Games

V pauses before walking the length of the tunnel to the arena, so that he can look along its length and take in the illusion of lines converging, as perspective belies their parallel nature. It is a ritual, one of several that V uses to equip his mind for the struggle ahead, just as he has rituals for equipping his body with the weapons and armour of the struggler.  The perspective gives the illusion of the tunnel gradually narrowing, allowing his mind to focus as he walks the corridor.  The appearance of the lines moving ever closer to each other serves to remind him that what the brain perceives is not an exact or accurate representation of how things are. Perspective is what allows us to see reality in a way that we can comprehend. He accepts that although the lines give every indication of moving closer together, they are always parallel, never touching. He accepts that two things can be contradictory and mutually exclusive, but both right and true, so long as you allow for perspective.  As this concept settles into place in his mind, he feels its familiar comfort, and takes the first step down the tunnel, focused and free of distraction.

Distraction makes for an effective weapon, but a poor shield. If you can't reconcile the contradictions, they are as shackles - conflict must be always on the field, never in the head, lest you stack the odds in your opponent's favour. Contrasts and contradictions are the beating heart of the Struggle, so finding the balance between them, then learning not just to walk but to dance the tightrope between them, is what marks the difference between a good struggler and a legend.  V has learned during his tenure as a struggler, to allow instinct to drive his prowess in combat, while simultaneously remaining constantly aware, on a subconscious level, of the violence and suffering this barbarism prevents. Rationally a pacifist, he nonetheless recognises that as a human being, he is equipped with the fight-or-flight tendency inherent in all members of the species, and this he channels, as a manufactured dam channels the natural force of water. He allows the aggression to flow like a current, but one whose direction he alone is the master of. It may not be possible to halt the torrent, but with effort its path can be influenced and controlled.

To V, the act of taking a life is abhorrent; each time the struggle calls for such an act, only complete submission to the instinct of self-preservation allows him to do it. For those brief seconds, V no longer controls the current - he is a feral creature, free from morals and existential dilemmas, allowing himself to succumb to the immutable binary urge - kill or be killed. Through conditioning, he has learned to recognise the sense of relief that comes at the point of the opponent's death and use that as a trigger for rational thoughts to awaken. A carefully choreographed and endlessly practised waltz of logic and rationalisation deftly and systematically calms the revulsion and stills the self-loathing before they can take hold enough to make V lose, even for a second, the focus and concentration so essential to keeping the advantage.

The struggle exists in lieu of the tragic and devastating armed combat which both defined and devastated the human race for so many millennia. It is a compromise, avoiding the slaughter en masse of innocents, while satisfying the predatory bloodlust whose roots run deep in the culture of so many races. An opportunity for martial prowess to determine the alpha, without the massive human cost of warfare. Before the combatants are released for their merciless gladiatorial trial of the flesh, the head of the international tribune is called upon to remind the seething mob of the purpose, and history of the spectacle they are about to witness. To remember the countless millions cut down before this new, enlightened age.

"We have blood on our hands. The need, the desire, the impetus, to draw the blood of our enemies - in the name of ownership, belief, culture - has left a stain which will take many generations to cleanse. For too long, we have failed to agree on what is right, what is just. Unable to demonstrate our enlightenment, we have relied on displays of power, and military innovation in its stead. In our zeal to claim the high ground - geographical and moral - where we could not prove to our adversaries that we are right, we instead strove to prove that we are strong. We have ignored the loss of our loved ones, valuing might above compassion. We have failed, time and again to see that abstinence from aggression can be as powerful a show of strength as the utter annihilation of those who would seek to do us harm.

"If you are troubled by what you see here today, if you are left ill-at-ease by our failure to find a peaceful means of resolving a dispute, remember that those who pay with their lives are making a long overdue payment on our behalf, a sacrifice, to those who fell in inestimable numbers, and in vain, before this age of light. If you are enticed, or exhilarated by the human cost of resolving our disputes, I would beseech you to remember instead the darkness which came before, and remember that those instincts you feel are the very reason for this need to find resolution in a contained, controlled manner.

"We do not speak here of the issue to be resolved - what words there were, have been spoken, and fallen short. That we are here at all is testament that no discourse on this issue can be concluded in agreement. Instead the agreement is of the terms of the struggle, after which, both parties will honour those terms. The issue will be documented but never again debated. Since no agreement can be reached, no compromise sufficient, we call upon the struggle to decide the doom of the participants. Commence!"

