Nothing More Than Scrap

"No one shall speak his name."

The decree echoed across the colossal arena. The air was thick with tension, the silence unnatural—expectant.

At the center of the execution stage, a lone figure knelt, chains of violet energy binding his wrists and neck.

He was not a warrior. Not a rebel. Not even a man. Just a condemned ghost, waiting to be erased.

His breath was uneven as he scanned the rows upon rows of "Spectators", their golden masks glinting under The Arena's artificial light. No one came to save him. No allies, no sympathizers. Just a sea of watching eyes, unblinking, unmoved.

Behind him, a towering executioner. His armor dull with age, his presence suffocating. He sat on a stone bench, running a sharpening stone across the blade of his massive battle-axe. A rhythmic, grating sound.

Shhhk. Shhhk. Shhhk.

Then, with a grunt, the executioner stood. Heavy boots cracked against the platform as he approached, resting the weight of the axe against his shoulder.

"Any last words?"

The kneeling man exhaled sharply, his shoulders trembling. But when he spoke, his words were neither a plea nor a curse.

"You will make him suffer for what I am, won't you?"

A few Spectators exchanged knowing glances. A quiet laugh rippled through the high seats.

The executioner did not respond. But he smiled. Just a slight, curling grin. He turned his head upward, seeking approval.

On the balcony above, the "Enforcers of the Overseer" stood like statues, their presence absolute.

The First Enforcer gave a single, deliberate nod. The executioner returned it.

Approval granted.

The axe-wielding man inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. Then, with a smirk, he muttered:

"Heads up."

The axe fell.

A shockwave burst outward, rippling through the arena, rattling the very ground. The violet chains shattered into dying embers. Blood sprayed like ink across the execution stage, the severed head rolling to a stop at the executioner's feet.

And then—applause.

Deafening. Roaring. Spectators clapped and cheered, some whistling, others laughing. Another life erased.

But among the nameless faces in the crowd, a child stared with hollow eyes.

He did not cry. He did not move.

He did not understand.

Above the noise, a deep, echoing voice cut through the speakers.

"The Arena will resume in two weeks."

And years later, when they asked the boy where he came from, he would say:

"I don't remember."

---

"Hey."

Silence.

"Hey."

Scrap lay on the stiff, cold cot, staring at the ceiling. The stone above him was cracked, the same way it had been yesterday. And the day before.

"Hey."

The voice was raspy, worn down by years of screaming and laughter and pain. He ignored it.

"Oi, Scrap."

Scrap blinked once, then sat up.

The voice belonged to Duran—the man in the next cell over. If you could even call him a man anymore.

His body was a roadmap of old wounds, twisted scars painting his skin from neck to wrist. He had no left eye. His right one was bloodshot, surrounded by cracked veins and dark bruises.

Once, he might've had the build of a champion. Now, you may wonder how he's still breathing.

And yet, he still talked.

"News is," Duran muttered, rolling his shoulder with a wince, "we got fresh meat coming in today. Poor bastards."

He chuckled dryly.

"Still got that smell of home on 'em. It'll be gone by the end of the week."

Scrap stood. In a few precise movements, he folded the thin blanket on his cot, smoothed the wrinkles from his uniform, and adjusted the dull metal cuffs on his wrists. He dusted off his wooden training sword, running his fingers along the blunt edge.

Duran whistled. "Man, you're efficient. You always like this?"

Scrap didn't answer.

"Not much of a talker, ye?" Duran smirked, revealing two missing teeth. "Y'know, I heard somewhere that means you got deep thoughts. Gotta be somethin' goin' on in that head of yours."

Scrap slung the wooden sword over his shoulder and walked toward the cell door as it slid open.

Duran sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Alright then, Mr. Mysterious. Go on. Another day in paradise."

Scrap left without looking back.

---

As Scrap walks through the corridor filled with despair of hopeless slaves, the usual sounds of suffering blend into the background noise.

Until a sharp cry cuts through. A voice that doesn't belong here yet.

"P-Please—!"

A sickening thud follows. Then a wet cough.

Scrap doesn't stop walking, but his eyes drift toward the scene.

A group of four veterans. A mix of species—one humanoid with burnt skin, another with four arms, a third towering over the others, muscles like steel cords. And their prey? A frail, newly arrived slave, curled up, his hands covering his head. Blood already pools beneath him.

"Ain't no 'please' down here." One of the older slaves—the burnt-skinned one—grins. He stomps down hard on the new slave's ribs. Something cracks.

"You eat when we say you eat," the four-armed one adds, crouching down, shoving a knee into the new slave's back.

The biggest of the group just chuckles, crossing his arms. "Hope you ain't picky. There's not much left on the menu."

The new slave lifts his head, his one working eye swollen shut, and his gaze locks onto Scrap.

Scrap doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

He keeps walking.

For a moment, though, his footsteps slow. Just enough.

The burnt-skinned one notices. His lips curl up.

"What? You wanna take his place?"

