A Short by Matt Bahamut

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

Title says it all, a short by me which I've randomly written this afternoon. Not put massive amounts of planning or proof-reading into it, but I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. About 3,500 words, so about the same length as the average Thar's OTP fics. Not gonna spell out the plot or themes to you here, read it and comment (ha, comment) and see if you can work it out, or what you interpret from it.

 

[spoiler=We've Got the Whole World... In Our Hands...]It is almost time...

 

The darkness that surrounded us is pierced by the light bursting through the opening door, only to be blocked in part by the silhouette of the man approaching us. He takes hold of us and lifts us from our resting place, where we have been kept away from those who seek us, and we do not resist. We have been through this many times before. We all know the drill. Despite our lack of protest the man still takes a moment to readjust himself, having not anticipated our dead and surprising weight of which he really should know better by now, but the moment passes and he steadies his grip and takes us forth. Forth to the place of the final battle, which it is our destiny to witness and be a part of. It is our destiny now, just as it was those times before, and it will be forever.

 

We are taken from our hiding place by the man, bound back to back as we are and unable to see each other - although our minds and souls are always one. We are joined and flanked by more men; all with shields and clubs and armour, and all is quiet at first as we move down through the building. We know it will not be quiet for long. And so it is as we reach the front doors and they are opened for us by yet more men with shields and armour, who then press ahead of us into the slight rain outside and into the crowd of people who have come to find us. The man holding onto us steadies his grip once again; clutching us very tightly for fear of what will happen if we are separated from him, and barely breathing curses of the rain and the crowd his entourage are holding back he quickens his pace forward. The silence suddenly turns to a confusing cacophony of shouts and calls and demands that fall upon deaf ears. Metaphorically speaking in the case of the man and his protectors, more literally in ours, although we are aware of the noise being made. There are flashes of light in the dreary downpour as some of the people try to get a good shot at us, but they don’t have much chance as we are whisked swiftly into the black vehicle that is waiting to take us to our final destination. The man bundles us inside and pulls the door shut behind him, bangs on the window for the chauffeur to go, and as he steadily pushes through the horde that mobs the vehicle, the carrier sighs with relief, and gently wipes the spots of rain that trickle across our faces and bodies, careful that we look our best for the ritual ahead.

 

The crowd outside our hiding place is soon left behind and our carrier relaxes, and we have a little time to look upon the city to which we have been bought this time before we reach the final destination. Apparently rain is not often associated with this place. We are taken past grand looking buildings and fancy restaurants and all manner of upper class entertainment. The vehicle crosses a bridge over the bay, and we can see much more of this gigantic city that appears so prosperous all around us. There is a mountain ahead in the distance; as we cross the bridge we can see it through the glass roof on which the pitter-patter of rain continues, seeing in the same sense that we can hear anyway. Atop of it is a statue; staring down on the city just as we stare out of the darkened window of our transport. Its arms are spread wide, and it looks tall and proud. We are not so different. We are also vaguely aware that not all areas of this city are like this part, although we have not seen those. Our carrier will not take us there. He and his peers fear them, and would rather not acknowledge their existence at all. We would rather not either. It is not our place to ponder or make judgement on the contrasts of this city. We are here for one reason. For one purpose.

 

For the battle. For the destiny. For the glory.

 

We are reaching the battlefield, the coliseum looms before us. As we get closer, the people around us become more and more numerous. They head towards the great coliseum like it were a beacon. Most of them barely notice the car trying to force its way through the ever thickening swell flooding the streets, but a few see us, and some of them must guess who and what is inside. They press against the windows and tap them. Some of them smile and cheer. Some of them we just pass by, mouths open in awe.

 

We regard all of them with the same cold indifference, and turn away.

 

The car comes to a stop as close as it can, and once more there are guards pushing back another crowd, and once more our man takes us tightly, and as the door is opened for him hurries across to get away from the drizzle and the crowd. More shouts, more flashes, more chaos. It is always this way. We are quickly taken away from these people trying to see us, longing to touch us, those who cannot, and we enter the place of the decisive battle to which we are key and the door is slammed shut behind us, sealing us inside. There is no way back now. Not that we could ever take it.

 

The wait is long for our part to play, and once more we are locked up until then. We sit patiently in the total darkness, knowing there is nothing we can do but wait for our time. We know the man, our attendant, is nearby. He won’t let us out of his sight for a moment. His superiors are probably with him now, and they will no doubt cause him great discomfort as they distract him from us with their irrelevant chatter. Humph, some people never change there. We also know that the people outside are now making their way into the coliseum and taking their places for the battle. They stamp and they chant and they long for us to be set free, and to see us. They also see those of the opposition side across the battlefield from them, and immediately the air tenses and the coliseum becomes a cauldron of noise and fire as they square each other up. There are flares in the crowd on both sides. There are drums and horns added to the stamping of feet and the hollers and calls. Their assigned warriors will be somewhere below, preparing themselves for the battle ahead. These people are going to fight for us. These people are going to fight over us. For the glory. Over glory.