The din of the ravenous and blooded crowd is the distraction which has triggered the downfall of many a nervously determined struggler. What causes most to lose their footing is not the noise itself, but the realisation that, in the arena, it is palpable: taking on a physical form almost as tangible as the ground beneath them. The vibration of the deep guttural rhythm, as though played on gargantuan concrete drums by hordes of subhuman beasts, gives the ground a constantly vibrating hum that permeates the struggler's body, and feels to amplify his already pounding heart. A common and erroneous assumption of new strugglers is that they will be able to filter out the crowds as white noise; only on hearing, and feeling, the clamour of the herd does it become apparent that its presence is far too insistent to be filtered or ignored. V has long recognised the incongruity of the few versus the many - the strugglers in the arena have all the power, despite the abundance of energy and aggression in the swarming mob. He has felt the overwhelming rush of inadequacy and insignificance, and he has learned that as with every facet of the struggle, success lies in finding or creating the equilibrium.  As long as there is balance, it can be tipped in his favour. The image which V centres around to find and maintain this equity, is of an orchestra and their conductor. The conductor holds no instrument, does not sing. His instrument is his baton, and his notes are the gestures and directions he gives to the throng of performers. The musicians have the tools of their craft, but act only on the directions of the conductor. They may be a hundred strong, but the control lies with the one. There does not have to be symmetry, in order for there to be balance. If someone were able to isolate the figure of V from the carnage, to see only his silhouette as he cuts and thrusts at his foes, they would recognise in his movements, not the slash and savagery of a barbarian but the flicks and flourishes of a conductor, delicately directing the cacophony of the crowd into an overture, or requiem.

Emerging in to the light of the arena, V looks directly at the ground and shields his eyes, so as not to be half-blinded as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. He takes in the form and texture of the ground, the rough sand, peppered with the teeth of various vicious beasts  - thrown by the crowd as totems, intended to imbue the strugglers with the traits of the spectator’s predator of choice. In and amongst them, V occasionally catches sight of a human tooth, though these are remnants of previous conflicts. Ironic, that the teeth of the wildest, most brutal of all the animals, are not the ones thrown by the crowd.

In the centre of the arena is a raised platform, stocked with weapons and provisions for the fighters. They are permitted to enter the conflict already armour clad, but weapons must be obtained by each team from this central provision. Victory is given to whichever team is able to sever the head of their opposing captain, and aside from this distinction the rules of combat are minimal, so that it is down to the combatants to decide their own strategy. The Struggle is a bloodsport, so the weapons are intended to be brutal and cause visible harm, with the intention of satisfying the bloodlust of the mob, so no guns are allowed, and the fighters must choose from a range of gladiatorial weapons, according to their own style and prowess.

V knows this all too well, and in his years as a combatant, he has learned how to efficiently take an opponent out of action, with sufficient theatre to please the crowd, but causing minimal damage, so that his conscience is not overly burdened after the fact. Only one person actually needs to die for the Struggle to be concluded, and V has made it his modus operandi to ensure that that wherever possible, that is the outcome. Although he is a veteran, easily recognised by crowd and enemy alike, V uses the confusion and fear of his opponents to steal an advantage wherever one might be given, so rather than rushing straight for the weapons platform, as the majority of fighters do, he has learned which of the weapons are unpopular among strugglers, and honed his skills in those techniques. This allows him to take his time getting to the platform, while giving him the theatrical nonchalance of the seasoned warrior, in the eyes of the mob.

As the klaxon sounds, to begin the struggle, V takes a quick glance round to gauge the positions and temperament of his team, and of his opponents. Having spent the last two weeks intensely training his team, most of whom are rookie strugglers, V is confident that he has seen at least half of them for the last time. They do not have the benefit of his experience, save for the words of advice they have managed to digest during the training. They have the same desire to survive, but lack the knowledge and prowess to ensure it.

“Fight well, brave ones”, he says, inaudibly, to his team - more a prayer than a command. He hopes he has imparted enough knowledge to keep them alive until the end, though he knows that it is a fool’s hope. As though in response to his futile utterance, the horde erupts. V hears the swell of noise like a wave, spreading from one section of the arena. Turning to see the source of the crowd’s elation, he sees two of the opposing team crowing over one of his team mates, taunting him to attack them, and knowing he is unable. The fighters make a grand display of throwing grim trophies into the crowd. With horror, V realises they are the hands of his young protégé, who now kneels on the ground, screaming between his tormentors.

