The only thing I remember from before was the beach and my parents. They would bring me down the hill to the black sand where the water met the earth. They would toss me into the water, we would swim along currents, rest on the beach to dry off. I remember their smiles, and the distinct shape of their figures. But not much else. Afterall, that was then, and this is now.

And now is an arena or a gurney. I’ll go in to fight and come out bashed and bruised; then, they’ll find the problem and fix me, then send me back to the arena.

I’ve lived my whole life in a lab—that’s what I tell myself. It’s easier to think that way, because I’d rather have nothing and want something than to have had something and have nothing.

Beneath the stadium, I wait. I look at my hands, curl my palms and stretch my fingers—the synthetic hand is too realistic. The doctor in the medbay told me I shouldn’t have any trouble with my new hand, and that was all. They released me, and now I wait for my opponent.

Blade. Blade. Blade. The crowd chants. They call my name. I look at my arm, at the silver plating that hides the wires and bones that make up my new body. Blade. Blade. Blade. The crowd calls my name.

And I answer.