Chapter ?

  Entertainment

  A pair of eyes peered between the cracks of a barricaded window. They belonged to a young human man, perhaps twenty-four years of age, wearing a United States Army uniform.

  “Uh, Colonel? We have a problem!” he turned from the window and shouted.

  “What is it, Private?” replied a gruff voice from the shadows, legs dangling off a desk, smoke billowing through.

  “It’s the Brainers! They’re approaching the base!”

  Out from the fog came bundles of walking meat. Rotting. Groaning. Squeezing out pus from the holes only pus could. Cursed with a taste for flesh—and specifically—for brains. There were only a couple… for now.

  “Goddamn Fireteam Charlie failed,” the Colonel muttered, leaping into the moonlight, revealing his green beret, salt and pepper mutton chops, and thick cigar which he sucked like his life depended on it. Cha-chink. He cocked his M1911 and turned off its safety. “Ready your pistol, Private. We’re the last ones left. I don’t know about you, but I’m sure as hell not going down without a fight.”

  The Private nodded and removed his pistol from its holster. His hands trembled at the thought of having to shoot again. The war had already brought plenty of death in his eyes. Ruined his innocence. But that wasn’t enough. No, God, or whatever incomprehensible entity that was fucking with them thought that death was too good for the souls on this chessboard. They had to contend with undeath, too. A satanic trial by fire. But the Private had no time to worry. The Brainers, what they called them, were closing in on their windows. Ammo was scarce, so he unsheathed the combat knife from his leg pouch.

  “Merrruuhuhhh…” the first Brainer said, his jaw nearly about to fall off. He reached for the barricades and pulled. Whatever infected these creatures caused their brains to shut their limiters off, making their muscles work inhumanly hard, with the trade off of accelerated decay. The first plank tore off easily. The second, just as quick.

  “Hah!” The Colonel stabbed his window’s Brainer right in the eye, piercing straight through the brain, removing the ‘un’ from undeath. “Remember Private, aim for the head!”

  “Uh… right!” He shouted back, and stabbed at the grotesque thing in front of him.

  Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

  “What the hell was that noise?” the Colonel looked around.

  “What?” the Private replied, head darting back between him and the window.

  “That noise! That ‘cha-ching’ noise!”

  The Colonel ‘killed’ another Brainer.

  Cha-ching.

  “There it is again!”

  “Yeah, I heard it!” The Private nodded. “Wait, do you see that, sir?”

  “See what?”

  “In the corner of your eye. They stay pinned in place no matter where I look!”

  “Those sets of numbers?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Hang on,” the Colonel turned to stab another abomination.

  Cha-ching.

  “Fuckin’ Brainers.”

  “One of the numbers just increased! I think when we kill these things, those numbers go up!”

  “This is weird. I mean, the Brainers are weird too! But this. This is weird, Private!”

  “Take that!” The Private sliced at another one.

  Cha-ching.

  “That seems to be all of them,” he peered through the cracks, “for the time being.”

  Suddenly, a guitar riff engulfed their ears as another number at the bottom right of their vision flashed and disappeared.

  “Was that… a guitar?” the Colonel wondered.

  “I think so,” the Private agreed.

  “AAAAAAAAA-Ahhhhhhhhhhh-aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh…” A feminine voice echoed in their ears.

  “Who is singing in our ears?” The Colonel looked for a woman nearby, but found nobody there. “Maybe we are going crazy!” He scratched his beard in the reflection of a broken piece of glass on the ground. “No, I seem okay.”

  “There’s a different number now! A bloody tally! It changed to two!”

  “Muhhhhhhhh…” More messengers of dread stumbled through the fog.

  “AH! AND MORE BRAINERS!” The Private yelled, rapidly sticking the wooden planks back on along with some cha-chings.

  “Look alive!” The Colonel shouted back, training his knife between a slit in the barricades.

  “Ho-hee-ha-ho-ho!” Another Brainer shambled up to his window, a little faster now. The Colonel thrust his knife, but it took two hits now.

  “They’ve gotten a little more durable!” The Colonel notified the Private, who sliced at the rotten neck of his own combatant. It did nothing to slow it down, but another slice did it in.

  “You’re right!” he replied.

  “Of course I’m right!”

  A minute later and another round of Brainers permanently perished, increasing the duo’s points. But once again a guitar riff permeated their ears, followed by the aeolian chorus of a graveyard siren. With this round ‘III,’ the Brainers took three stabs to take down. And at this point, the men began using their pistols.

  BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG! SLICE!

  “ERRRRRrrr…” Another Brainer went down.

  “Eat lead you sorry excuse for a fascist!” The Colonel quipped.

  BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

  “Heuhhhhhh…” And another one gone, done in by the Private. Dirty, crusty blood spewed from the back of its head as it hit the floor.

  “Ew,” he commented.

  SCHWA-SHWEN. The survivors reloaded their M1911s.

  More minutes passed, more Brainers were shot, more points were awarded, and more ammo was expended.

  BANG-BANG-BANG-CLICK.

  “Shit,” the Colonel muttered, switching to his knife to land the killing blow on the walking dead. “Out of ammo! Private, do you have any to spare?”

  “Already out!” he answered, trying to pull his knife out of a Brainer’s chest cavity.

  The guitar riff started.

  “Shit. Fuck. Goddammit! There has to be some ammo around here somewhere!” The Colonel searched in nearby crates and shelves. There was ammo, just not .45 ACP; what he needed. If only they didn’t drop their M1s on the run over here.

  “AAAAAAAAA-Ahhhhhhhhhhh-aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh…” It was the jingle again.

  “Colonel!” The Private hollered. “They’re back!”

  “Ack! No, no, no, please let there be something, please—”

  There. On the wall. An outline of a weapon, made from… crayons? He felt like should touch it, so he did.

  Cha-ching. BWUUMMMMM.

  In the corner of his eye, the Colonel’s ‘points’ subtracted, but in exchange a new gun phased through the wall. A trench gun. The trench gun. A pump-action shotgun.

  “Huh. Look at that,” he said delightfully, grabbing it and running over to his window. “Brainers meet Trenchie! Trenchie. Brainers.”

  BOOM! CHINK-CHINK. BOOM! CHINK-CHINK.

  “Colonel! You found a trench gun!?” The Private shouted, shocked. "Isn't that against the Geneva Conventions*?"

  *Note: The Geneva Conventions didn't exist until 1949.*

  “The Geneva Conventions don't apply to the undead! Go grab one from the wall over there!” he nodded in its direction, then continued blasting.

  “Muhhhhh…” The Brainers growled, tearing through the Private’s window, making him rush to the wall and reach for the shotgun.

  Cha-ching. BWUMMMM.

  “I don’t know how this all is connected. But thank God this works!” He rushed back to his window and began blasting.

  More time passed, and eventually even the trench gun didn’t one-hit-kill their foes anymore. The Brainers became stronger, faster, and increased in number.

  Round 10.

  “Colonel, they’re becoming too fast! I think we should move deeper into the bunker!”

  “Sound judgement, Private! Fuck the windows! Let's go!”

  The two of them shot behind them to stagger their pursuers, until they reached the next door. Upon opening it, the Private lost more points.

  “Doors appear to cost more points, too!”

  The Colonel was too pre-occupied with popping heads open to comment, but followed his subordinate through, tossing a grenade to stall for some time.

  BOOM! The explosion tore the legs off the round’s remaining Brainers, making them crawl very slowly towards the same room. The Colonel tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t budge, even with the Private’s help. They had to keep moving, but even walking would outpace their enemies at this point.

  “It doesn’t seem like more of them are funneling in,” the Private noted.

  “No, it doesn’t. Let’s not kill these ‘draggers’ unless we have to. Give us a lil’ reprieve.”

  As they delved further into the bunker, using more points along the way, they came across a room with a curiosity inside. A glowing chest with question marks on each face. Dare I say, a Box of Wonder. A ghostly spotlight sparking with electricity pierced through its top, through the partially-collapsed ceiling and into the starry night sky, unimpeded.

  “What’s that?” The Private pointed at it.

  “Let’s find out,” the Colonel stuck out his hand. “Does it use our—”

  Cha-ching! The box opened, and a weird lullaby played, similar in tune to a jack-in-the-box.

  “I guess it does.”

  Images of various weapons, some standard, some old; lost to time, some never invented yet and perhaps, never will be, flashed just above the box like some kind of crazed-up roulette wheel. The lullaby began to slow down, and on its final note the weapon was chosen. It was weird. Rocket red. Spacey. With green plasma flowing through its ridges. The Colonel grabbed his prize, which also netted him a belt with short, lead-lined radioactive cylinders across his waist. The ammo, he guessed.

