The locker rooms of the Arena are shared by men and women. However, mere Trainees are not permitted in them, and must wait for their Masters in their own, segregated locker rooms. Annabel, dreading entering the female Trainee lockers, had tried numerous ways around it, but she soon found that it was simply easiest to put up with the problems she faced there.
Sighing, she enters the lockers. She notes, uncomfortably, that once again, most conversation has stopped. She resolves, as usual, she will keep her cool today. Forcing herself to calm down, she makes her way to her locker, and then the gossip begins.
As Annabel slips out of her clothes and into her black, open-backed catsuit, she listens in on their new conversations.
"Nabel's sweet on Sylvus," one girl says. Sylvus is Carmelotto's name in the Arena and Court. Most people know him as that.
"How can you tell?" another asks.
"Everytime she's near him, she hangs on his every word. Besides, I've seen that look in girls' eyes before; its love."
"Nabel's too pale for him," another girl joins. "Besides, she's got green eyes; I hear Sylvus likes gray ones."
"And too tall."
"Don't forget pale!"
"I hear she shaves," someone else volunteers.
"I hear her father is close to the Chair, and he designed her for the labs to create."
"I hear - "
Finally Annabel can not stand anymore gossip. She calls from her locker, intentionally interrupting the other girls, "I hear you all minding your own business! Every single day you feel compelled to speak about me as if I'm not even here. Why? I surely don't have the answer, but I'm suspect to believing it's because you're all bored, superficial social elites who don't take any of their Training serious."
"And you do?" is a suspicious reply.
"Yes, I do. I'd really, really like to just cut loose and slit all of your throats, but I think I'll save that for Mel today. I'd rather cut his throat at the moment anyways."
"But Nabel - "
"Don't you 'But Nabel' me! I'm sick of your suspicions, and I'm sick of all of you!"
The door suddenly opens and closes fairly loudly, and the room is silent once more. Annabel finishes dressing as the door continues to allow girls out of the room. Pulling on her outsized, wide-necked, thin white t-shirt, Annabel tries not to think of how much of the gossip was true.
She is tall, pale, freckled, and green-eyed. All of those count against her. Her anger is too quick for its own good, definitely not a good thing. She never used any chemicals to remove the hair on her scalp, legs, or underarms, and so she has always used a razor for those parts. None of it is too much of a big deal - except for her incurable fits of rage - and yet still the girls mocked her incessantly. One of these days, she knows she is going to break and do something she will regret.
Cinching the straps that keep her knives on her thighs, Annabel sighs. What use is it to even begin to try to reason that she has a chance with Mel? Continuing in this glum mood, she stomps her feet into dark, knee-high boots. Lacing them up, she hums a few bars to a tune that her father used to sing - or at least she thinks it was him. Father was never at home half the time anyway. Usually he is away on business; he is a bit of an archeologist and a sociologist entwined. Yanking the laces tight and tucking them into the boots, Annabel walks over to the mirrors in front of which the girls had been fussing. She straightens her white, over-sized t-shirt and nods.
Leaning forwards and crossing her arms, Annabel unsheaths the twin knives that rest in the sheaths that are strapped to her thighs. They are sharp enough; the blades are wearing, but she will attend to them later. They are clean, bright, and seem to dance in the artificial lighting of the room.
Annabel flicks them into her backwards grip; she is most comfortable holding them this way. She flicks them back, quite comfortable with the fluidity of the motion with which she completed the move. Then, she resheaths them and affixes a half-smile on her face.
She turns towards the door, and her smile falters. Mel, who is leaning against the doorframe, is watching her silently.
"What need have we for false emotions, Nabel?" he inquires, most likely speaking of her forced smile.
Annabel's eyes harden as her entire expression goes lax. "It's either that, or exact some sort of bloody revenge. I figure the latter is safer for me - for now."
Carmelotto nods and sits down on one of the benches. "Tell me what's wrong."
"Why should you care?" Annabel spits, almost instantaneously regretting it. It is too late now, though, and she continues. "If I can't handle myself now, who's to say I can't do so later, when I'm an ordained Fighter? You won't be there to keep my ass out of trouble, so don't you dare start to condition me!" She reels on him, and almost continues, but his calm, brown eyes somehow discourage her, and all her anger leaves her.
"I'm asking as a friend, Nabel."
Again adopting the relaxed, nonchalant expression, Annabel leans against the wall. She folds her arms across her chest and crosses her ankles. "You know what's wrong." She hopes she is letting in as much cold, angry tones into her voice as she can. She will not allow Mel the satisfaction of knowing for certain what he has already guessed.
"And you know how close Ezelgada and I are," Mel replies. His tone is almost compassionate. It melts any sort of defenses Annabel has been errecting.
