He was fourteen, and his black hair had been shifted to one side, no longer covering his eyes. The white vox shell armor he wore depicted hexagonal patterns like a soccer ball. He adjusted his vox gloves as she strolled forward.
Behind were his coaches: the director of Gladius himself, Manny Jackson, and the CFO of the Zeda arena, Luke Erieth. Ariel was stunned that he had two important people backing him up. But he’s never fought competitively, and probably never even held a sword. How would she even go about fighting him? She didn’t want him to get hurt.
“Ariel,” said Marissa, handing her a bladeless hilt. “Make this quick and painless. But be careful. Who knows how good he is?” Ariel gulped.
All Ariel could do was nod. Inside, she was destabilized. She was staring at the hilt now. It wouldn’t kill him, she reassured herself, that much was certain. But it could do some significant internal damage. For the bendable blades where configured to latch on to her opponents suits in the event of a direct stab. All pain, amplified to match an actual blade. But the pain he’d feel was the least of her worries.
The moment he got onstage, she asked, “Demetrius, are you sure about this?”
“Are you?” He replied, grinning. His nose was slender like hers.
Her eyes widened. Paranoia had set in, and she eyed him as the computer introduced them.
A strong voice filled the arena, summarizing both players history. When the computer spoke of Demetrius, it had nothing on him. “Unknown” was used to describe all his measurable skills. Attacking force, Defensive ability, Agility, and Stamina.
Ariel was truly mystified by her brother. Where was this all coming from?
From the corner of his eyes she found his gaze fixed on her. His arms were folded and he looked like he knew what he was getting himself into. She told herself, I’d better take it easy on him. Wear him out first. Then finish him off.