  “What is this, some kind of water gun toy?” he remarked. “This is something my son would play with outside.”

  “I dunno, try it,” the Private shrugged. “The knob on its side looks like it turns it on.”

  The Colonel quickly rotated the knob through all colors of the spectrum, until landing on the max. Red. He then pointed it at one of the two ‘draggers,’ and squeezed its trigger.

  CAOW! A sonorous burst of plasma instantly melted parts of its body and exploded others in a wondrous fashion.

  “I guess science fiction isn’t fiction any more. It’s just science,” the Private commented.

  “I think I chose the wrong profession,” the Colonel blinked. "I should've joined weapons development." He gestured to the box, "Go try your luck, Private, and let’s get ready to tear shit up!”

  “Sir!” he saluted, and reached for the box, letting the roulette play out. It landed on an elongated pump-action weapon with a wide bore and a trigger. When he went to grab it, three 40mm grenade rounds appeared on an ammo belt strapped across his chest. These were foreign to him, but he did notice the H.E. print on the back. “High explosive,” he said.

  “What is that?” The Colonel asked.

  “I think it's some kind of grenade launcher! It says it was made in 1967!”

  “1967? That’s a little over twenty years in the future!”

  “FLFLFLFLFLLFL!” the lone ‘dragger’ flicked its tongue, sputtering rancid spit in the process.

  “Ugh, forget it, Private! We need more points to get further into the bunker. Prepare yourself!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Alright!” The Colonel nodded, confidently, then looked down at the Brainer crawling on the floor and crushed its head beneath his boot.

  Guitar riff. Chorus. Round 11. It was an easy round, thanks to their new gear. But like before, from round to round their weapons slowly became ineffective. They made it far though. Round 24.

  BOOM!

  Smoke and debris were launched everywhere from the Private’s grenade launcher. But much to his dismay, the Brainers were rather unscathed, besides for a couple minor scratches.

  “This grenade launcher is losing its luster!” He shouted.

  “This green goo gun is too!” The Colonel added, flipping open its fuel compartment and dropping another radioactive canister inside. “Switch to your shotgun!”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Private did.

  BAM! PUMP. BAM! PUMP.

  “Uh… it's hardly doing anythin—AH FUCK!” He took a hard swipe to the chest.

  BAM! PUMP.

  “Hunger…” Another Brainer swiped at him, ripping a nasty gash in his chest.

  “Colonel…” he groaned in pain.

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! The Colonel managed to clear the space around his subordinate, who immediately stumbled toward him.

  “Private!” He said, grabbing him under his arms and dragging him toward the wall. “Hang on!”

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! Reload. Future sounds. CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW!

  He cleared the remaining Brainers, making sure to dissolve the legs clean off of the last one to buy him some time.

  “Private!” he got down on one knee next to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Ughhh. I think—” He coughed out blood. “I think it’s too late for me, Colonel Shepard.” He removed his hand from his gash and blood stuck to it, pooling out. “Save… yourself.”

  “Shit! Private! Stay with me!” The Colonel broke into a nervous sweat for the first time in a while.

  “Y’know,” the Private coughed again, “I guess Colonels do have a soft, fluffy white part inside. Heh. If you… make it out of here. Tell my girlfriend… I hid the ring in the shoebox... under our bed.”

  “I… will," the Colonel shut his eyes from the tears. "I’ll tell her you loved her too, and your family.”

  “Thank you, sir. Fuck.” Cough. “It’s cold. Colonel? I can’t see anymore.”

  “Private Buck,” the Colonel grabbed his hand, “I’m here for you.”

  “Do me a favor… shoot me in the head after I’m gone.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “Thank—” His voice cut off, and his body fell limp.

  “WEHHhhhhhh…” the ‘dragger’ was beginning to get close.

  “Fuck Norm, not you too,” the Colonel shook his head, but had no time to mourn. He removed the deceased Private’s dogtags, then stood up from his body, making one last glance at the Brainer coming his way, and shot the Private’s head with his eyes closed. He didn’t want to have such a desecration seared into his mind, no matter his intentions.

  Walking away from the scene, the Colonel put on the Private’s dogtags, which dangled next to so many others around his neck. He reached out to the next door and opened it, revealing a staircase down. He had no flashlight, but the green light from his space gun provided enough clarity to see. Down he went. It didn’t go too far, only a story underground, before it led to a storage space. The only thing here was food and some explosive artillery ordinance. No other handheld weapons to speak of. This was a dead end. He could hold out here, hoping for somebody to come get him, or he could go outside the bunker.

