It had to be done.

The cries of anguish from my victim, the screams of sorrow from the fans as they finally saw the truth lash out at their faces and cut them deep beneath the skin. I sunk my blade into him time and time again, my eyes narrowing to slits as I let out an animalistic scream of fury. This wasn't a match to the death, this wasn't a time where this was supposed to happen..and yet it was. Before everyone, I was attempting to slaughter a man for his own fucking good.

They couldn't accept this...no one could.

Things were broken up quickly and I was taken to the back whilst my victim went onward to the hospital to be treated by the skilled medics there, waiting for situations such as these to arise. My weapons were taken from me as I proceeded through the narrow halls, awaiting judgement from our leader as I let out a sigh.

If only I had finished the job...

Some say the Arena is a showcase to the immortals; they believe that those who go on to triumph over all other opposition are ranked higher then the Gods themselves, looked at with more prestige then any world leader to ever come into existence. The proud gladiators who fight in the arena fight for that prize, that chance to be held highest within the world...

I've been fighting for quite some time, despite being held down by others time and time again.

In the beginning, you know, I'd actually drawn quite the gathering...the fans who came to the Arena seemed to enjoy my presence on the battlefield. In death matches, they would cheer me on and hope I win, they took a great deal of time building me up as their hero...and I loved it.

God, were those the days...days of ignorance and misunderstanding of intentions. Would you believe that I actually thought those fans wanted to see me become the one to rise over the world? Heh...I was just a rookie, I had higher ambitions then I was capable of achieving.

I'm not a rookie anymore...and it's because of that that I've now found the truth of all of this. You see, there's a reason that the fans of the Arena no longer have any desire to see me out on the battlefield any longer--it's because I've stopped playing their games. Long ago, during one of my greater battles...I'd discovered something I'd been ignorant of ever since the beginning of my fighting career.

I'd discovered the fans' bloodlust.

They no longer cared whether or not the heroes would make it out alive, they just wanted to see blood and gore. If my limbs were to be severed and I was left a bloody stump of a human...they would cheer it.

There are no heroes...only victims.

Victims to these barbaric savages that line the seats of the Arena, who wave their banners and paint their oversized stomachs different colors to support their fighter. The only good these fans bring are money, and lots of it. That is, of course, what the world is all about...money. It's not about pride, or spirit, or the love of the game.

It's about money.

You see there's a policy in the Arena: You make money, or you die. If you're not making money then they're going to put you against the toughest fighters they can until eventually, you're disposed of and out of their sight. It's a cruel and unusual way of disposing the deadweight, but what can you do?

My sentiments were shared by many, but one of the many gladiators in the Arena who agreed with me most was a certain man who, at one point in time, was a rival of mine. We both agreed with the idea that management was far too harsh on those who were falling behind, but had we spoken out about it then the both of us would be stuck in a death match with each other.

So, needless to say, we kept our mouths shut.

Over time the both of us came to support each other through times of strife and times of glory, working to push the other higher up the ladder. When I came within inches of finally being on top of the world, however, he was nowhere to be found. On that night I failed and, ever since, had found myself more aware of my surroundings. When the same man found himself with the same shot that I had, I was there to support him...and he won. He was on top of the world now, not I.

It was on that very night, however, that the start to my realization began.

I began to notice the fans slowly easing up on their support for me, growing ever more excited every time my opponents came close to drawing blood on my person or vice versa. It was a strange thing for me--the very people who'd supported you so fully throughout the span of over a year suddenly wanting to see you shed blood. I tried to shrug it off, really I did...but the thought always nagged at the back of my head.

So I started thinking about why they'd have any reason whatsoever to turn their backs on me. I'll admit: it took much longer then I'd imagined it would...but when I finally came up with an answer it hurt me greater then any loss I'd taken in my career. These fans didn't care for me as I thought they did, they merely wanted to see violence. They weren't as smart as I thought they were...they were just mindless idiots screaming at the top of their lungs in the stands.

I began to realize just why I was slipping down the slopes of the Arena scoreboard--it was because of them.

Bearing this in mind I had finally came to a decision...I abandoned them. No longer did I need their hope to get to where I wanted, no longer did I WANT their help, for that matter. Of course they hated me for it, and of course they no longer cheered when I stepped out onto the battlefield...but it was for the best.

Just like what I had done tonight.

You see, the victim of my attempted slaughter earlier in the night was the very man who, at one point in time, was on top of the whole world. He was the man who'd agreed with me more whole-heartedly then anyone else in the Arena, and who I considered to be my closest friend in this land of murderers.

The doors ahead of me swung open, it was time for me to face the music.

Now, before you go and question me you have to understand...I did have a reason for what I'd done earlier in the night. While most of you could never fathom attacking your closest friend and attempt to murder them in front of thousands of people...understand that what I did was in his best intentions. He was beginning to go down the same damn slope that I had, and there was just no way in hell that he would have been able to pull himself out of it.

The fans would have torn him to shreds, I only did what a true friend would have done. I tried to save him.

"Tell me, Dominic...what the hell were you thinking?"

The voice of our leader: Spaz Pension. His statement was that of ignorance to me and caused me to chuckle lightly, prompting a scowl to form on his own face as he slammed his fist on his desk, repeating his question once again.

He just didn't understand...no one did.

"That was NOT a death match, Dominic...you had no reason to attempt to slaughter him! God damn it, I thought you two were friends!"

And friends don't let friends get eaten alive by mindless zombies like those God-damned fans.

"Oh we are, Spaz..." I replied in a calm voice, clashing against his tempered one, which shook with emotion as he glared at me heatedly.

"Then why the hell did you do this?!"

"Because it had to be done, Spaz."

As much as I myself hate to admit it, and as much as the rest of the world refuses to accept it...it truly has to be done. Unless he is to suffer through the inevitable betrayel of those he calls 'his people'...