I stare him down, careful to keep my eyes shuttered, drawing up every ounce of willpower in my body. The very fibre of my being tingles with anticipation, or dread. They are almost the same at this point, and only time can tell what it is.

Time I probably just ran out of.

His lips quirk up in a shadow of a smile, a lifeless grimace that doesn't reach his eyes. My fingers wrap around the dagger I hold in my hand, my grip tightening just enough to give me reassurance.

"Subject X, are you prepared to meet your maker?" I ask confidently, my voice masking the quivers in my soul.

"Subject N, leave the empty threats to someone else. You are a terrible actress." His smile turns into a smirk, and my heart sinks.

I raise my weapon with shaky hands, my body slipping into basic defense formations that are almost second nature.

I gulp silently as he gracefully slides into a position I don't know. His right hand holds a short sword easily, and his other hand twirls a spear. My dagger glitters in the light, my lone sign of hope in this fight.

The arena glows red. Once. Twice. With bated breath I wait for the third flash, my hand steadying as I get used to the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The moment slows. The arena is filled, I observe nonchalantly, and the cheers and jeers are loud enough to penetrate the glass dome. My opponent stands fluidly, his hand still twirling that damned spear slowly, his eyes tracking me. I look back at him archly, my fear drowned by the excitement in the air.

And the moment shatters.

The arena glows a bright red, like a fire without flames. The ground under me shakes as the sirens blare, prompting the fight to start. And my opponent? He flexes his arm and tosses that spear, almost mockingly, straight at me.

And the dance starts, between a clumsy but furious woman and a graceful, mocking man. I skirt around the spear that vibrates two inches from my toes, and leap into the air. He swats me away like a king annoyed by a fly.

The clash of steel against steel is the only sound in my ears, and his empty eyes are the only things I see.

Lunge. duck. Lunge. Twirl. Jump. Roll. Thrust.

I work up a frenzy, but he is not fazed.

"Subject N, is that sweat I see, or is your blood colourless?" His words are musical, notes in a song that spoke of superiority and dominance.

I don't deign to reply, focusing my frustration of getting the first successful jab.

He thrusts forward, his hands a blur of metal and flesh, and even as I rush to meet his weapon with mine, I sigh in defeat, waiting for the cut. A slash which never comes.

His blade flies by my cheek, the cold metal barely touching flesh. I fight back, quickly turning my blade back at him, pouncing on his distraction.

He parries almost effortlessly, even taking time to pat his hair down, no doubt in an effort to rile me up.

It works.

I reel into his space, dagger twisting in my wrist, and duck into his shoulder, aiming for his heart. My eyes see red, and I slash my arms viciously at him, only grinning when I feel the blade sink into its target. I throw my hands out, facing the cheering crowd. Only, they were silent.

I blink, surprised. The deadly quiet in the arena resonates in the dome, and the stands are full of people standing up in shock.

I look down, curious. There, embedded in my own arm, is my dagger, gleaming like the day it was forged.

I blink back the pain, turning to face him, my eyes meeting his. I see a glimmer of despair, only for it to vanish. His mask is back.

"Usually, first blood is claimed by the opponent's weapon, but I suppose this will do." He walks away, only stopping to pluck his spear.

Furious beyond words, I pull my dagger out of my wound, barely registering the pain. I throw it at his back, snarling like a beast.

"The fight is unto death, Subject X, or did you think that I would bleed out that quickly?" I grimace, even as he falls to the ground.

He twitches, trying to reach for the offending weapon, but it is firmly lodged in the middle of his back. He claws at himself, almost desperately.

I drag myself to where he is fallen, clutching my arm to me. I turn him around and look into his eyes, waiting to feel victory.

It never comes.

"Why?" I ask, not recognising my own voice, the words slipping out unbidden.

"Because." He rasps, shrugging, only to grimace in pain.

"You meant for this to happen, didn't you? Why do you toy with me with those dead eyes? You aren't that dead inside." I realise belatedly, regret filling my slowing heart.

"Soon, I will be. Does it matter?" He chokes on his own blood, and his empty blue eyes become emptier.

"Not any more." I whisper, my vision already darkening. I feel my tunic soak in the blood pouring from my severed veins.

The last thing I see is an orange light flashing.

Draw.

"Well played, Nomita." His voice breaks into the silent air.

I pull the helmet off, and put the sensor down.

"Xavier, why is it that you act like a jerk in every game, even though I know you are pulling your punches?" I don't bother looking into the laughing blue eyes, busy paying the technician for the hour.

He laughs.

"Why do you pretend to fight, only to accidentally stab yourself? Come on, N. Leave the theatrics in the game. You needed the win more than I did." He walks up behind me and begins to wheel me out.

"Only because you keep letting me win! Why can't you play fair?" I whine. His laughter tickles my ears.

I clutch his wrist with one hand, and lean back, smiling softly, and close my eyes to the creaking of the wheelchair.

"For someone who can't walk, you leap a lot while fighting, you know that?" He comments easily, leading me home.

"For someone who claims not to care, you indulge me a lot, you know that?" I reply, still smiling.

A/n:
Just another short story. What do you think?
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