 

Pfft... glory.

 

We rouse from our musing and contempt as our attendant is on the move with us again, through the corridors at the base of the coliseum, and he enters a tunnel which leads to the arena, and the field of battle lies before us to which are about to be taken. But first another man calls to him and approaches us, with his hand outstretched and his fake warm smile. He is an old man, slightly balding, and although he greets our attendant with courtesy and makes pleasantries, his piggy eyes never leave us. We meet his gaze with our cold dead eyes, and say nothing. He strokes our faces with his hand, caressing us with a dirty hand that we feel all the corruption in the touch of as we see the greed in his eyes. We shudder inside our souls, what have you made of us with your greed? But still we say nothing. He lets us go, we and the attendant breathe a collective sigh of relief as he leaves for now, and we brace ourselves as we are taken down the tunnel and into the cauldron.

 

The swell of emotions in the crowd doubles as we emerge and are seen. More than seventy thousand people surround us; chanting and shouting and roaring as one great ocean around us. We do not panic as our attendant does, nor feel the same shiver that runs down his spine despite himself. Yet we are not excited either. What will be will be and all that. We are placed on a plinth just before the battlefield, near the tunnel entrance. Our attendant backs away slightly but waits as close as he dare, and in the immense noise and heat and atmosphere baying for battle to commence, we wait as well.

 

The combatants are emerging.

 

They pass by either side of us as we sit back to back on the plinth, and they line up symmetrically on the battlefield and face the crowd. Every one of them glanced at us on their way past, and every one of them had to fight the urge to reach out and touch us. We could tell. But only the victors get to touch us. Only those who achieve the glory get to touch us, no-one else. They know this. That is why members of each line steal glances down at their opposition, and glare at them. They are the ones standing in the way of us. Both sides have fought long and hard to reach this place, and now standing down that line are the last obstacle between them, glory, and us. It is almost time for the final battle to commence.

 

To what lengths will these mortals go to achieve glory, and to win our favour? We look coolly down the lines of these men who have been forwarded by their tribes as the best they have to achieve victory in this latest pursuit of it. The hardened, muscular, shaven-headed man nearest to us; the leader of one of these sides, is not one hundred percent despite his steely look. He has had injections in both knees; to ensure that he can compete today as is his destiny. The repercussions will see him crippled in later life long before he is old. He doesn’t care. It could make all the difference to his team in achieving victory and glory, but it does not guarantee it. He still doesn’t care. He has come too far and sacrificed too much to let destiny slip to a weakness of body now or to the thought of a weak body later. We don’t care either.

 

Gazing further down the line, his comrades display various emotions. Some of them show fear in their eyes of the enormity of the moment. Of the expectation, of the pressure, of the prospect of failure now. Some are relaxed, and seem vaguely familiar to us from battles before. We can’t remember exactly if they have fought for us before or not; we’ve seen many people do it and they are inconsequential to us. These emotions are displayed amongst their opposition too. One young boy who looks barely of age stands at the end of the line. No amount of nerves can dampen his excitement for what lies ahead as he smiles at the devoutly cheering hordes in their face paint and insignias, and then he smiles at us.

 

Foolish and naive youth. We do not care about you. We do not care about any of you or your comrades. We care only about those who achieve glory and deserve us. Now the time has come to decide that. We are taken from our plinth by our faithful attendant and carried up the stairs to a calmer and more secure place amongst the baying crowd, and we take our place to watch what will be.

 

The battle is fierce and hard. In the drizzle coming through the open mouth above the arena that quickly worsens the ritual ground underneath, combatants of both sides work together towards their goal, and clash against one another in an attempt to stop them. We watch on imperviously as the opening minutes are cagey and indecisive; as if both sides probe and weight each other up, as fear of failure and making a fatal mistake early on holds them back. This cannot remain the case forever. If they want to have us, they will have to be braver than this. Our attendant loses himself for a moment despite his supposed neutrality in all this as one team comes close to making the first decisive blow in this battle, but the opportunity is wasted. The man responsible sinks to his knees and punches the ground in frustration at his failure, and at how pivotal it might be. He glances nervously up at the crowd around him. One side jeers and mocks his ineptitude; the other bemoans and curses it. He sees us. We are indifferent to him.

 

After an hour, there is still no telling breakthrough, and no clear victor is emerging. We are not troubled. There are ways of deciding victors amongst these closer encounters. However the battle is taking its toll. Those warriors on the field are going down left and right, clutching ankles that give way  to weakness and backs that scream in protest and lungs that gasp for air (although we know that one of them that went down in sheer desperation for glory was faking it. We do not approve of this.) Who will break first?