V allows himself the briefest moment of rage, at the unnecessary brutality of what he has seen, and then channels the resulting adrenaline so as not to lose his objectivity and balance. He makes a mental note to ensure that the culprits are punished before the day is out, and determines to get himself armed quickly. As a veteran, he is well known not only to the spectators, but also to the opposing team, and so he knows that any one of his opponents who wants to make a name for themselves will try to target him specifically. Anyone who manages to injure him will raise their status among their peers, and be rewarded for their prowess, so V knows that he must be especially vigilant, and that his brief distraction may cost him dearly.

One such challenger has already decided to try her luck - emerging from his brief trance, V sees her running towards him. He smiles as he sees she carries the bo staff so often disregarded by strugglers because of its lack of a blade, and the very reason V has trained in its discipline for years. Whether this combatant has chosen it to taunt him, or because it is legitimately her weapon of choice, he does not know, but hopes for the former. If she has chosen it as a taunt, rather than due to prowess, there is a chance her hubris will be her undoing, and V can use her inexperience to his advantage. He is yet unarmed, so either prospect is a concern at this point, but if he can predict her attacks, he stands a chance of wresting the weapon from her. Knowing that his best tactic is to embrace the battle, V charges, checking her eyes, her footing, and the way she holds the weapon, looking for a weakness, an entry point. As she approaches, the staff goes low, as though to sweep the legs, but he recognises the feint. The staff suggests a sweep, but her eyes are looking behind V, so is unsurprised when the staff hits the ground in front of him, and his opponent moves to vault over him. Expecting the move, V kicks the staff and reaches out with his left hand to grab it, his right pushing his attacker and ensuring she lands on her back.

“Nice try”, he tells her, as her lungs kick out the involuntary, unsettling groan that comes with being winded and incapacitated. Making a display for the crowd, V holds the staff high, and elaborately swings it down, stopping just short of her face. She flinches involuntarily, as he has planned, and her head jerks upwards into the staff. Her nose is broken, but will heal, and to the crowd it looks as though he has hit her full in the face.

“Stay down” V counsels, and his fallen opponent nods, almost imperceptibly, and allows her eyes to close.

With his newly appropriated Staff, V has eliminated his need to get to the weapons caches, and so modifies his strategy slightly. He still aims to check for other options, but can now take out a few of the opposing team en route.

While V has been distracted with his opponent, the two brawlers he saw mutilating his team mate earlier, have honed in on another rookie. They are quickly realising though, that what their chosen victim lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in skill, and is far more able than they had anticipated. He, like V, has chosen one of the less popular weapons, and so is deftly blocking and deflecting their swords with a pair of metal tonfa. V sees the increase in sparks flying, in response to the aggressors noticing his approach. They know that their only advantage is that of numbers, and that they need to fell their opponent swiftly or lose their edge. Their tactic changes, and as one unleashes a flurry of slices, the sun reflecting on his blades looking almost magical, his counterpart vaults the young tonfa wielder and V sees him bite into something and then spit on his blades, before stabbing them into the young struggler’s abdomen. Neither delivers a killing blow, but the scream from his teammate tells V that the cut was not intended to kill but to cause maximum suffering. He doesn’t know what the assassin has added to his blades, but he can tell that whatever it is, is burning his young student.

V remembers hearing a story about how in ancient Mongolia, assassins would sometimes sully their blades with their own waste, before inflicting a debilitating, but not fatal blow. He recalls how the young Genghis Khan was forced to watch his father die from this kind of infected wound. Is this how far we’ve come? He wonders. Eliminating war, while still glorifying violence, has led us back to the savage ways of the ancients. He determines that this will not stand, and punishment must be issued. He spots his opportunity, as the twosome poses and revels in the adulation of the horde - their narcissistic need to gloat over their dishonourable victory costing them, albeit briefly, their vigilance. Once V knows that they’ve seen him, he changes his route slightly, so as to be less visible from them, so the first that either of them knows of him having reached them, is the searing pain, as V’s bo staff quickly makes contact with one, then the other. Their screams pierce through even the rumble of the crowd, as he conducts their performance. Two perfectly timed cracks, as phalanges and metacarpals shatter into each other. Half a beat as the pain registers and is echoed with perfectly timed screams. V holds the staff aloft as though conducting a rest, before giving a flourish, as he adds the cymbal crash of swords hitting the ground, complementing his violent concerto. He moves as though to bow to the cheering audience, but a quick pirouette takes out the legs of his unwilling students, completing his lesson. He bows his head in time with the sickening crack as their heads become one with the ground in perfect unison. Both will live, but neither will ever fight again.

