Fragmented Flames [Portal Fantasy, Adventure, Comedy]

Hours crawled past with the enthusiasm of a slug on vacation.

Pyra tried to sleep and couldn't. Tried to meditate and gave up after five minutes of her brain helpfully suggesting increasingly unlikely escape scenarios. Tried to summon more flame and managed only to confirm that yes, she was still pathetically weak, thanks for checking.

The other cages gradually came to life as occupants woke or gave up pretending to sleep. Conversations happened in low voices—fighters sharing advice, making bets on tonight's matches, trading whatever meager possessions they'd been allowed to keep.

Someone three cages down had apparently been here six months. He spoke with the authority of seniority, explaining rules and strategies to newer captives with the patient tone of someone who'd had this conversation many times before.

"Keep moving," he said. "Stationary target is a dead target. Watch their feet—tells you where they'll strike before their hands do. If you can, end it quick. Crowd loves decisive finishes."

Pyra absorbed the advice with growing unease. This wasn't a temporary problem or a misunderstanding to be cleared up with appropriate violence. This was organized, established, routine.

These people had adapted to captivity with the grim practicality of those who'd learned that fighting the system got you killed faster than working within it.

Footsteps announced the guards' return. Different ones this time, wearing slightly better armor and carrying keys at their belts.

"On your feet!" the lead guard barked. "Tonight's matches start in an hour. You'll be fed, cleaned up enough to not offend the crowd, and given your assignments."

The cages opened one by one, each occupant emerging under watchful eyes. Pyra noticed no one tried to run. The guards' casual confidence suggested that running had been attempted, explored, and thoroughly punished in the past.

But she could just run away, right? Super speed would solve everything, except maybe her super speed had also decided to take a vacation. And she really wasn't looking forward to trying and finding out just how far she could make it.

Her turn came. The lock clicked, bars swung wide, and a guard gestured impatiently.

"Out."

Pyra stepped into the corridor, bare feet finding stone that wasn't any warmer outside the cage. Other fighters formed a rough line—fifteen people in various states of readiness, most looking resigned, a few looking terrified, one looking like he'd already given up and was just waiting for the formality of dying to catch up with his spirit.

They were herded down corridors that twisted like intestines, past chambers that held equipment she didn't want to examine too closely, through spaces that smelled of old blood and fresh fear.

The "cleaning up" process involved a bucket of cold water, a rag that had seen better decades, and the opportunity to wash while guards watched and made inappropriate comments. Pyra tried not to feel self-conscious as she scrubbed, telling herself these people were scum, not worth her attention or embarrassment.

The "feeding" was thin stew that tasted like someone had boiled disappointment with potatoes.

Pyra ate it anyway. Pride was a luxury, and she needed calories more than dignity.

The "assignments" came via a man who looked like an accountant who'd taken a wrong turn into a pirate's convention. Impeccably tailored suit paired with eyepatch, scars, and a beard worth robbing banks.

"You," he said, pointing at Pyra with his quill. "The Flame-Haired Stranger. You'll fight third match against Crusher Dane. Three rounds or submission. Killing is permitted but discouraged—we need you alive for future matches if you survive."

"How considerate," Pyra said, because sarcasm was free and she'd never been good at keeping her mouth shut.

The accountant didn't even blink. "You'll enter from the east gate when your number is called. Try to make it entertaining. The crowd appreciates effort even from those who die."

They were led to a larger holding area closer to the arena proper. The sound of a crowd filtered through stone—hundreds of voices, shouting and cheering, like an audience waiting for a sporting event.

The room was dank, walls streaked with grime, floor strewn with straw. Faint bloodstains decorated the stone. Pyra found a corner and settled against the wall, trying to project more confidence than she felt.

Ranth appeared beside her, settling with the weary grunt of a man too old for this nonsense.

"So," Pyra said. "What now?"

"Now we wait," Ranth replied. "Watch the early fights. Get an idea for what the crowd wants today. Helps to tailor your performance a little—keeps 'em happy and more likely to ask the judges for mercy."

Pyra chewed her lip. "Guess I'm going to be disappointing, then. 'Tailoring performances' isn't really my thing."

A scream echoed from the arena, high and piercing.

"That'd be round one done," Ranth noted. "Lucky bastard probably lost in a flashy way. Got his death over with fast."

Another scream followed soon after, this one deeper and longer—agony stretched over time. Cheers erupted from the unseen crowd.

"And there's round two," Ranth said.

"Sounds... lovely." Pyra swallowed, pushing down fear that threatened to rise like bile.

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Then a guard appeared at the doorway. "Flame-hair. You're up."

Pyra stood, legs steadier than expected. Ranth caught her arm.

"You got a chance out there. Remember, move quick. Strike decisive. No fancy tricks unless you know they'll work."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"Don't die tonight, flame-hair. I've got five coppers riding on you lasting at least three fights."

Pyra managed a smile. "I'll do my best not to ruin your investment."

The corridor to the arena proper was short—maybe twenty feet of stone passage that felt like twenty miles. The crowd noise grew with each step, building to a wall of sound that hit her like a physical force when she emerged into the fighting pit.

The arena was larger than expected—circular, maybe fifty feet across, sand floor dark with old bloodstains. Torches ringed the upper levels where spectators packed wooden benches, faces leering and eager. A few private viewing boxes sat empty at the uppermost levels.