  “Heh,” he chucked, weakly. “Impossible.”

  Going outside was not a good idea. There were those freaks, those Brainers everywhere. They almost got overrun getting here in the first place! Even with his new weapon, he probably wouldn’t last more than a minute. If this were anywhere else, anywhere not on a battlefield, the undead probably wouldn’t be so prevalent. Then again, he wasn’t so sure. Was this an isolated event, confined to the war with Germany? Or was this a global disaster? It doesn’t matter. They sent the radio message days ago… all he could do now was survive.

  The ‘dragger’ made its way down the stairs and the Colonel sighed, getting ready to strafe around it. Weirdly though, it just expired on the spot, and a moment later, the ‘round change’ music played.

  “Great…” he muttered, then reloaded his weapons, pointing the plasma emitter at the staircase in front of him.

  It only took a minute, but the Brainers started funneling in. The first one fell down the stairs, causing others to trip over it, making for easy shots.

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW!

  “That’s right!” the Colonel shouted. “Descend! Descend to the hell that awaits you! My little fuck-shit bunker! Where I fuck your shit!”

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! Reload.

  One by one they fell, but two by two they came—then three by three, then four by four. The wave was getting to be too much, and the Colonel’s ammo, too little.

  “RAAAAAAAAAA!” He screamed in rage. Firing off indiscriminately.

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW!

  “AAAAAAAAAAA!”

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! CAOW!

  “AAAAAAAAAAA!”

  CAOW! CAOW! CAOW! Dink.

  “AAAAAAAA—crap.” The Colonel fumbled around for more ammo for the wonder weapon, but was completely out. “Fuck!” He threw it at a Brainer’s head, knocking a line of them over like dominoes, then switched to his trench gun.

  BANG! PUMP. BANG! PUMP.

  He backed into metal shelf behind him, knocking over some food, and inserted more shells into his weapon.

  BANG! PUMP. BANG! PUMP.

  But he only killed two… of the twenty Brainers quickly surrounding him.

  “No! No, no! AH!” He took a swipe to the chest, then kicked some back in retaliation, shooting more. “Bowman, Angels, McCready—UG!” Another hit. “Robinson, James, White, HACK!” And another. “Buck!” He was out of ammo, and in a sudden hit of realization, the call of the void overtook him. He was fucked. “Me.” One more hit then…

  Black.

  GAME OVER

  YOU SURVIVED 25 ROUNDS

  Metal guitars riffs and cackling Brainers blasted through Aurora's headphones.

  “Aw, garbage fantasy arse game!” She shouted into her microphone. “Shame, we couldn’t beat our high score.”

  Unintelligible murmurs communicated to her through her headset.

  “Yeah it was fun. Talk to you tomorrow, GooeyPo.”

  More murmurs.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Oh shit, NecroQuest comes out next week? We’ll play that, for sure.”

  And even more murmurs.

  “Okay, okay yeah. Bye-bye.”

  Aurora held her hand near the Magiputer orb display and exited from the Attack of the Brainers! video game back into her Gleam library. She scrolled through her owned game library for some time, but nothing really stood out at her. A common occurrence these days.

  “Tch.”

  Bored. She opened MagiNet and logged onto MagiTube to see the state of her livestream.

  Yup. The footage was still there. Looping. Just her sitting on her temporary throne. Aura-farming. Aurora-farming, some would say. She’ll probably need to record some more positions in a day or so. Some netsurfers definitely knew by now, but whatever.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

  “Your Majesty?” a voice said from beyond Aurora’s bedroom door.

  “Come in, Cat. And you’re allowed to call me by my name when we’re alone.”

  The door opened, and the cat-demon entered.

  “How are you doing, Aurora? Was the game fun?”

  “Eh,” she shrugged. “Could’ve been better. I think I like the more realistic stuff. Fantasy just isn’t hitting the same anymore.”

  “I have a suggestion then.”

  “What is it?”

  “How about going to the Colosseum? Maybe you can take your family with you? I think your husband has just returned, too.”

  “Hm,” Aurora held her chin, “It has been a while since I’ve done something with them. But what about the livestream?”

  “We can stop it while you’re there. The people will know you’re present, anyway.”

