The Death Match held at the Coliseum was part of the annual Assassin Games, open to veterans and amateurs alike.
Asked what truly set it apart and the people who put on the show all said the same thing with the same wry grin: “Nobody up there in the stands knows shit.”
Not a nice way of putting it, but awfully close to the mark. What they meant was, “All they know is who wins. Not how.”
The financial reasons, to start with. Winning combatants were assured of earning a living as a professional killer. They expected to get offers from all the professional criminal organizations. Even if they chose to remain independent, they could double or triple their standard fees.
Pros with established reputations and money in the bank were an exception, seeking out stronger opponents in a quest to test their own physical limits. Their skills were also considered proprietary information.
Upon entering the arena, the spectators were dosed with beta blockers. No matter how intense the competition, they would not get caught up in the thrill of the fight. Because the compounds in the drugs were never disclosed, there was no readily available counteracting agent.
A bright light was trained on each seat. Closing their eyes wouldn’t keep out the concentrated beam. In any case, the drugs in the beta blockers also prevented anyone there from shutting his eyes for too long. Not that they could see what they might have thought they came to see anyway.
The light blinked out a complex series of pulses. The impact on the visual cortex had an auto-suggestive effect that, together with the drugs, served to coerce the desired behavior.
Namely that, “All they know is who wins.”
No matter how they might squint or peel their eyes, any memory or comprehension of how the match was fought was expunged. The spectators filling the stands really did not know shit about anything but the final results.
This was all by design. The skills that earned these professional assassins their keep were their “intellectual property,” trade secrets kept even from their employers. Revealing them to a grandstand full of spectators would be as good as a soldier handing his weapons over to his enemies.
The only thing he would spell out was exactly what would happen to anybody thinking of stabbing him in the back.
A lot of the newbies—both the recruiters and the recruits—prattled on about non-disclosure agreements, but the Coliseum officials preferred to stick with their memory erasing technology.
The employers waxed cautious about buying a pig in a poke. But sneak previews and test drives were out of the question.
However mistaken it might be to state that “Nobody knows shit,” that probably was closer to the actual truth. In the end, the assassins were just another set of pawns being played on the chessboard of this city. Considering the odds of making it through another day, a man in this town might as well make his own luck.
So their attention was drawn instead to the south end of the arena, where the “prize” lay on its makeshift altar, arms and legs bound, writhing in mortification, her body fully exposed for all to see.
The fifteen finalists remaining after thirty bouts would draw straws. But a human being had never before been the bounty that awaited them. Any number of physically alluring women could be procured in this city. The organizers who’d designated this prize had something particularly grave and dangerous in mind.
The eyes of the spectators turned toward the naked girl filled with dark thoughts. What exactly—who—and what—was she?