The aging overhead lamps flickered as his fist slammed on the table. His yellowed eyes tracked the facial movements of the man sitting across from him. It was almost reminiscent of a dystopian scenario. The big man at the top angering us gladiators that strive for the big prize and possibly a shot at a better life. The problem was, our situation was dystopian. At least it began to be once the bombs fell. Few of us remember the days before then. We don&#039;t even really have a name for it, anymore. Most of us choose not to remember it, or have forgotten, be it through head trauma, radiation, or general insanity.<br /><br />Thinking about it -- not that I want to -- I&#039;m not sure how we ended up in this to begin with. I glance back to the angered fighter to my left. His skin was charred, but to the trained eye it was clear underneath the burns from weapons discharge, radioactive waste, and even molten rock, he was of a dark tone. I smiled inwardly; He was dark in more ways than one. There&#039;s been stories of him tearing apart his own teammates when a Game didn&#039;t go well in his favor. That&#039;s all our life is, though. The Games started shortly after the survivors from the bombs gathered.<br /><br />Some looking for money, but most came looking for food, due to it being scarce. It was foolish, thinking the global economy was nothing more than a ghostly whisper of our past. Monetary values still remained part of our highly fractured society. The stress of everyday life can lead men of previously high, unpublishable statue to commit unspeakable horrors. In the old days, you would incarcerate them. Now, we had none of that. Instead, they were put into the League, our bloodier, more modern version of the Roman Colosseum. At least they had one thing in common... Most of the participants were criminals with exceptionally violent pasts. The rest of us? Either opportunists, or sadists. Sometimes both.<br /><br />My eyes shifted back into focus, ripped out of my muse by an aggressive movement from the dark Captain towards the man sitting opposite across the long, obsidian table in the meeting chambers. We fondly call him the Commissioner. Others call him the Puppet Master. Most of the time though, the names are more vulgar. But we don&#039;t utter them in the presence of his assistant. His right hand man was with him almost every time a meeting occurred. He simply stood by the Commissioner&#039;s chair. He was tall, while the Commissioner was short. He was of a thin build, while the Commissioner was portly. Yet while the Commissioner could be forgiving and sometimes cheerful despite the workings of the world at large, the Administrator was unforgiving. Cold as the reflection of his pitch-black sunglasses. Some of us think he has no eyes, that all that exists behind those frames are hallowed sockets.<br /><br />&quot;Enough.&quot; He commands over the growing murmurs of the Captains. All eyes went directly to him, while throats tightened. No one disobeyed the ruthless Administrator. Doing so usually meant torture, or death.<br /><br />Not that death meant much in the League. Some technology operated by the Administrator and even the Board members themselves allowed a fallen fighter to almost magically reappear elsewhere in the Game, to ensure their continued survival and struggle against the opposing team that day. Over time we accepted that we&#039;d never be granted the warm embrace of death, and that our signing into the League essentially meant while we could satisfy our own bloodlust, we were never allowed to escape the shackles of our obligations to the millions of spectators watching. Even in death.<br /><br />But it had a side-effect. For grave injuries, usually scars carried over to our new bodies, along with all our memories of the events leading up to our albeit brief deaths. We also never grew tired, except emotionally. We never grew hungry, except for our bloodlust. If someone were to ask me what was left of my humanity, I wouldn&#039;t have known what to answer with. I don&#039;t even know what day it is, anymore. But you get used to it. Eventually, traditional music morphed into the twisted screams of your enemies. It was our life, now. Hell, it was definitely better than the shacks we were living in before, constantly having to fight the needs of sleep for fear of raiders roaming our makeshift streets. Either way...We had new problems...<br /><br />&quot;I will not tolerate any more opposition against the Rule put in place.