  “Good point.” Aurora punched her palm. “Alright! Let’s go get the kids!”

  The four cousins sat in front of a grand orb display in Hess’ bedroom, propped up by an entertainment center slotted with video game consoles and stacks of cartridges and discs in their respective containers. Video game posters lined her walls: The Legendary Zeldor, Fantasy’s End XIV, Mega Battle Bros. Rumble, Flame Seal: The Sizzling Scythe. And a bookshelf filled with various magic tomes stood next to a mound of plushies in the corner, many of them recognizable from the PocketSummons series popular among kids and man-children in the Kingdom’s territories.

  “Flint, Vala,” Ash whispered, beckoning them to scooch toward him.

  “What?” Flint replied.

  “We need to team up against Hess, she’s too powerful.”

  The cousin in question could hear exactly what they were saying, seeing as she was sitting right there, but wasn’t too bothered by their scheming. She had just won the last ten fights after all. Her character on screen; her main Garth from the original Flame Seal game, was standing triumphantly in front of the others’ characters, who were clapping in shame.

  “What do you suggest we do, brother?” Vala asked.

  “We attack her at the same time.”

  “Okay,” they nodded, and scooched back to their spots.

  “You guys done?” Hess asked.

  “Yes,” Flint nodded.

  “Okay,” she replied, and pressed START on her controller to take the game back to the character select screen.

  Ash picked Emperor Dedadada, a demon-penguin with a comically large spoon. Vala chose Camuth, a bounty hunter in a set of high-tech super armor. Flint locked-in Snerby, a green puffball that made everybody else’s abilities null in a short radius around him. And Hess stuck with Garth, the purple haired scythemaster. Their chosen stage was End Zone, Battleground version, a typical pick.

  “READY? BEGIN!” said the in-game announcer.

  Instantly, Ash, Vala, and Flint’s characters rushed toward Hess, and when they arrived, flicked their controller’s right sticks to do a side-special move. Hess, the gamer goddess she was, quickly timed her shield.

  BING! BING! BING! Perfect parry, after perfect parry, after perfect parry. The game froze with each of Hess’ inputs, and so did the others, giving her enough time to counterattack. Normally, Garth has a Parry ability built-in to his kit, enabling him to automatically counter. But this was the standard shield parry with a smaller frame window and the need to manually input your counterattack. Suffice to say, she was flexing.

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Impossible!”

  The others reacted, surprised. And the surprises kept on coming. Every. Single. Attack. Was parried. They could do nothing. Hess had complete control. A gaming maestro; a gaming master; the Demon King of Gaming. Not a surprise, really. She was either playing 24/7 or studying magic. She got her love for gaming from her mother, and her love of magic from her grandmother. Now she was waftflashing across the screen; a professional technique that requires shielding mid-air and inputting movement diagonally into the ground, causing the character to slide around without needing to stop to use a special attack. She ping-ponged across the screen, dealing devastating blows. All the others could do was watch as she kept knocking them off of the stage into their doom. Soon, she had won. It wasn’t even a challenge for her, and while the rest of the kids started at the screen, flabbergasted, she took out her Helltendo Hotswap and began searching for radiant summons in PocketSummons Hyper Amethyst; rare summons that only had a slightly different summon animation at the start of battle.

  SLAM!

  The kids turned to the bedroom door, their mouths still wide open. A foot was in the air, then landed with a confident stride. It was Aurora, and her assistant Cat.

  “Hello, little monsters!” Aurora smiled, showcasing her sharp teeth.

  “Mom!” shouted Flint and Hess, who ran up to hug her.

  “Auntie Aurora!” Ash and Vala shouted too, and waited for their turn to hug.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in the throne room?” Flint wondered.

  “Not at the present moment," she answered, "because we’re going to the COL-O-SSE-UM!”

  “Oh boy! The Colosseum!” Ash shouted.

  “Is Dad coming?” Flint asked.

  “Yes, kiddo,” answered a dark cloud of smoke, popping in behind him and lifting him onto his shoulders.

  “Al-right!”

  “What about our parents?” Vala asked.

  “Your mother is finishing up a dressing pitch, but said she’ll meet us there. As for Phoenix, he’s too busy at the moment, I believe.”

  “Aw,” Vala looked a little down, but wasn’t too bothered as long as her mom was coming.