Scrap doesn't acknowledge the words.

And then—he simply turns away.

The new slave's hope vanishes in an instant.

Thwack. Thud. Cough.

"That's what I thought."

Scrap steps up to the reinforced counter, the flickering bulbs above casting sickly yellow light over the cracked walls. The worker behind the glass doesn't even look up, he's slumped in his chair, arms crossed, the glow from the terminal reflecting off his half-closed, tired eyes.

A long, droning beep from the machine in front of him signals another transaction.

Scrap doesn't speak. He just slides his last remaining points into the slot.

The worker blinks slowly, barely acknowledging the action. He presses a button, and a small compartment slides open, revealing a thin plastic card—stamped with the dull insignia of the training grounds.

He finally mutters, voice groggy, half-asleep:

"Mm. Don't break anything."

Scrap takes the card and walks off.

The training grounds thrummed with the dull clash of metal and hoarse shouts. Dust clogged the air, stirred by boots and blood-crusted fists.

Scrap stepped onto the cracked stone, wooden sword slung against his shoulder, its blunt edge catching the dim flicker of overhead bulbs. Slaves sparred in ragged clumps—some wild, some half-dead—while others sagged against the walls, cradling split knuckles or bruised egos.

The holo-screen above buzzed, odds shifting for fights no one here gave a damn about.

Scrap moved to an open slab, eyes tracing the space, not the bodies.

Routine. Step, pivot, strike—same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. He planted his feet, lifting the sword to feel its balance, when a voice sliced through the noise.

"Hey, stick."

Scrap didn't turn. Didn't need to. The voice was rough, chewed up by years of barking threats—a slave who'd survived long enough to think it meant something. Footsteps scraped closer, slow and heavy. A shadow lurched into view, tall and hunched, skin like cracked leather stretched over knobby bones. His bald scalp gleamed with sweat, one ear half-torn, and a rusty shank dangled loose in his grip, stained with old blood.

"This spot's mine." He hawked a glob of spit into the dirt, splattering an inch from Scrap's boot. "Shift it."

Scrap's fingers tightened on the sword, just enough to feel the wood bite his palm. He didn't look up. Didn't speak. His stance stayed slack, shoulders even, like the guy was a fly buzzing too close.

The slave snorted, stepping in, shank tapping his thigh with a dull clink.

"What, too good to hear me?" His voice climbed, catching a few tired glances.

No crowd gathered—nobody cared enough—but the air thickened, heavy with the promise of a scuffle. He thrust the shank toward Scrap's chest, stopping short, the tip hovering.

"I said shift."

Scrap's gaze flicked to the blade, then dropped. One breath. Two...

..then he moved—not back, not away, but sideways, a smooth half-step, leaving the spot bare. He turned, took three paces, and stopped at a new chunk of stone, raising his sword again.

Step, pivot, strike.

The slave stood there, shank still out, jaw slack. A dry laugh rasped from a skinny figure nearby—some wiry inmate with a busted spear—followed by a grunt from another. The slave's leathery face twisted, red creeping up his neck. He spat again, a wet smack against the ground, then stomped back toward Scrap, boots kicking up dust like a pissed-off bull.

"Oi, you little shit," he snarled, voice dripping with venom. "Think you're too good for me? I think you need a fuckin' lesson."

Scrap kept swinging, wood cutting the air with a soft whoosh. Didn't look. Didn't stop. The slave's shadow swallowed him now, close enough to smell the sour stink of sweat and rot rolling off that leathery hide. The shank jabbed again, this time grazing Scrap's sleeve, tearing a thin strip of fabric.

Still, Scrap didn't flinch—just stepped aside, resetting his stance, sword up.

"What's that?" The slave leered, yellowed teeth bared, spit flecking his lips. "Your fancy little ear-box broken? Can't hear me through that busted translator shit?"

He laughed, a wet, hacking sound, then lunged, shank slashing for Scrap's gut.

Scrap twisted, fast as a snake, wood cracking down on the slave's wrist with a sickening snap. The shank clattered to the stone, and the bastard howled, clutching his arm, blood leaking between his fingers. He swung a wild fist with his good hand—Scrap ducked, then drove the sword's tip into the slave's ribs. A wet crunch.

The guy doubled over, puking a mix of bile and blood and whatever was crawling in the walls onto the dirt, his torn ear flapping like a rag.

"Fuck—fuck you!" he wheezed, staggering up, eyes wild. He charged again, head low, aiming to ram Scrap into the ground.

Scrap sidestepped, letting the asshole's momentum carry him face-first into the stone wall.

A dull thud, then a spray of red as his nose flattened, teeth skittering across the floor like dice. He crumpled, gurgling, one hand clawing at the dust while the other hung limp, bone jutting through skin.

The grounds went quiet for a beat, then the clangs picked back up, like nothing happened.

Scrap wiped the sword on his torn sleeve, blood smearing into the fabric.

Above, the holo-screen ticked—a point climbed next to his number.