The Show Must Bleed
BlackSand Warrior Gauntlet
The heat of the BlackSand hit Antonia first, not the sun, but the pressure of expectation. The crowd was already roaring before her boots touched the dark obsidian grit. From high above, she could hear Verus, Eradicator of the Coliseum, bellowing something grand and guttural in her direction, but it blurred into the background, like a stage light warming her back.
This was it. Finally.
She stepped forward slowly, pacing her entrance. Her Viking helmet sat heavy but firm on her brow, shadowing her eyes just enough to control the reveal. The black sand crunched beneath the heel of her leather boots. The blood-stained air welcomed her like a long-lost friend.
A moment passed. Then she revved her chainsaw.
It shrieked to life in a guttural purr, the teeth rattling against the tension of its own drive. Her fingers spun the handle once, just a light toss, catching it reverse-grip, then back again. The crowd responded immediately. A low, swelling wave of cheers followed her like an approaching tide.
The scent of oil and old kills filled her lungs, and she smiled despite herself.
Under the weight of her moment, she glanced down briefly. Her scarred forearm flexed as she tightened her grip. She’d trained for this. Dreamt about this. Bled for this.
“They’ll remember me,” she whispered to no one.
When she looked up again, he was already there.
Wrapped in a bright red cloak, standing across the arena like a stone in a silent river. Even from this distance, she could see the glint of his magic shield, alive even while idle. It didn’t hover or hum. It waited. Watching. She hated how still he stood, as if he was already annoyed to be here.
She knew his story. Everyone did. The Slave Made King of the Arena. But he was old legend. She was now.
He unfastened his cloak and let it fall to the sand in a practiced flourish. Leather briefs. Scarred torso. A rapier in hand. He looked like something halfway between a gladiator and a corpse too proud to die.
Antonia smiled and rolled her shoulder, letting the blood-red chainsaw drag low across the obsidian sand. The sound hissed like a warning.
Let’s see if that shield can dance.
She kicked the chainsaw up with her heel, caught it in her left hand, flipped it to her right, then twirled it mid-air once more.
The first blade always came with a smirk. Not arrogance, an invitation. Let the world watch. Let Maya hear. Let the crowd scream her name.
The chainsaw roared in her hands, thrumming with anticipation like a second heartbeat. Antonia shifted her footing, left boot dragging a shallow groove in the black sand. She tilted her head and squinted across the arena.
Tad hadn’t moved. Still as a monument. No twitches. No ready stance. Just the rapier resting loose in his grip and that damn shield tucked close to his body, like a pet hawk poised to strike. She didn’t like it. She didn’t trust it. But she wouldn’t let it steal her spotlight.
“Alright, wallflower,” she muttered, then surged forward with a flicker of dust.
The first lunge wasn’t meant to hit. It was to wake him up. Her chainsaw buzzed inches from the sand as she sprinted low and wide, rotating the blade outward like a spinning wheel of death. The engine's roar grew louder as she closed the gap, revving to high-pitch thunder as the crowd leaned forward with an audible gasp.
She spun once mid-charge, letting the saw flare out in a controlled circle, enough to paint danger, not commit to it. When Tad finally stepped back and raised the shield, she smirked. There you are.
He didn’t retreat, not really. Just adjusted. His shield responded on its own, a smooth, effortless deflection, like swatting smoke. But it was subtle. No flash. No visible magic. The thing read her, and that bothered her more than she’d admit.
She pivoted hard, knees bending, and tried again. This time high, then low, then flipping the chainsaw over her back and catching it from the air behind her.
The crowd screamed. Her scar split slightly from the smile tugging at her cheek.
She faked left, and when Tad’s shield nudged in that direction, she twisted into a reverse-hand grip and came from below, trying to hook her chainsaw’s jagged teeth under the lip of his weapon. Her goal wasn’t to cut, it was to rip. If she could just torque it the right way, she might throw his rapier wide, maybe even send it flying.
The shield blocked the hook mid-twist, rotating in on itself like a hinge. It wasn't just reacting, it was counter-disarming. She felt it, a recoil, as if the shield wasn’t just protecting Tad, but fighting back.
Still, she landed a hit. Shallow, but real. Her blade scraped Tad's outer thigh. Blood, quick and red, spilled onto his leg.
Antonia winked and stepped back, spinning the chainsaw idly by the handle. “Hope you’ve got more than furniture fighting for you, pretty boy.”
Tad said nothing. His shield vibrated once, like it had heard her.
Antonia’s chest rose and fell, more from restraint than exhaustion. Her chainsaw whined a steady alto growl in her grip, vibrating into her bones like a warning bell. The scent of oil, sweat, and blood swirled in the dead air between them, and neither of them moved.
Tad had reset. Legs square, eyes narrow, shield forward. He wasn’t chasing. He wasn’t threatening. He was waiting.
She hated that. She didn’t come here to wait.
“Don’t blink, old man,” she whispered through a smile, and then she dropped into motion.
She launched the chainsaw skyward, not recklessly, but with expert spin, and dove into a forward roll beneath its arc. Mid-tumble, her hands reached back, caught the spinning blade perfectly, and turned the recovery into a leaping lunge toward Tad’s exposed side.