  Everybody was all smiles as they walked through the hallway. Hess levitated up to her mother’s head, gesturing for her to lend her ear.

  “I saw you online earlier," she whispered, "You’re not fooling me.”

  “Shh-sh-shh,” Aurora put her finger against her mouth. “I’ll buy you some magma cream while we’re over there. Don’t. Tell. Anybody.”

  Hess accepted this deal.

  The Colosseum Crater, otherwise known as the Colosseum, or simply, the Crater, was one of the first works commissioned by Demon King Veris’ upon her initial arrival from Old Mal. Originally a meteor crater, a portion of the titular meteor was extracted from the bottom, leaving the rest to be flattened and smoothed into a fighting arena, surrounded by lava sourced from demon excrement. The sloped walls and ridges were chiseled into seats for the spectators, with some leeway given for hallway food stalls. Any left over impact ejecta was formed into the distinctive colosseum arches and the special cushioned seat boxes for VIPs. The Demon King’s box, and by extension their family’s, was instead made from the meteor’s own material, and upon the establishment of the Kingdom of Dawn, now included a private McDawnolds for their own pleasure. It sported a fantastic view of the arena, and included a special orb display that was connected to a Scrying Eye that they could easily pilot around for a better view of the action. And, if they still weren’t satisfied, a multi-paneled MagiTV levitated above the center of the location, displaying the official broadcast on CCTV (Colosseum Crater Television). Fights weren’t all that took place here. Concerts, contests, festivals, and the like occurred here too. And even though this place was very much rooted in Mallen culture, humanoids of differing origins bought seats too. Grand entertainment for a grand kingdom. Just don’t ask what happens inside Poopsmelter #5.

  INHALE. GULP.

  “Man, these chili-helldogs really do hit the spot!” Ash rubbed his belly and burped fire.

  “Yeah!” Flint agreed, piling on the mustard and ketchup and sucking it down in one foul swoop.

  “Manners, boys,” Cat remarked, dabbing their faces with a napkin.

  “Aunt Aurora?” Vala opted for her attention.

  “Huh?” she replied, pausing mid-cascade of spicy popcorn falling into her mouth. Some bounced off and landed on the hard meteorite floor.

  “When are they going to start?”

  “In a few minutes I think,” Umbrak answered, letting his wife finish her popcorn waterfall.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. SQUEAK.

  “Oh good,” Gwen said, “I made it on time.” She approached her kids’ seats and gave them a kiss on their foreheads. Followed by her niece and nephew. “Hey kids.” Chive closed the door behind her.

  “Hi Mom,” Ash and Vala replied.

  “Hi Aunt Gwen,” Flint and Hess said.

  “Welcome Gwen,” Umbrak greeted. “How was work today?”

  “Filled with critics that have no taste, Umbrak,” she scoffed, then gave both him and Aurora a quick hug. “How’s New Mal these days?”

  “Tch, boring,” she replied, crunching on another handful of popcorn. "I had one challenge in the last week. ONE CHALLENGE."

  “She's right," Umbrak added. "There's not much to say, really. Stable, which is good. Other than that, I haven’t been around here much lately.”

  “Your work taking you ‘around?’” Gwen asked.

  “Very much so. After His Majesty left, other countries have been jumbling around trying to protect their artifacts. They aren’t doing a great job, that’s for sure, but it’s not like it matters since his goal isn’t to steal from them. I don’t think they believe him.” He paused for a second. “That reminds me, our Kingdom is so expansive, do you know why we haven’t labelled ourselves an empire? I mean, we pretty much are one, by definition.”

  “My brother brought that up to Dad over dinner once,” Aurora said with her mouth full. “If I remember correctly, he thought that it sounded too ‘oppressive’ or something,” she swallowed, “which wasn’t how he wanted other countries to think of us. I wasn’t really paying attention though, all I remember were the ribs we ate that night.” She inserted another handful of popcorn into her face.

  “Considering that we were once a grand alliance between races, who then happily folded under Solaris’ umbrella, naming our civilization an empire might have painted us as a conquering nation to foreign nations further away,” Gwen guessed.

  “You sound like your husband with that line of thinking,” Umbrak noted.

  “He rubs off on me,” she smiled.

  Aurora burped, “You say that like that’s a good thing."

  ERRRRRRRRRRRR.

  “Oh,” she leaned forward, “I think they’re starting.”

