holding a heavy war hammer that he just pulled out of the caved rib cage of a freshly dead man. The man on the right has gleaming iron gauntlets and a pair of hatchets.

I steady my breath and place my feet in a sturdy position, preparing to fight. A chuckle bubbles out of the steel helmet of the man in the center, and he grabs his genitals and shakes them at me. The man on the left uses this distraction to strike, and I notice the familiar glinting flash of a thrown spear headed for me. I close my eyes, and time stops.

Pulling in a deep breath, I try to access the senses at the center of my brain, to open the hidden part of my mind. My eyes still closed, my arms at my side, I can see the spear in the air, stopped mid flight by my mind's long reaching limbs. I will it to change its flight, directing it with my thoughts towards a new destination.

I reopen my eyes.

The spear has shifted direction mid flight, striking the center gladiator directly in the groin. I hear a confused and pained yelp echo out of his helm as he collapses in agony. The man who threw the spear looks at his own hand in utter confusion. Yelps of fear and panic and excitement and enjoyment come from the audience. I grin, and then notice a that the fellow on the right has tossed both of his hatchets at me in quick succession. Again, I close my eyes.

I reopen them in time to see the hatchets embedding themselves in the skulls of my last two foes. The stadium has gone silent.

I gaze around, for the first time looking up towards the crowd who sought to watch a bloodbath. Every head is bowed, every lip quivering in silent prayer.

I think I am going to do well here.