A quick glance around the battlefield, a nod to a medic and a gesture towards his fallen comrade, and V is away again, his sights set on the enemy commander. V has done what he had to, but he can feel the primal instincts vying for his attention; the long-superfluous evolutionary survival urges, the bloodlust rising in his throat like bile. This has to end, before he loses his control. He has enough rage now, and enough animal savagery to do what needs to be done.

The tone of the chanting horde shifts down a pitch. The quiet, rational part of V’s brain knows this is just perception, and they are in truth the same yelling, screeching mob they were but a few moments ago, yet the beast in him feels the rumble, the shaking of the ground, as dust and heat clamour around him, until he is the lead buffalo, heading the unstoppable stampede. Angry, unrelenting, the charge crashes forward. V is no longer one man, he is a thousand furious beasts, bearing down on his foe.

The rage and the passion carry him all the way to the enemy commander. Reports in the media later, will remark on the ease with which V appears to incapacitate the commander. A single, perfectly placed blow to the face, and it erupts in a torrent of blood, which seems to hover in the air, forming a perfect arc, following the head almost to the ground. It never makes it though, as V grabs the commander’s battle tunic before contact is made. The man’s head falls limp, unconscious, as V grunts, and throws the prone form over his shoulder as though it were a brace of rabbits on the shoulder of a hunter.

It is only upon reaching the final pedestal, where the execution traditionally takes place, that some semblance of V’s rational mind re-emerges, and he realises he has no blade with which to perform the ritual beheading of his foe. He looks out into the sea of wide-eyed, gaping-mouthed spectators, and feels their need for this death, pushing against him: their hatred gives a thickened quality to the atmosphere, all but making it solid. He feels their shouts, and is disgusted by them. This whole macabre spectacle appals and nauseates him, and  for a moment he questions whether he is able to follow through with his task. As this thought flashes through his already overwhelmed consciousness, he catches a glimpse of who he is; of why he is here; of what must be done.

Channeling the hatred and revulsion he feels towards the bloodthirsty mob, and the contempt for life that they represent; the spite and hubris that led to millennia of war, and the supposed enlightenment that led to this sickening, bloody pageant, he allows the ferocious, visceral, urge to take over, just as he has so many times before. Resting the end of his staff against the floor, V kicks against the middle, and snaps the rod in half, the middle splintering and leaving a rough set of bitter spikes on the end of the piece he now holds. Grasping his unconscious adversary’s hair, he lifts the limp frame like a doll, rams the broken stick through the man’s throat, and then pushes it quickly and firmly forward towards the crowd.

V is unsure whether it is the that the crowd have fallen silent, or if it is simply that his overwhelmed senses refuse to function, but as his opponent’s throat explodes before him, under the force of his death blow, he is hit by a sudden and calming silence.

It is customary at this point for the victor to stand proudly, to receive the cheers of the mob. To present the head of the fallen, to the grand council, and be declared victorious. He knows the drill. He knows the protocols and the traditions, but more so than ever before, it suddenly feels meaningless. V simply relaxes his hands. The dead form of his opponent, and his broken staff, fall to the floor. His hands throb from the tightness of his grip on both. He takes one last look at the crowd, shakes his head, and then bows it, as he walks away, refusing eye contact, oblivious to the shouts of his name.

As he reaches the corridor from which he emerged only a short time ago, he again notices the perspective, though he is aware of how the narrowing of the lines feels more oppressive this time, as though the walls are preparing to close in on him. Arriving back in his armour room, the sight of the wooden stool in the centre, reassures him that he can now have the rest he has so earned.

Some minutes later, V’s manager hastily treads the same corridor, calling after V.

“Holy crap, that was some show you put on out there, Virtus, they’re going nuts. Are you ok buddy? Virtus?”

But the gently swinging, limp form, makes no reply.