"Dammit," I hissed.

Annoyed it wasn't that simple, my legs continued moving through the deeper parts of this town.

Besides the louder shouts, growing profanity and increase in bad hygiene, I spotted nothing important. Stumped to what was next, I surveyed the area and noted a few trees.

I climbed up the closest, getting higher closer to the midnight sky. I was almost as high as the old water tower that wasn't far. I peeked out from the top, glancing at the action below. A small arena where men seemed to fight was ahead. Observing, I noticed the other man would surrender or was beaten up pretty bad. There was a payment to participate or you could be a spectator or even make a bet.

Feeling for the gold pouch dangling by my pants, I made the connection and scaled down the tree.

"Hey young boy, watch it!" hollered a buff looking man. He was short and tough, an odd breed in these parts. I staggered and kept walking, not wanting to start a fight. The arena was in the middle of the busiest streets I've witnessed, the road filled with more than the normal physical action.

All the men chanted as two fighters were in the midst of their battle. Both gripped a long spear that was twice the size of them, making it humorous.

Well. I found it funny as hell. I wasn't sure about them though.

One wore a white bandana tied to his arm and the other had a dragon tattoo down his back. They keep on taking turns, taunting each other with the sharp objects. I snaked through, trying not to stir any attention. But Romane had other plans.

"Hey, looks whose back," says one of the sweaty men. He had one black eye and a scar across his cheek. All the heads directed to me, like a trail of dominoes. Cheers and hollers echo off of the store walls, all noticing I had entered. The oily hands of men patted against my back as I broke into the welcoming circle.

Whose back? Maybe I was to play a role of someone. A hidden someone.

I couldn't fail at that. I've been hidden all my life.

Yet no matter how familiar I was to staying hidden, the downside of this situation was that it was quite warm inside the cloak, and that sixty sweaty men crowded over me like a swarm of bees.

An authorative voice captured my attention and I saw a man walking up and down the crowds, collecting money. As crazy as it sounds, he seemed to be the organizer of these events. It was just a guess since this was anything but organized.

His Jamaican hat bobbed up and down as he walked over. "The Hooded, my man! It's been a while since I last saw you," he said. As he talked I stared at his gold tooth.

Man? Hooded?

"This is basically a stimulation," Romane described. "You will be taking up an identity and you have to play out that role until your mission is complete."

I put my hand in the air, waving it as I lingered a pause for his response. "So...do I get a profile ID or something like in the movies?"

"No. I want to see how well you can adapt."

"You call this adapting?"

"Of course. Don't you know the best survivors are those who can quickly adapt to new environments? Know where life is aiming before they send you the curve ball."

"How much are you betting today?" Johnny said. His brown hungry eyes searched for the money. I unhooked the pouch and tossed him the bag, keeping mute. There was no way in hell I'd replicate a man's voice. His big hands took the cash, placing the coins on his palm. As he counts, I gazed back at the arena. The two fighters were still playing, both not even scratched. There was no life in this battle, it needed more excitement.

"...twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty. Plan of betting small this time, hm?" Johnny asks raising an eyebrow. I nod my head, giving little communication.

It was temping to tell him he was a really good actor but I remained silent.

"Now I'll just keep this safe and you'll begin in about a minute," he concluded. He slipped the bag into his pant pocket and left without a trace, dissolving past the sweaty bodies.

Capturing the landscape of the arena—

Hunger games talkkkkkkkkk!

My irritation level of this conscious was becoming intolerable...

Sharp wired fences loop around it, creating a circle. Different sized men hollered and cheered at the sidelines, wanting their fighter they bet on to win.

I measured the two fighters, processing how long this battle was going to take.

Suddenly a bottle flies from the crowd and I watch it slowly flips around and around, tossing straight to the man with the dragon tattoo. The beaker quickly broke, smashing over his bald head. The victim's eyes rolled back, struck by the hard glass at such rapid speed. He released his spear, eyes closed, and buckled to the ground. Alcohol dripped from his forehead to his face. A streak of blood flowed over his sweaty forehead. I stared at the wounded, thinking how long his concussion will be.

The audience cheers in victory, but some swear and punch the guy beside him. How civilized.

"All right gentlemen, it's time to bring back a favourite!" the organizer bellowed across the area. Once he entered the arena the men were pumping their fists into the air, propelled with energy. "I bring you, The Hooded!"

Also, remind me to tell Romane The Hooded was the lamest name ever.

I thought yours was.

God. This voice must go. Now.

The organizer approached and shot a toothy grin. "Who would like to face this," he raised my arm, showing pride, "champion?!" he crooned. The crowd roared in excitement, all anxiously waiting for the brave soul to step up.

Wow. Champion?

You wish Jessie...

The entire arena dropped silent at the sound of a voice. "I will."

I honestly expected him to shout 'I volunteer as tribute'.

Booms of laughter smack off the ghetto streets as everyone took in the young challenger.

The crowd parted for this determined young man. He strode into the battle zone, a proud expression was written on his face. "I bet double of what the usual betting is."

My opponent hurled the bag of coins straight at the host, clearly feeling cocky. The organizer slightly fumbled as he catches the tiny bag. He untwined the knot and began to frantically count the money, not wanting to leave anyone waiting.

The challenger moves towards me, examining me closely. His arm brushed against my cloak as he circles around me. "So I heard you've never lost," he hissed into my ear. I gave no response, not wanting to reveal my identity.

Just as my challenger takes a longer glance, the organizer finished counting. He straightened out his hat and motioned a man to come over.

A short man scurried with a tray of weapons displayed, ranging from gleaming swords to pocket knives.

I glanced at my opponent. He held a pair of dual swords that looked very harmful if it came with any contact. I followed his eyes and noticed he held his gaze at mine. It was like he was trying to burn a hole through my cloak with his pupils.

Oh how I would kill for the 212. Such a shame I left it at Snipers...waste of a beautiful masterpiece. Perhaps I could break into the Sniper base and take it. Snorting at that stupid idea, I grabbed a set of daggers that strapped to my thighs and the other pair of dual swords which rested on my hands.

"You may begin!" they announced.

Mental Note: Don't be a cocky ass—especially when you haven't legitimately fought or was properly taught any form of combat except for the basics.

I barely dodged his thrusts, never having a chance to strike with his fast movements. Second time I was getting my butt whipped around a bunch of people.

The pointy weapons laid in my hand, waiting to be thrown. I hardly could even maneuver around rather than throwing a sharp dagger. His attacks were cornering me towards the end of the circle, the crowd parting so they wouldn't get caught under the blade. Then he sliced the wind next to my shoulder and I stumbled to the side, tripping flat on my bottom.

Immediately I rolled out of the way, hearing the hiss of the blade missing my ear. Scrambling up, my mind kicked into a sudden overdrive and as he retracted the sword from the ground, I made my move.