UNFINISHED: Humans

(Engarde) 2

"Out."
The door opened again, but this time Engarde was greeted by a different voice. It was neither male nor female, but possessed a warming tone to it nonetheless; and yet, it was also harsh and unforgiving at the same time.
The supervisor tapped their fingers on the door impatiently.
"You don't have to stay there for another day," they said. "But I have no objections if you do. We have two other isolation rooms."
Engarde finally found a little energy to turn to face them.
"Up and out. You've spent far too long in here already. Three times this past week - again."
So Engarde stood, slowly, still numb. The supervisor stepped towards him and established a firm grip on his chains before giving them an almighty tug and heaving them off.
"This isn't good for your sanity," the supervisor whispered in his ear. "And it honestly hurts me to see you like this. You deserve better, Engarde."
"Your boss doesn't think so." The replying voice was meek, broken, as if its' owner had been crying moments before. Engarde wasn't sure anymore.
"He's... that's not my place to say."
No more words were exchanged between them as the supervisor clamped a comparatively lighter pair of shackles around Engarde's wrists and escorted him out of the room. The lightness of the outside was a lot to take in at once, and his eyes recoiled at the sudden change, but through the moment of dizziness he could feel hands tighten slightly around his arms - the same comforting gesture from an employee who cared more for the slaves of the company than they should have done.
Engarde's heart lightened slightly at the faces he could vaguely recall - faces he would see again, soon. Hopefully, all of them. And if not-
They turned a corner. The wrong corner.
Engarde did not know much of the building. Only the sections he had been escorted down time and time again, between the arena entrances, the barracks and the isolation rooms; he remembered them all well. And this path was not to the barracks, but-
"Your sword," said the harsh voice, knocking Engarde back to reality. "Take it, or you'll have to fight with your fists." The supervisor thrust the hilt into Engarde's slightly opened palms. "And I've seen the opponent. Trust me, you don't want to be stuck in that situation."
I don't want to be stuck here at all.
The following speech was drowned out again as Engarde drifted haphazardly between the realms of consciousness and dream. He felt the dull clatter of armour as it was guided onto his slight frame, the monotonous droning of the supervisor he wished he could listen to, but couldn't bring himself to; and then, the urgent push in the direction of the west arena entrance.
"You won't get out of this battle alive in this semi-conscious state. Wake up, or you'll find yourself floating in darkness forever- Damn, it's about to start! Hurry!"
The words jolted him back again. 'It's about to start'.
His performance, yet again, was about to begin.