Bullfight

An hour ago, IW-666 and I were in the barracks, waiting for our turn to slaughter or be slaughtered like livestock. His razor hummed like bees returning to their hive. Clumps of his body hair floated to the ground like coffee-colored leaves. I seem to find the past in all these little details, but when I search for the future in the same spots, I come up empty.

“I liked all the hair. It was a good look for you,” I said to him.

He scoffed. His breath caused his nose ring to sway gently.

“It itches when I'm fighting,” he said, his voice like a mother’s as she tells her child a happily-ever-after type story. Hearing him speak softly always caught me off-guard. The biotech enhancements in his throat allowed him to scream so loudly, thunder would seem mousy in comparison. When we were topside, he utilized this ability to disorient the opposition so he could more easily strike them dead. Every time he opened his mouth, even in quieter moments like this, I wondered if I was about to be the next victim of his voice.

Each pass of the razor over his skin revealed new stretches of tattooed terrain. Most of them were generically devilish, all to uphold the image of “the Satanator.” He wasn’t particularly devoted to any religion or its villains, but he felt it would be wasteful not to capitalize on an Inmate Warrior tag as unique as his own. His brand was consistent and iconic, if not very creative. I felt like I was above the gimmicky nicknames and branding, so I stuck with my uninteresting three digit string and left it at that.

“So, what’re ya fightin’ for today?” I asked, just as I did with everyone I was about to battle alongside or against.

“I want to kill the bastards behind all this. Jump up to their spectator box and cave in all their heads. Every last one.”

“That box is four stories high. You’d never get up there, even with enhancements like mine.”

I pointed to my bionic legs. He gave them a quick glance and resumed shaving, disinterested by my reasoning. The last tattoo he was unearthing stood out to me. It was a bull’s head sprawled out across his back in grayscale, with the only splash of color being the red of its eyes. The design was so intricate, I could’ve spent hours staring at it and still found myself discovering new textures to its fur or cracks in its horns.

“I like the bull.”

“Thank you. It was the only one I had done before everything went to hell.”

Clearly, because there likely isn’t a tattoo artist alive today who could create something so precise, so vivid, and so natural.

“What does it represent?”

“Doesn’t really represent anything. I just like bulls. Resonate with ‘em, I guess. They’re strong, and they'll kill ya, but at the end of the day, they’re still just cows. Leave ‘em alone, and they’ll just graze, and bask in the sun all day, and…”

He trailed off. I could tell he was lost in another time. Maybe he used to be a farmer. I picked up a hearty clump of hair off the ground and strained to recall the last time I’d been on a farm, or gotten a real haircut. I got lost in the past, too, and I’m only snapping out of it right about now. We’re in the arena. We’re fighting. He’s screaming, and screaming, and his screaming chokes away to silence.

As I drive my sword further into his neck, I can feel his biotech grind to bits. Blood rushes up his throat and is rerouted by my blade until it’s oozing from his neck. I look away as I twist my sword vertically and drive it into the air with a resolute swoop. Another victory. Another loss.

A tinny voice spirals through the stadium. “Inmate Warrior 075 is the victor! Let’s give him a hand, folks! He wasn’t even phased by the Satanator’s demonic scream. What a display!”

I remove the tufts of hair from my ears and drop them on the ground so they may lay idle again. 666 gave me what I needed to defeat him without ever realizing it. I feel the strangest mixture of gratefulness and guilt.

He’ll never get to reach that spectator box. Nobody will. I gave up trying a long time ago. I had all of my allotted biotech installed in my legs so that I could jump as high as possible, but even then, it was never enough. Every time I tried and failed, they prolonged my sentence. I stare at them up there, but all I see inside are tiny, blurry stick people.

The announcer continues. “But wait… the Satanator’s contract with the devil has prepared him for this day. It’s not over, yet, folks!”

I look back at his body. Still limp, still lifeless. What are they talking about?

“Today, the sponsors have collaborated to bring you something very special. The Justice Company volunteered the inmates. The Social Company has approved our proceedings on moral and ethical grounds. The Entertainment Company provided the funds, and the Tech Company pieced everything together to make this possible.”

The audience is getting louder. I approach 666. His head is cleanly split in twain, and his insides are spilling out from the cross sections. The sight is grotesque, but the symmetry is morbidly satisfying. Even the nose ring has been cleaved in two. But there’s something else—a little red light blinking along the edge of his brain. And then there’s a thunderclap that shakes the stadium.

