After some thought, I decided that around my neck was probably the best place to keep my tag, which was matte yellow and had a bold black number thirteen printed on it. I placed the chain around my neck and dropped the tag down my shirt. I figured that the safest place for my tag was right in front of my heart, which I would be protecting pretty desperately regardless of the competition rules. I checked my two pistols. These were Amazon branded, specifically two Amazon HFWs. Amazon never officially stated what the name meant for but I’d seen it suggested that it stood for work Hard, have Fun, make War.

Work Hard. I most certainly had. Every day for eighteen years. I’d studied until my eyes ached and my head hurt and then I’d taken dose after dose of memory and focus enhancing drugs so that I could study some more. I’d trained my body until I vomited and then I’d carried on until my vision turned dark and my arms had torn themselves apart. Then, when I was sixteen, my father had taken me to have my limbs enhanced. For the low low price of eighteen years worth of his savings my father paid a man, who the government recognised as a plastic surgeon, to tear my useless broken arms off and replace them with bionic arms made of a light but tough metal alloy. The pain was indescribable and even now the weight on my shoulders pressed down on my in my every waking moment. I worked hard dammit!

Have Fun. I… I… I grabbed the bottle of pills from my jacket pocket and shove a couple of them down. I haven’t even been keeping count of how many I’ve been taking. I don’t care, I need an edge!

Make War. I was ready.

A blaring, digital noise screamed out from a speaker in my box. It was time. The final stage of the assessment had begun. With an almost equally loud scream the floor below me opened up and I dropped.

This was almost immediately a problem as I accelerated towards the ground at a rate of approximately nine point eight zero seven metres per second per second. The arena looked to be around fifty metres deep meaning that in just over three seconds I would collide with the ground at roughly thirty one metres per second.

In other words it was a bad time to be doing maths. I looked around to see what my options were and decided on a plan of action. The wall of the arena was close enough to touch so I placed a gloved hand onto it to slow my descent even just a little bit, along with one of my feet. I look to check that I can achieve what I’m planning. Up near the top the arena was populated with plenty of odd geometrical spiralled shapes pointing in every direction. They were like tree branches and there was a horizontal one coming up below me that I could grab on to. With a yell I pushed off the wall with my hand and foot and reached out for the branch. I’d miscalculated a couple of things. Fortunately I hadn’t undershot, instead I’d pushed myself too far and, rather than grabbing onto the branch with my hands, I collided with it instead. After a brief moment of desperate scrabbling I managed to wrap my arms around the branch. Three seconds in and I was still alive. With all the elegance and grace that one would expect from me I pulled myself up onto the branch and stood up to survey the arena, looking for the other candidates. I could only see one, and they were coming right for me. The platinum haired candidate, the one who had protested to Millicent about lunch, was whistling through the air at me wielding a long metal pole. I reached into the one of the holders on my torso and pulled out a pistol. Hopefully this guy couldn’t change direction in mid-air, I didn’t want him dodging. In typical fashion I wasn’t fast enough and by the time I was pointing the pistol at my assailant I was in striking range and he swung the pole, knocking my pistol from my hand, and crashed into me, sending me tumbling off the branch I’d worked so hard to get on to. Together we plunged once more towards the no doubt very hard ground. Five seconds in and I had already lost one of my weapons and was about to die. I struck out at my falling buddy, catching him across the face. If he hadn’t realised that my arms were made of metal he most certainly would know now. My eyes flitted about, looking for a way to stop this death plummet. Below the upper canopy of concrete branches were a series of platforms atop stilts, all only a metre or two from each other. The wall of the arena was too far away from me to push off like I had before, how could I get to those platforms?

My platinum haired opponent seemed to be having similar thought but, in a way dissimilar to me, he apparently had a solution: the pole. I saw him slam it into the wall and push off with it towards the platforms. With no alternative plan I grabbed his leg, hoping that he would pull me to safely. I was half right. We both crashed, very painfully, into the nearest platform. The pole clattered away and I followed suit, rolling and sliding off the opposite edge. I grabbed onto the edge and gripped hard, my legs swinging wildly in the void below me. My opponent fared better, having slid to a stop at the centre of the platform. He got up and looked around, probably for his pole which had to have hit the ground somewhere below us by now.

Serves you right for making me lose my gun.

My opponent shrugged, reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a metal cylinder about a foot long. He gave it a flick and it extended. It was another pole. I scrabbled up as he approached me. As I was about halfway stable my opponent went to kick me. I was ready for this though, and raised an arm to block the attack. My opponent’s shin collided with my arm in a way that I sincerely hoped hurt. It threatened to hurt me a whole lot more, however, as raising an arm to block my opponent meant one less appendage preventing me from falling from the platform. With a noise somewhere between a roar and a scream I managed to roll up onto the platform. Safe.