Across the pit, a door opened, and Crusher Dane emerged.

He was aptly named. Built like someone had taken a boulder, given it approximately human shape, and then decided it needed more scars. His fists were wrapped in leather reinforced with metal studs, and he moved with the confidence of someone who rarely encountered problems he couldn't punch through.

Pyra felt very, very small. And not at all powerful. At all.

The referee, a thin man who looked distinctly uncomfortable being the only person between two fighters, raised his hands.

"Standard rules! Three rounds or submission! Killing discouraged but permitted! Fight ends when one fighter can't continue or yields!" He lowered his hands and scrambled out of the way with admirable speed. "Begin!"

Crusher Dane didn't waste time with posturing. He charged like a bull that had taken the concept of subtlety personally and decided to violently reject it.

Pyra's first instinct was to meet the charge head-on, which was exactly the wrong choice and her body knew it. She dove sideways, narrowly avoiding fists that would have turned her face into modern art.

Her reaction time and reflexes confirmed what her feeble flame had suggested earlier—powers were definitely operating at a discount. A big discount.

The crowd roared approval. Apparently, diving away from certain death counted as entertainment.

Crusher wheeled with surprising speed for his size, coming at her again. This time, Pyra tried to create some distance, backpedaling while throwing weak flames that did little more than make him squint and sneer. He brushed them aside like annoying sparks and closed in again.

She barely dodged the next blow, ducking under fists that grazed her cheek in passing.

The pattern repeated—Crusher charging, Pyra evading, flames flickering uselessly, the crowd roaring approval for a fight that mostly involved her running away from a mountain wearing man skin.

A metal-studded fist caught her shoulder, and pain exploded down her arm. The impact spun her around, sent her stumbling. She tasted blood—had she bitten her tongue? Everything hurt too much to pinpoint specifics.

Keep moving. Watch the feet.

Ranth's advice filtered through the panic. Pyra focused on Crusher's feet, noting how he telegraphed his strikes by setting his weight. When he lunged again, she was already moving, letting his momentum carry him past.

She struck his kidney as he passed—weak flame-enhanced punch that made him grunt but didn't slow him much.

This continued for what felt like hours but was probably thirty seconds. Crusher attacking with the relentless enthusiasm of someone who really enjoyed crushing things. Pyra dodging with increasingly desperate creativity, getting in occasional shots that were roughly effective as mosquito bites against a brick wall.

The crowd's mood shifted from approval to boredom. Boos rained down on the pit. One spectator was kind enough to throw rotten vegetables at the combatants. Most, unfortunately, aimed at Pyra.

"Freakin' perfect," she muttered, dodging a cabbage that would have made a mess of her face.

Crusher didn't seem to notice or care. He kept coming, fists and feet flying. He caught her with a backhanded swing that lifted her off her feet and deposited her in the sand hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Stars exploded in Pyra's vision.

The big man loomed over her, raising both fists for the finishing blow.

Pyra's hand found sand. Without thinking—pure survival instinct—she threw it at his face.

Crusher jerked back, roaring, clawing at his eyes. The referee shouted something about dirty tactics, but the crowd's roar suggested they found this development fascinating.

Pyra scrambled upright. Her body wanted to collapse, but collapsing meant dying, so collapse wasn't an option.

Crusher's vision cleared, and the fury on his face promised that the crushing was about to get very personal.

He charged again, blind with rage, technique abandoned for pure violence.

Pyra's exhausted brain noticed something: his feet were wrong. His balance was off. He was so angry he'd forgotten strategy in favor of murder.

She waited until the last possible second—until she could smell his sweat and see the murder in his eyes—then dropped flat.

Crusher's momentum carried him over her, his own speed working against him. He couldn't stop. Couldn't correct. His shin caught her shoulder (more pain, adding to the collection) and he went down.

Hard.

Face-first into the arena wall with a meaty crack that made the crowd gasp.

He didn't get up.

The referee approached cautiously, checking for signs of consciousness. Found none. Raised his hands. "Winner by knockout—the Flame-Haired Stranger!"

The crowd exploded. Pyra stood there, bleeding and confused and so far beyond exhausted she'd circled back around to a strange kind of clarity.

She'd won.

Not through overwhelming power. Not through enthusiasm or raw strength or any of the things she usually relied on.

She'd won through luck, desperation, and throwing sand in someone's eyes.

Guards appeared to escort her from the pit. The crowd was still cheering, apparently having decided that dirty tactics made for excellent entertainment.

Ranth met her at the holding area entrance, wearing something that might have been a smile.

"Told you not to die tonight."

Pyra's laugh hurt her ribs. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

"Five coppers richer." Ranth guided her to a bench where someone who might have been a healer pressed a rag to Pyra's bleeding face. "Rest up. You'll fight again in three days."

Three days.

Pyra leaned back against the stone wall, accepting the healer's ministrations, and tried to process what had just happened.

She'd survived. Barely. Through tactics that Cinder would have called "improvised," Kindle would have called "creative," Ash would have called "unorthodox," and Ember would have just rolled her eyes at.

But she'd survived.

And somewhere out there, her sister-selves were dealing with their own problems. Probably better than she was. Probably with more planning and less throwing sand in people's eyes.

Pyra closed her eyes and let the healer work.

Being alone was terrible. Being weak was worse. Being both was a nightmare.

But she was still alive. Still fighting. Still here.

That would have to be enough.

For now.