  The Colosseum's patrons quieted down as the ridges of the crater extended, curving at very specific angles over the open ceiling. Once finished, the announcer poofed into the center of the arena; a three-quarters-human, quarter-smoke-demon man dressed in a crimson suit and top hat, with a stylish twirly brown mustache and chin strap, wearing black gloves that stretched at their tips due to his sharp nails. His ears were slightly elongated and his eyes were blackened with blood red pupils. He didn’t even need a microphone. The acoustics of this place—the purpose of the extendo-ridges—made his already-loud voice carry to all ears, except the bathrooms, maybe.

  “HELLO MY FELLOW CITIZENS OF NEW MAL AND THE GREATER KINGDOM OF DAWN!”

  Everybody cheered.

  “WELCOME TO THE COLOSSEUM CRATER! I AM YOUR HOST, ZUNE THE THIRD—”

  Allow me to interject for a moment. Zune III is the son of Zune Junior, grandson of the famous human Crier Zune. Yes, that Crier Zune, the one who famously interviewed Sunbreak? Quickly now: Crier Zune married Nancy Lamb, a human lawyer. They copulated and raised Zune Junior. Zune Junior became a famous jazz bard after inventing the Zune: the first tongue-based instrument. It’s a set of strings slotted into the roof of one’s mouth, in which you use your tongue to pluck. The vibrations reverberate out your mouth and nose, so you can adjust your jaw and cover your nostrils to tweak the sound's timbre. Not widely used, due to the need to clean the overflowing saliva off of it every time you wanted to play, but those who dedicate the time can produce otherworldly tones that really make your body feel good. Continuing on, Zune Junior married Sally Zarguul, a half-human, half-smoke-demon lawyer. They copulated and raised Zune III. Zune III began his life wanting to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, but soon found his love for watching people get injured just barely overpowering his love for yelling, combining aspects of the two. He hopped around from sports broadcast to sports broadcast, eventually landing a job here, in the Colosseum Crater, as its announcer. He also got recently engaged to Gi-bra Brown, a half-elf, half-demon biologist. Back to Zune III.

  “TONIGHT WE HAVE A SERIES OF DUELS, FEATURING THE LIKES OF SUCKO THE SUCKER, GARRIET BROSMAN, DORF, AND ZISTOPHER MAYHEM! AS WELL AS A FEW NEW BLOODS HOPING TO MAKE A NAME FOR THEMSELVES!”

  “YEEEEEEEAAHHHH!” the crowd screamed.

  “AND, I’M HONORED TO SAY, TODAY WE ARE JOINED BY THEIR MAJESTIES DEMON KING AURORA, DEMON QUEEN UMBRAK, THE QUEEN OF DAWN GWENDOLIN, AND THEIR CHILDREN, PRINCES FLINT AND ASH, AND PRINCESSES HESS AND VALA. PLEASE GIVE THEM A WARM WELCOME!”

  “WOOOOO!” Everybody clapped and whistled.

  “PLEASE, LOOK TOWARD THE MAGITV DISPLAY ABOVE!”

  Everyone did. A tournament tree appeared on screen after a neat sprouting animation reminiscent of bowling alley animations.

  “TODAY WE HAVE SIXTEEN PARTICIPANTS IN TOTAL. THAT MEANS FOUR ROUNDS; FOUR BATTLES EACH CONTESTANT HAS TO WIN TO ACHIEVE GLORY! NO DO-OVERS, NO RETRIES, A WINNING STREAK IS REQUIRED!” Zune snapped his fingers and the names filled in. “PLACEMENTS HAVE BEEN MAGICALLY CHOSEN AT RANDOM BASED ON VOIDAL OSCILLATIONS!”

  The audience looked at each other, confused. Everybody but the smoke-demons at least, who nodded. Umbrak, Flint, and Hess included, as if they had an inherent understanding of what Zune was talking about.

  “AND WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, LET’S BEGIN THE FIRST ROUND!”

  The confusion turned back into cheers.

  “FIRST UP: SIMON KARLAEIC VERSUS FIDA FOE-IDA!”

  Zune snapped his fingers again and the lights centered on the arena. The relevant contestants, Simon and Fida, poofed onto opposite sides of it. They were a little disoriented, but expected to be, and took their ready stances once they finished greeting the crowd.

  “OKAY! READY? AND... BEGIN!”

  that game series. I barely attempted to hide it. I ain't slick.

  probably, so he can.