Port de l'enfer

Porte de l'enfer is where Gladiators go to die. Fortunately for me, I'm not a Gladiator, and I've definitely not come to die. Thats what I tell myself at least, as I reach for the dial behind my ear, turning the painfully loud cheers and pounding music down to a low drone. Three hundred and seventy three million, the numbers flash in bright yellow at the center of the arena, so big I can see it from where I'm standing in the lockers. There's almost 400 million dollars on my death. "I can't believe someone was crazy enough to bet 15 million on that chick." I feel a muscle tick in my jaw, yanking the wrappings around my knuckles with a hard jerk. Somehow, looking at the 400 million bet against me, is easier than looking just right of that number, where the small, yet still obscene number, 15 million, looms over me. Part of me is surprised my father only bet 15 million, the other half is relieved. I slam my locker closed, trying to ignore the mutterings growing around me. The girls I'm surrounded with are all my age, albeit taller and a lot more menacing looking. A countdown begins outside the arena, bright numbers counting down from 60 seconds that blind my vision momentarily.Through the sea of thousands of spectators, I pick out my father. He's standing in a studio-box above the crowds, sipping from glass as he shares pleasantries with another man standing near him. After a couple seconds, his gaze connects with mine. Sharp, steely gray eyes hold mine. Then he looks down, tapping on his device.The bright 15 million illuminating the arena shifts, replaced by the number 30 million. "Thanks, dad," I deadpan, even though I know he can't hear me. I step out into the hallway that leads into the arena, tying my black hair behind my ears as I walk. A camera zooms into my face, capturing my blank expression as I stop in front of the gate. On the other side, I can see my opponent doing the same. I tilt my head to get a better look at his face, through the camera footage displayed above. His face is made of hard lines, muscles running up and down his back and torso. He's easily twice my height and weight-class. Ink covers every inch of his skin, including his bald head. They announce his name, but I don't bother to pick it up.Five seconds. Four. Three. I closed my eyes briefly, sucking in a deep breath. I checked my oxygen levels and heart rate, before turning off the blue display of text information in my eyes. The gate shook, lifting up, and I stepped into the roaring crowds. My opponent lunges forward, raising his arms to flex and roar back into the crowd. He pumps his chest, waving around a nasty looking battle axe. "BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD," the crowd chants. Their excitement infiltrates my blood, and I feel my heart rate quickening, my hands flexing with anticipation.They aren't here to witness a fight. They want to see a massacre.The gladiator stalks toward me, raising his axe over his head. It's clear from the look on his face, that he believes its going to be a quick fight. When we're less than three paces away from each other, he swings. I fall to the ground, the blade swishing over my head as I maneuver behind him. The heavy weapon sets him off balance, and he swings again. I dodge again, but this time, he lets go of the axe, using its momentum to heave a fist into my stomach. I feel the air in my lungs seize up, pain shooting up my body as I'm launched backwards. Before I hit the ground, another fist pummels into my gut. The chants of "BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD," are deafening now, almost as loud as the blood rushing through my ears. I catch his next punch, my hands tightening around his knuckles as I stagger to my feet. Blood trickles down my temple from where my head slammed into the ground. I feel bone crack under my grip, but my opponent doesn't seem to notice. He launches another fist towards my face, and this time I duck, using my grip on his hand to pull him forward. I let go, turning to watch him stumble and crash into the ground. The crowd roars, boo's mixed with cheers, as patrons realize they might've just lost a substantial amount of money.He's back on his feet in mere seconds though, and I'm not fast enough to dodge his next punch. It lands square on my jaw, metallic blood filling my mouth as I'm thrown to the side. For several precious seconds, I do nothing. Tentatively, I reach up to touch my cheek. A deep gash meets my finger, blood flowing down my face and neck. The gladiator smirks, raising his hand smugly, as if to tell me he cut my face on purpose. A gun falls out of my jacket and into my hand before I can stop myself, the barrel aimed at his head. A loud bang reverberates down my hands and into my bones, followed by the heavy thud of his body.The entire arena goes silent. Utter mayhem breaks out. Knives, tomatoes, and chairs are thrown into the arena."Cheater!""You can't bring a blaster into the fight!"And they were right. The rules had explicitly stated no modern weaponry was allowed in the arena. But the pistol had been invented in the 16th century. Gunpowder was anything but modern.I lift my head up high, raising my pistol up in the air for everyone to see. Their outraged cries died somewhat, as they realized I had used gunpowder and not lasers. I dropped the gun, disgusted as I wiped the blood off my cheek.I need to clean the cut on my face before it scars. I hurried out of the arena and through the locker room, trying to ignore the slack jawed gazes boring into my skin.A limousine is already waiting for me when I burst through the back entrance, men in black suits pushing me into the open doors. I fall into the seats, scrambling as I opened and closed the car draws, looking for alcohol wipes and gauze.Blood and loose wires entangle my leather pants and t-shirt, but I ignore them as I focus on the cut on my face."Could you not have found a more legitimate way to win?" My fathers tone is unpleasant as he glares at me from across the limousine."Are you going to argue that gunpowder is a modern weapon?" The last time gunpowder guns had been used had been over four centuries ago, during the third world war.He didn't respond, and I finished applying cream and gauze to my face wound."I'll have the mechanic look at you before you retire for the night. Good job today, Mirabelle."

His words were empty, devoid of the normal emotion you'd expect to hear from words of praise.

I had just won him tens of millions of dollars today, his thanks was almost insulting. But I say nothing, smiling absentmindedly into my compact mirror.Though I call Lewis Bronson "father", he's anything but. His hair is a light blond, mixed with the occasional white strand. Mine's jet black. His eyes are a gunmetal gray, piercing in their intensity. Mine are dull brown. The ride back to the manor is silent, other than the clanking of metal as I rewired and stitched wounds closed. My repairs were messy with haste, but preferable to sitting in the lab for several more hours while mechanics and doctors stitched me up. I'm dead tired when we finally arrive home. I slump into my bed, my muscles aching and head pounding. Bright blue text fills my vision, even with my eyes closed, showing my oxidation levels and other biometrics I could care less about. From the frantic way he tapped at his device in the car, I'm sure he'll have another job for me to complete tomorrow. Another high-ranking official to kill. Documents to steal. The thought is depressing, and I turn on my back to stare at the ceiling. I'm so tired that I nearly forget. I jump out of bed, afraid I'll fall almost asleep again. My computer is where I left it under my bed, and I grapple with the wires, plugging one into my neck, and the other into one of the ports. I boot up the computer, typing as quietly as I can while I check the updates he tried to make on me today. UPDATE 19.764.25 - MIRABELLEI click on the file, skimming the pages of software and DNA updates he expects will be updated to my software in the morning. I create a separate invisible file, and nullify all the changes. I shut my computer, sliding back underneath my bed. It's absurd, trying to stop my father from changing my DNA, when it was him who individually coded each strand to begin with. Yet still, every night I deleted his changes, under some naive belief that it would make me more human.