She feels, despite her better judgement, her expression soften. She kneels before her teacher and places her hands on his knees. "I know," she whispers. "I know, and I shouldn't let it bother me, but it does. I - "
Mel smiles and shakes his head. He shushes her and motions for her to get to her feet. "Come, now. No need for melodrama, Nabel. I know where both of us stand, and I know I must distract you. Given the choice, whose throat would you really rather slit: Mine, or the other girls'?"
Annabel rises to her feet. She knows he is right. "Theirs," she answers, her voice again rigid with chill, crisp calousness.
Mel, too, rises and smirks. "You'll have to settle for mine today, then, I suppose. Come with me, I have a surprise of sorts for you."
Annabel can already begin to guess. She, too, smiles. No joy is evident in it, however. It is simple, pure, bloodlust.
Annabel sprints her laps around the track that circumscribes the Court of the Arena. The whole of the Arena itself is large enough to house one third of the population of the capital city of World. Large pholiographs are suspended above the Styroplex-walled, sand-floored Court.
During matches, the Pholiographs display what the fans can not see from their seats. A few others are scattered through the seating areas, allowing for even better views of the action. Pholiographs are a happy medium between the clarity of holographic imaging and the inexpensiveness of basic two-dimensional viewing.
Styroplex walls are very effective, especially for sporting events. They can take the impact of fairly large masses traveling at high velocities (similar to a body-check by twenty of the most massive Fighters) and still remain standing. It also employs the clarity of glass and the surprisingly light weight of styrofoam. The Styroplex walls of the Court hang suspended above it and below the main pholiograph. When the Court is in use, the walls lower and lock into place in guards in the floor.
The Court is a sand-bottomed square in which the bouts take place. It is large enough to allow the Fighters to reach good speeds before slamming into each other, but is still small enough to be realistic. The size keeps the Fighters competative while still taking full advantage of their skills.
Annabel finishes her laps and finds Mel in the center of the Court. "We get the Court?" she asks, brimming with excitement. As much as she is attracted to Carmelotto on a personal level, she is most drawn to his extraordinary endurance and skill in the Court.
Mel nods. "Until the day before Parglassi. We have to keep you sharp."
Annabel feels her grin widen. Mel presses a button on a remote and the walls of the Court begin to lower. The walls lock into place, and Annabel notices that her heart has begun to race. 'Stay calm, Nabel,' she tells herself and awaits Mel's directives.
"Okay. I'm going to throw some newer ones at you," Mel says, pulling out his left knife with his right hand and twisting his wrist so he achieves the same as a backwards guard. "From where you are, unarmed, come get me."
Annabel nods, still unable to fight back the grin. She begins to circle, but Mel lashes out quickly with his knife, forbidding her to do so. Thus, Annabel drops into a crouch and fakes a sweep of her leg. Mel jumps high to avoid being knocked down, and Annabel follows him into the air.
She swings a strong left kick at Carmelotto's head, but he tucks into a sommersault and rolls towards the ground. He sticks a landing in a crouch and hops back as Annabel lands almost directly on top of where he had been with her knees.
'I have to get behind him!' she knows, but he had told her to come from where she stood. He was forbidding her to build her momentum. There had to be some way around this. She decided the sheer number of her blows was probably the easiest way to get him to drop his guard, but that would drain her far too much. Also, jumping around would take too long.
It is a round of attrition. Sooner or later, one of them will have to give and fall. Annabel wants to make certain it isn't her. Giving Mel a combination of the two most reasonable options will, possibly, give her the opening she seeks, but she isn't sure. 'It's worth a chance,' she reasons.
Popping to her feet, she strikes out swiftly time and again with her arms, trying for blows that would more knock Mel off his balance than actually hurt him. He, however, blocks each with his forearms. Annabel, getting desperate, starts throwing in spins and kicks almost at random. She is acutely aware of how much like a ridiculous dance her attack must look like, but it is worth a shot. Suddenly, Mel's guard with his knife pulls a bit too close to her body for comfort, and she pulls a backflip-kick, nailing him in the chin.
Regaining her feet, Annabel notices Carmelotto lying on the sandy floor of the Court. She rushes to his side. "Mel! Mel, are you okay?" she asks, hoping she didn't hurt him too severely.
Mel groans and sits up, coughing to regain his breath. His left hand goes to his chest. "I'll be fine," he wheezes. "Give me just ... just a moment."
Annabel nods and falls back onto her haunches. She perches there, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet while Carmelotto recovers. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard. Sorry. It was all sort of reflex."
Mel nods. "I know. Besides, reflexes are more valuable and reliable than calculated attacks a lot of the times."
Annabel beams. She hugs her knees and holds her feet in a tip-toe position. "It's good to know you're not hurt."
Carmelotto continues to nod. "Whenever you're ready, Nabel, we're going to work on your jumps. They leave quite a bit to be desired."
Annabel blushes and pops to her feet again. At least she isn't lacking in energy. She nods, and Mel continues to push her for the rest of the week. It all, after all, leads up to Parglassi, and she doesn't want to be lacking for that.
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