 

There is a terrible crunching snap, and a piercing scream that is drowned out by gasps and groans of dismay from the entire crowd, and we have our answer to that question as the battle is halted for a moment. A neutral group of healers runs into the battlefield and the group of concerned members of one side, stretcher in tow, and from them they troop back towards us with the wounded competitor. It is the young boy who smiled and waved like such a goon at the start. His charming smile and handsome looks have been replaced by a grimace of pain and a mask of anguish, although he is barely conscious. He is carried into the tunnel somewhere below us. There is a probability he may never emerge onto a field of battle like this again. We sniff in disdain, and go back to watching the restarted contest. We forget him.

 

This incident though makes us think of the folly of this contest. What is the point of all this for them? The defeated will certainly be forgotten, but even amongst the glorious victors who claim us as their prize, a good number of them will not be remembered. Even in a year from now, never mind four, many of the people in this arena will not be able to name half of those who emerged as triumphant warriors and who claimed victory on their behalf. A few of their names will live on through time perhaps, if they made the critical and decisive contribution between victory and defeat, but even then there is no certainty that they will, and while their names might live on somewhere they will not. Only we are truly immortal. The glory they are fighting so hard for will be forgotten about all too quickly, as will they be. They will be replaced when they are too old, or when they are no longer the best. Only we will last forever.

 

We wonder how our predecessor is doing now...

 

Suddenly the crowd erupts all around us, as there is the crucial deciding moment. The man who missed that potential shot at glory early on has been given another opportunity, and this time he has taken it! In an instant he has gone from being mocked and hated and repulsed, to being revered and adored, and now he may well stand a chance of the immortality of which we speak. He is mobbed by his fellows in arms as the enemy try to rally themselves to counter. Once more he looks up into the rocking wave of people in the arena, and our form catches his eye again. We are... no longer so indifferent.

 

The other side desperately tries to come back and level the fight, and their half of the crowd beg for them to turn the tide of this battle around as they throw everything they have at it, but it is already too late. The battle is lost, and this is soon confirmed. It is over. It is decided. To our one side, the victors join together and celebrate with their clansmen and women behind them. To our other, the defeated fall to their knees in despair at their failure, their clansmen are silent and downhearted. They have come to the final battle, and have lost. Some of them may get to fight for us again in years to come. Many have lost their only chance.

 

Our attendant sighs as he takes us hold of us for the final time and makes good on his last duty; carrying us back down from the screaming and crying crowd to fulfil our part in all this. Our time is now at hand. It is almost over for us now. He takes us towards a segregated box of officials, to which the gladiators are starting to ascend up towards, each one being grabbed and stretched to by those closest in the mob. That man who we repulse is there again, smiling his plastic smile as our faithful attendant hands us over to him, and with a look of regret makes his way and fades into the background. We do not feel much, but we are sorry for him; that he has to do all the work keeping us safe only to give way to this disgusting fraud at the final moment. We will miss him, our keeper, even if that feeling is perhaps enhanced by our loathing of the corrupt one stealing this moment for himself.

 

The gladiators reach our level, and come to take us. The man who made the critical impact appears first, the relief is etched so obviously all across his haggard, mud covered and bloody face. We do not blame him for this. He steps back though, and along with another colleague helps his shaven-headed captain up the top step. His knees that had taken the injections are shot from the effort he has made. To him it was worth it. The pain now and that in the future was all worth it. And as he limps towards us, shaking the hand of each official all suited and smug before he comes to us, as the clouds above start to break and the rain ends, we begin to understand.

 

We understand that for these mortals, even if the moment is fleeting and will be forgotten in time as will they be, that it is worth it. All the pain and the sacrifice is worth it to achieve this moment of glory, even if it is for just a moment. As the sunlight starts to break through the clouds, the light that reflects off our golden form in which we look our most glorious, and the battered and hobbling captain and his faithful lieutenant shake the hand of our balding captor and take us from him, we are satisfied. Together they hold us aloft, and the remaining half of the crowd roars in delight in their feat. We are theirs now, as is all the glory that comes with us. We are theirs until the next battle, when we will watch another two sets of gladiators and their tribes fight over us. We will watch them fight impassively, until one side emerges as champions and earns our favour. They will be written into the history of glory and tattooed upon our skin forever, just as the moment will be etched upon their memories forever, even if not on the others or ours as they are regularly replaced in time. That is all that matters to them.

 

Glory is all that matters.[/spoiler]

[The Warden]

Sooo, all this fancy speaking for what basically amounts to a game of Soccer?

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

Sooo, all this fancy speaking for what basically amounts to a game of Soccer?

 

Um... Yes. Hey, you got it. That's.... well I kinda hoped it would take a few people a few go's, but never mind. Guess you're gonna say despite the ambiguity it was too obvious huh?