&quot; The Administrator calmly, coldly stated. He didn&#039;t have to say much more. A dead silence fell over all nine of the gathered. I cast a glance around to gauge the reactions. Most of them seemed to shrug it off. All of these had played in multiple seasons, and knew the ropes of the League. They had the scars to prove it. I knew none of them by their birth names. Whenever one enters the League, all you know them by is their callsign.<br /><br />Soon, the Commissioner leaned forward. &quot;Now, we&#039;ve gone over the changes to the League this season. You know the rules, now. Judging from your reactions, none of you are pleased with the decision to get rid of the Franchising, but you know, that&#039;s business, dawgs. The viewers felt it took too much juice out of the League.&quot; He smiled. He always smiles like that whenever he mentions the viewers. The millions of spectators whose views help fund the League and keep it going season after season.<br /><br />With no reply, the Commissioner stood and nodded to the Administrator, both taking their leave, exiting the small meeting room. I stare at their backs with a sense of contempt. The other Captains share the same feelings, but no one can truly oppose them, unless they enter the field of battle. Everyone loves to take a shot at either of them. As soon as the heavy door closes, the other Captains erupt into a furor of curses and displeasure over the changes to the rules. I, of course, join in.<br /><br />After we get all of the emotion out of our system, one of the captains leans back in his torn leather chair. He was the youngest of us, his long hair flowing over the bullet-riddled, charred battle armor all of us wore. Despite his obvious injuries, one of which cost him his right ear, hearing and all, for his overconfidence, he still considered himself much like a god.<br /><br />&quot;I don&#039;t see how the lack of Franchising will be a problem. It&#039;s not like any of you were any to beat me, even with your best buddies backing you up.&quot; He taunted with a grin, his glance towards the Captain to his right let everyone know who he was talking about.<br /><br />&quot;Give me a break.&quot; Scoffed the other, his voice much higher than naturally it should have been, due to an unfortunate incident in a Game where his throat was damaged. I smiled. Don&#039;t drink nuclear acid, kids. Or at the very least, don&#039;t get forced to.<br /><br />He didn&#039;t allow the younger Captain a chance to speak before continuing, &quot;I would have been able to beat your entire team myself. Hell, you didn&#039;t even manage to get past the wildcard round last season. What makes you think captaining will do?&quot; He finished with a shrill laugh.<br /><br />I stood up as the dark-toned Captain growled his disapproval at the implication of the statement. My heavy boots clanked across the rusted metal floor of the chamber. I pushed open the door and slammed it behind me, stepping out of the enclosure into the main building. Interestingly, it was all underground. While waiting for the elevator to the surface, I started looking at the emblems on the wall. It was interesting how the former, ruined Presidential Bunker of the United States was used as the headquarters for the Captains.<br /><br />As the doors opened to the aging elevator, I looked over my shoulder. You develop a sense of when someone tries to approach you from behind, even if they&#039;re dead quiet about doing it. One of the Captains joined me in the ride up.<br /><br />&quot;What do you figure you&#039;ll do this Season? You had a guaranteed three man roster until this rule happened. Sometimes I think the Colonel is out to do nothing more than fuck with us.&quot; He said. He was about as portly as the Commissioner, but had a considerably darker toned skin. Nevertheless, his skill wasn&#039;t to be underestimated in the Games. The two of us probably had a better relationship between us than any of the other Captains did. I smiled at the term &#039;Colonel&#039;. I guess you could call it our &#039;affectionate&#039; name for the Administrator.<br /><br />&quot;I don&#039;t know.&quot; I replied with a heavy exhale out of my nostrils, &quot;I&#039;ll have to rethink who I&#039;ll pick up. But, I&#039;m used to shitty luck in this godforsaken League. I&#039;ll manage.&quot; I scoffed as the doors opened.<br /><br />There was no real entrance to the elevator anymore. It simply stuck outside the ground like a silvery obelisk. However, the ground above it was raised enough to where you could see the Arenas made specifically for the Games in all directions, with the paths carved out of countless marches of the teams paved to each. The sky was a sickly yellow haze, still cloudy from all the dust that choked the planet.<br /><br />I motioned for the other Captain to follow me to one of the arenas. We had some practice to get to.