Then the pole was brought down very hard on my stomach. Kicking me hadn’t really set my opponent back much. I kicked up wildly, hoping to force my opponent to step back. Of course it didn’t take much for him to avoid my flailing leg and hit me again. This time I was prepared. The pole still hit me and still hurt but I grabbed the pole with both hands. Before my opponent could do anything about this changing situation I shoved upwards, jamming the other end of the pole into its wielder’s chest. This forced him back and gave me time to get to my feet. My opponent took a couple of steps back and span his pole a couple of times as if to prove that he could.

“You’re called Norm, right?” he said. What was it okay to talk to each other now that we were fighting?

“Norman.” I corrected him. Just because Millicent had decided to ignore my wishes concerning that nickname it didn’t mean that everyone else got the same privilege.

“Fine Norman. My name is Cyrus Beem. Can you just give me your tag?” It took me a few moments to realise what was going on. My opponent, Cyrus Beem as he was apparently named, was trash talking. I shook my head. Cyrus Beem shrugged. As he’d been doing his, admittedly impressive, display of skill and dexterity with the spinning pole I’d seen his tag. He’d wrapped the chain around his wrist and the tag hung there.

It was time for a counter attack. I dashed forwards and went to hit Cyrus Beem straight on with a left hook. Cyrus Beem moved to defend himself but that was fine, it was a feint. With my right hand I went for his wrist, aiming to grab the tag from it. It was at this point that it turned out that Cyrus Beem’s move to defend himself had also been a feint and the pole, for the third or fourth time in ten minutes, hit me hard. This time there was an extra surprise as electricity coursed from the pole into and through my body. It hurt like hell. It hurt like every nerve in my body had been simultaneously set on fire. It didn’t hurt as much as losing my arms. I grabbed the tag and pulled, breaking it free from its chain, and kicked out, pushing Cyrus Beem away from me. He took a few moments to steady himself and another few moments to realise that I’d taken his tag.

Those few moments were enough, I sprinted away and jumped off the edge of the platform to its neighbour and carried on running. I needed to take back control of this fight and, if all else failed, keep the tag away from its owner until the next tone sounded. I’d reached the third platform along when something hit me right between the shoulder blades. I staggered and tripped. I didn’t fall off this time, which was something, but Cyrus Beem had, by throwing his pole at me, effectively negated the head start I’d given myself. I forced myself up onto my feet, already feeling bruised and battered and singed. Cyrus Beem was fast approaching, wielding his third, presumably also electric, pole.

How many of those does he have?

It was beginning to look as if the answer was going to turn out to be “enough”. I picked up the pole, the one Cyrus Beem had thrown at me, with my free hand, the one that didn’t have Cyrus Beem’s tag in it, and dashed forwards as Cyrus Beem was about to cross the gap between platforms onto mine. I swung but he casually flicked my pole aside and jabbed me with his, sending another uncomfortable amount of electricity through my body. I dropped the pole but held on tight to the tag. I stumbled back. We were now both on the same platform again. It was clear that Cyrus Beem was far better at close combat than me, metal arms meant nothing if you couldn’t hit anything with them, and he’d inflicted far more damage on me than I had on him. So far the only thing I’d proven was that I could take a beating.

It was time to use my head, that’s what I’d been popping pills all day for after all. Thinking of the pills gave me an idea. I reached into my jacket. Cyrus Beem saw this and put a stop to it very quickly, striking me again. I hit the floor and rolled, crying out in pain. Cyrus Beem went on the attack again but I managed to get to my feet and jump to the next platform, avoiding this particular swing. Cyrus Beem was already chasing me though. I needed distance, I needed to get away from him, or get him away from me. I had just the thing for that too. I swung wildly and threw the contents of my right hand as hard as I could away from the two of us. Cyrus Beem saw this and cried out.

The tag.

Not stopping to see his reaction I leapt off the platform in the other direction. As I, once again, began to plummet to the ground, I saw Cyrus glare at me before dashing off in the direction of what I’d thrown.

I hit what was shaped like the roof of a building, sloped with tiles and such, which stopped my fall. It hurt but if I was given the choice between that collision and being hit by Cyrus Beem’s electrified pole again I’d take this collision with the roof every single time.

I knew I should be moving but after all that I just couldn’t do it. Every bit of me ached, the only exception being my shoulders which were in agony. It hadn’t been all bad though. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a small, cylindrical object. I chuckled a little as I inspected Cyrus Beem’s tag.

I really needed to keep moving.