It’s close, coming from a gate just ahead of me. I step back and raise my sword in its direction. Another crash, and the ground isn’t the only thing that’s shaking. I am, because I have a harrowing feeling that I know what’s back there. I know exactly what’s in store, because it was my idea.

This is a show, after all, and every show needs some sort of storyline—someone to root for, and someone to root against. 666 was the villain, and without him, people would lose interest. When I worked for the Entertainment Company, I pitched the idea that if a “significant” player is killed, they could be revived in service of retaining interest and keeping viewers satisfied. The Tech Company delegate at the table shared that they were working on just the thing for that, and as soon as he said it, I regretted my suggestion. When I acted on my regrets, I was sent to the arena to fight in the same story I helped to write.

“As we speak, the Satanator’s mind is uploading into a new host body—one more suited for him to carry out his duties as a vassal of evil. Bear with us, please. This technology is highly experimental, but we believe it will not disappoint you.”

There is only one host body that makes sense thematically in this “story.”

The gate bursts open. Smoke and debris shoot out into the arena, and from the haze emerges a bull as big as a car. Its flesh is marred by wide patches of exposed muscle and veins. Scar trenches cover its body all over. Its LED red eyes are blinking in sync with the light in 666’s skull. I gaze into those eyes, but all I see is strobing.

“Folks, the Satanator lives, and he is ready for round 2.”

In the stands, the animal rights activists are screaming themselves silly to be heard over the human rights activists, but neither clique is audible amidst the deafening storm of applause.

The red lights stop flashing, and they hold their hellish hue. The bull charges forward, crushing his former body beneath his enormity.

“Aaaaaaaaand, we’re off!”

My biotech allows me to pivot fast, but he’s able to turn just as quickly. I dance backwards left and right as he swings his heavy horns at me, until finally he grazes my legs. It’s not enough to do serious damage, but it’s enough to spin me out onto the ground. I drop my sword. He looms over me, breathing hot clouds onto my skin. His face is just like the tattoo, except more scarred, and tortured, and real.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I curl up and spring out so my legs uppercut him hard. The pistons in my calves extend and his head is jostled upright into the air. I regain my footing as quickly as he shakes off the blow, and I run. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s right behind me. I can feel the vibrations in my chest, like how I would feel music at a concert. And there I am, finding the past again.

If I don’t move, he’ll steamroll me. I leap up and grab onto a horn, and I swing myself around so that I've mounted him. He reduces his speed and begins to leap forward and back, and spinning around in an effort to throw me off. Everything’s getting dizzy. I feel my hands slipping. I dig my steel toes into the flesh of his sides as hard as I can, but it isn’t enough. He throws me up high.

At the apex of my ascent, I can see more of the stadium than ever before. I see the people in the top stands who only ever looked like ants from so far down. I see the tips of skyscrapers over the walls. But, most importantly, I see the soulless suits in the spectator box. For the briefest instance, I’m able to look one of them in the eyes. I’ve never been able to do that before. And in those eyes, I can see a little glimmer of fear. That gives me hope.

I hit the ground hard, and I can feel the organic materials in my body splinter and slosh upon impact. Still, I stand, and I stare back at the bull—at 666—and I can tell he saw it, too. He charges, and I mount again. We do a lap around the stadium to build up momentum. I lean down and swipe my sword from the dirt. The audience’s cheers follow us as we go around. He breaks off towards the end so that we’re heading straight for the spectator box.

I hoist my legs up onto his backside, and I prepare myself. I can feel the mechanisms shifting, and conspiring with my true muscles in preparation for the motion. My legs are smoking. 666 begins to leap back and forth again. Maintaining my balance is nearly impossible. The more he tosses, the more my body rattles apart. I have to do this immediately, or I won’t be able to do it at all.

As he throws me, my legs unleash a fierce metallic boom and I explode up into the air. Shrapnel shoots out from my feet and calves, and blood is spritzing from every panel line. Below me, I can see my footprints seared into 666’s skin. It reminds me of when he was shaving, and how that made me think of everything else from the past. But now, I look ahead as I hurdle straight for the spectator box at what feels like my terminal velocity.

I see it. For the first time ever, I see the future. It’s shiny, and fluid, and ever-changing. I release more and more of it into the world with each slash and stab. It’s dripping from the blade of my sword and happily falling away into the ever after.