Breeder (The Ephemeral: Book 1)

Chapter 6

"Ladies and gentlemen! We come together for a day of celebration and remembrance. A day to honor the good men who defend our nation. Soldiers who embody our most sacred of virtues." The man beamed at the crowd with his dazzling smile, a hypnotist working his magic. "Soon after today, our champions will join these brave souls beyond the Rim and devote their lives to preserving this beautiful nation."

Jacob Gilmore was the head of the local Council and the most influential politician in Belgate. He always hosted these events, year after year, and his enthusiasm for the Tournament never waned. With his prominent chin, striking features, and booming voice, he was the closest thing Belgate had to a celebrity, and he embraced the role like no other.

"Now," he said, channeling that spokesperson charm and exuberance, "on with the Tournament!"

The crowd cheered and whistled and stomped their feet as the band burst into our national song. In the stands, women's sundresses transformed the audience into a colorful mosaic, while men had traded their work clothes for casual wear—or in other words, drinking wear.  Children waved homemade signs and little district flags, offering support to their siblings, cousins, and role models.  At the bottom of thesteps, vibrant banners embellished the court walls, forming a quilted necklaceof red and gold.

I grinned.

Here I was, clad in the armor of some random kid I'd locked in a closet, standing where Tom had once stood. Staring out at the crowd, at the world.

And Patrons, I was so stupid.

But I told myself I would try my best, and when I was eliminated, I'd conveniently disappear before the Revelation. That way, I could compare my strength to the boys. I could prove to myself I was capable of fighting, that all women were.   And maybe one day I could reveal my accomplishment to my father—the one person whose support mattered most.

I was the turquoise helmet, I'd say. Profoundly, of course.

Thankfully, and perhaps regrettably, I passed for a boy without much of a makeover. My long, tangled hair fit inside the helmet with extra room to spare, and my flat chest and narrow hips finally made up for years of inappropriate comments about a healthy, childbearing body type. Add that to a pair of fighting gloves and a layer of recycled armor, and I blended in perfectly.

If I played my part, no real trouble would come of this.

I noticed a couple Specs—weeds who bet on the contestants—chuckling, watching me bounce up and down eagerly from the sidelines. They were sizing me up.  Up, down, and sideways.  I knew I was small for a guy, but in their eyes I was nothing but a weakling. A runt.  A shrimp.

As if they sensed my scowl, they grinned wolfishly and made a show of dropping a few more rounds into the hat. Betting against me.

Welts.

Standing upon a raised platform at the opposite end of the court, Gilmore motioned for us to move into place, a composer conducting his choir.  We lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along the edge of the concrete floor, filling the space from one corner to the other, as instructed.  From above, we must have looked like a linear rainbow, or maybe just a long row of push pins. 

Gilmore raised the silver mic to his lips. "Contestants, your first trial is a testament of speed and stamina, a tradition we've adopted since the Tournament's inception."

Excitement buzzed in my fingertips.

I wasn't great at a lot of things, but being fast, nimble—that was something I'd mastered. It was a learned trait, running from repercussions.