 

Let's face it, the media coverage will ham it up a lot fancier than I did :D

[Vector Nightmare]

Geez. Geez I say.

I caught the soccer thing early enough, but I didn't catch the other twist until the end.

[spoiler=I was thinking that]You were going for a fantasy twist and the POV guys were actually some legendary super team that was going to face the winners in a final ultimate battle and you actually had me hooked there even though I don't watch or care about sports so I'm not even embarrassed I didn't get they were the trophies or whatever.[/spoiler]

I have to agree that even though it flowed well and was a pretty powerful read, it felt too overbearing for what it was. Then again maybe a sports fan will have a different view.

[The Warden]

No, you kept it subtle. I caught on when you mentioned leg injections. I was basically trying to guess what sport but the leg injections lead me to soccer. I presume this relates to that recent foul-up of a Soccer match in England right?

 

Also... I practically live on twists. To know a good twist is to find one I have yet to figure out until it gets spelled out to me.

 

Oh yes, one last thing: Thar's works are usually about 7000 words. That is all.

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

Coming back online to two comments. Wow. That's practically overwhelming for this section.

 

Geez. Geez I say.

I caught the soccer thing early enough, but I didn't catch the other twist until the end.

[spoiler=I was thinking that]You were going for a fantasy twist and the POV guys were actually some legendary super team that was going to face the winners in a final ultimate battle and you actually had me hooked there even though I don't watch or care about sports so I'm not even embarrassed I didn't get they were the trophies or whatever.[/spoiler]

I have to agree that even though it flowed well and was a pretty powerful read, it felt too overbearing for what it was. Then again maybe a sports fan will have a different view.

 

Yeah, Dion got there in the end and this is kinda what I was hoping for. That early on you'd be like "What the f*** is this these some sacrificial kids or something?" and then eventually get to realising it's the trophy. Or more specifically it's the World Cup Trophy. That's why I thought their tone should be a bit more aloof and grand.

 

You're probably right on that it will be a bit marmite-y by it's very nature. =/

 

No, you kept it subtle. I caught on when you mentioned leg injections. I was basically trying to guess what sport but the leg injections lead me to soccer. I presume this relates to that recent foul-up of a Soccer match in England right?

 

Also... I practically live on twists. To know a good twist is to find one I have yet to figure out until it gets spelled out to me.

 

Oh yes, one last thing: Thar's works are usually about 7000 words. That is all.

 

That's good.

 

You'll have to be a bit more specific than that N. :D There wasn't so much a specific reference to any kind of recent incident with the captain, it was just the obvious go-to to use when the trophy mused on how far people were willing to go for their moment for glory and the risks they'll take to achieve it at all costs, along with how unforgiving the quest can be with the potentially career-ending injury to the younger player. The only real specific and sartirical hint to the real game was to the recently more prominent art of diving and simulation, to which the trophy did not approve.

 

Oh okay, they are getting longer then. Not that it matters at all, just trying to calm any potential reader who clicked on this and be like "oh god Matt's writing is usually anything but short". Something you have rightly picked me up on yourself. I really should get around to reading Crab x Pika part 2. =/

 

Thank you for taking the time to read this and giving the feedback on it.

[.Rai]

Thought I'd comment, since your writing's always great, and I feel bad for not keeping up with Armageddon (YGO's such a drag for me now).

Interesting read. I like the grandeur and Classical feel to it. Feels almost like Epic poetry. Sometimes, the conscious attempt to make it sound ceremonial and vaguely Roman just comes off as forced. If you're gonna be aloof and epic, go all-out. The occasional modern references break up the flow for me, but that's preference.

The trophy thing was nice. Cool use of perspective there. Generally, really well done. And, obviously, it's not the England team holding that trophy aloft :p

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

Thought I'd comment, since your writing's always great, and I feel bad for not keeping up with Armageddon (YGO's such a drag for me now).

Interesting read. I like the grandeur and Classical feel to it. Feels almost like Epic poetry. Sometimes, the conscious attempt to make it sound ceremonial and vaguely Roman just comes off as forced. If you're gonna be aloof and epic, go all-out. The occasional modern references break up the flow for me, but that's preference.

The trophy thing was nice. Cool use of perspective there. Generally, really well done. And, obviously, it's not the England team holding that trophy aloft :P

 

Well, it's not always, but I appreciate the morale boost :)

 

YGO is awful now. There look to be some fun things about, but it does seem to be going on such a powercreep as to get to 'who gets Midrash/Ultimate Declarer/Etc/etc first wins'. Probably why they're slowing down the player who goes first in the OCG.

 

Yeah, probably right about it being over the top and forced. More in an effort to sound ambiguous, but same result.

 

Thanks man. And yeah, obviously :P