The crowd roared. So did the chainsaw.
But the shield blinked first.
It slammed down preemptively, intercepting the blow with a precision that should’ve been impossible. The recoil shot pain through her wrists as the blade bounced wide, not from a block, but from a perfectly angled deflection. The thing didn’t just defend, it negated her rhythm.
She cursed under her breath and pivoted off the blow, letting momentum carry her into a wide cartwheel. Her boot caught a rise in the sand. She stumbled. Only slightly, but enough that Tad closed the distance in a step and thrust the rapier forward.
It was fast. Too fast.
She twisted, narrowly avoiding the lunge, and swung her elbow in reflex, cracking against Tad’s jaw. He grunted and staggered half a step, more from surprise than pain.
That gave her just enough room to drop low, spin, and lash her chainsaw across his lower leg. This time it connected deep. Sparks and blood flying in equal measure. The crowd howled at the spray. "Got you, you bastard," she hissed.
But even bleeding, even reeling, Tad didn’t falter. His shield shifted between them again, a thin wall of judgment, and she saw something new in his eyes.
Not fear. Not pain. Recognition.
He had measured her now. Seen the tempo. The show. The arc of her aggression. He knew what kind of fighter she was. And worse, so did the shield.
She had him. She felt it. The blood from his leg painted the black sand in wet strokes, and for the first time, Tad hesitated.
The crowd knew it too. They roared not for a winner, but for a shift. The rising chant of her name. "Anto-NI-A!" rang out in ragged staccato, each syllable punctuated by the hum of her chainsaw.
So she gave them what they wanted.
Antonia slid backward, one foot dragging a showy trail, and kicked the chainsaw into the air again. Once, twice. Flipping it overhead with both hands in a controlled toss. The blade spun flat, catching the low sunlight. She stepped beneath it like a dancer claiming center stage, eyes locked on Tad.
He didn’t move.
She threw the second toss, higher, caught it in a cross-body twist, and revved it as it fell into her palm. The snarl of the motor snapped across the arena like thunder.
Then came the third flip, her signature. One-handed, overhead, caught behind her back.
That moment, the final catch, was supposed to be the emotional climax. The crowd's lungs would fill with awe, and Tad would flinch. She would step through him like a gust of red flame, ending it with steel teeth to his ribs.
It had worked before. It always worked.
But not this time.
The shield moved before she did.
It wasn’t defending. It was attacking.
With a mechanical hiss, it launched outward from Tad’s side, angled up, and intercepted the chainsaw mid-spin.
The blow wasn’t loud. It was clean.
The chainsaw spiraled away mid-air, clattering across the arena floor like a dropped drum. It bounced once, blade digging teeth-first into the sand with a grinding snarl, then stilled.
Antonia landed from her maneuver with nothing in her hands.
For the first time in the match, the crowd went silent.
She stood, blinking, stunned, both at the shield's precision and her own sudden nakedness. She was not a fighter without her chainsaw. Not really. She was a girl in camo pants and a tank top, with wide eyes and trembling fingers.
And Tad was already walking toward her. No hesitation. No performance. Just steady, surgical intent.
Her instincts kicked in. She backpedaled, kicked up dust, tried to retrieve the chainsaw with a boot flick, but the shield returned to Tad’s side like a loyal beast, and he raised his rapier with both hands.
She dropped low, tried to tumble left, but her balance betrayed her. Her hand found only grit.
The sword came down, tip-first.
She didn’t feel the pain right away.
When the rapier pierced her chest, it was a cold thing. Thin and impersonal. Like being pinned by a thought. It didn’t shatter ribs or explode with gore. It just… entered. Clean. Final.
Her legs folded beneath her before she realized she was falling.
Antonia hit the sand in a seated slump, head tilted upward. Her body swayed like a puppet cut loose from its strings. She coughed once. Blood on her lips. Thick, warm, nothing poetic about it.
Tad stood above her, still silent, the tip of his blade dark with her life.
His shield had returned to his side, unmoving, satisfied. The crowd’s silence hung for a heartbeat more, like the inhale before a scream, and then it came: A roaring wave of sound.
Not for her. Not for the girl who juggled chainsaws and danced through flame. For him.
For the old god of the arena with dead eyes and a loyal shield. For the man who made killing look inevitable.
She chuckled. Just a little. Barely a breath. Even now, even bleeding out, her mouth curled in a smirk.
“...remember me, yeah?” she rasped. It didn’t matter if Tad heard it. It wasn’t for him.
Her fingers twitched in the sand. She tried to reach for her chainsaw one last time, out of instinct, not purpose. It lay somewhere behind her, cooling in silence.
The sky above spun slowly, gold and violet, distant banners fluttering in a wind she could no longer feel. Somewhere, high above, she thought she saw a shape in the box, a silhouette in shadow, not moving. Watching.
The noise of the crowd turned into ocean. Her eyes drifted toward the stands. She saw faces screaming, mouths wide, fists raised. But no one was calling her name. Not even Maya.
And then everything folded in on itself, like curtains drawn shut on a one-act play.
Chainsaw girl. Rat sister. Almost a star. Gone.
Entered by: 0xB9D1…4eA5
