She was immediately reclaimed by the camera drones. The audience behind the armored glass let out a collective gasp. When Cynna heard it, she looked from boulder to boulder, trying to figure out where Nayla had moved to. She didn't glance over her shoulder.
Still below Cynna, with her body obstructing Cynna's view of the weapon, Nayla's fingers closed around the familiar hilt. She clenched her fingers. Nayla inhaled deeply before raising the sword in a single, smooth motion. Raising and spinning at the same time, Nayla threw her whole weight behind one well-placed thrust toward the lower part of Cynna's torso armor. The resonance blade cut through the plating, nicking Cynna's liver as its speed sent it deep into her side.
As excruciating pain overwhelmed her senses and briefly stopped her conscious thought, Cynna screamed and fell to her knees. Her eyes narrowed, flashing black and red. Beyond the burning pain in her side, the world vanished for a few seconds. In her eight-year career, it was the most severe injury Cynna had ever sustained. For a moment, consciousness wavered, but then merciful blackness took her. It gushed blood from the wound.
Nayla won when the match-ending tone sounded. But Nayla had no thoughts of victory. Before carefully turning Cynna onto her back and taking off her opponent's helmet, she swiftly took off her own. With her features drawn and already pale from blood loss, Cynna's face, now exposed, appeared older than Nayla had anticipated. She didn't open her eyes. Nayla started working on the wound right away, removing the armor plates that surrounded it. When the field medics arrived, she had just begun—maybe twenty seconds had gone by.
While another medic applied a nanoneedle array loaded with coagulants and stabilizers to Cynna's neck, another medic skillfully pushed Nayla aside and applied a trauma pad to the bleeding gash. Carefully loading their patient onto a stretcher, two others unfolded it in a flash. They vanished in less than 30 seconds, disappearing with the swiftness and efficiency of Valkyries transporting fallen warriors to Valhalla. However, Nayla reminded herself that Cynna was still alive.
Nayla's eyes landed on Cynna's helmet, where it had fallen, unnoticed by the medics who were leaving. Around the respirator grille, its blue paint featured faint silver etches that resembled a shark's open jaws. On the aggressively sloped faceplate, there were eyes that were savagely scrawled. Memoria Mortis, a Latin phrase Nayla was familiar with, was written on the back, close to the nape. Remind yourself that you will die.
Ever since she turned into a fighter, Nayla had lived by this philosophy. It was only then, startled out of her reverie, that Nayla noticed the roar of the crowd. She held both helmets high, her fallen opponent's in her left hand and her own in her right, as she gazed out at the applauding onlookers. Her sole acknowledgement of victory was a fleeting, solemn gesture.
She didn't linger to enjoy the applause like Yan did. Rather, she turned and walked quietly in the direction of the locker rooms, allowing the residual mix of endorphins and adrenaline—remaining from the mental and physical strain of battle—to wash over her.
The exit door opened on its own. Zayn sat crouched on a bench just inside. With his sunglasses pushed up above his headband in the dimmed light, he glanced up as she walked in. Behind him, one of his guards stood quietly, constantly looking around for danger. There were many possible threats in a room full of professional fighters with easily accessible equipment.
"'Ow'd it go, then?" Zayn inquired, a worried expression replacing his customary optimism.
Nayla chose not to attend the debrief. "Okay, what's up?" she responded bluntly.
"Can't say 'ere," Zayn said, getting to his feet. "In fifteen minutes, meet me in the main lobby. You need to find your friends. Then, clearly relieved to be out of the crowded locker room, he strode out, his guard dropping in step behind him.
Nayla wasted no time in packing her equipment into its sturdy, wheeled polymer case. Luna and Nora were already waiting when she arrived at the busy main lobby four minutes later.
Nora said, "Hey, look who—" first.
"Hold that thought," Nayla said, supporting her gear case between them. "Can you watch this for me?"
"You're still bleeding," Luna heard.
Feeling the sticky moisture still seeping from the previous blow, Nayla touched her nose. With Cynna's helmet still in her hand, Nayla said, "Thanks," and started to leave. She asked the desk clerk about Cynna Kael's condition as she jogged over to the infirmary. She found out that Cynna would be unavailable to guests for at least a day due to surgery.
Taking a piece of paper and a stylus from the clerk, Nayla wrote a brief but impactful note:
My blood for yours.
You did a good job fighting.
Zantara Nayla
She purposefully left a smudge of blood from her still-bleeding nose next to the signature. She gave the clerk the note and Cynna's helmet, telling them to make sure Cynna got both as soon as she regained consciousness. With a nod of comprehension, the clerk assured Cynna that they would be among the first things she saw when she woke up.
When Nayla came back to the lobby, Nora and Luna were joined by Torin, Yan, and Amelina. Kieran was the only one absent.
Yan inquired, "What was that about?"
"Nothing important," denied Nayla. "Where's Kieran?"
"There." Yan gestured over the crowd's heads to a recognizable burst of unkempt brown hair approaching them. A few moments later, Zayn and his guard came out of the crowd.
"Let's go," Zayn said abruptly as she arrived at them. He instantly dove back into the crowd, but this time he was angled toward the locker room exits rather than the main door. The others followed, bewildered but trusting, going through "Combatants Only" doors without a fight.
"Get your gear," said Zayn sharply. They took their equipment containers out of the adjacent lockers without saying a word, aware of Zayn's urgency. After two minutes, they were trailing Zayn out of a rear service exit that was normally used by fighters. After making a quick glance around the service alley and giving the all-clear, the guard got out first.
After filing out, they quickly packed their gear cases into the waiting vehicles' cargo compartments. His main guard joined two others in a big, unmarked van, while Zayn led the way in his small off-road vehicle. They left the arena complex under Zayn's guidance. He started a group call about five minutes into the drive using the built-in comm systems in their cars, which are a standard feature that projects speed and engine telemetry onto the windscreen's heads-up display.
"All right," Zayn's face said on their HUDs, "you're all probably wondering what's causing all of this chaos by now. The local police networks are broadcasting an all-points bulletin, or APB, to everyone. I spoke with the local police, so don't worry. They won't cause you any problems because they know the score.
"So who are we worried about?" Luna asked.
"Mista Danzel," said Zayn. "E has fabricated a long list of accusations against your group. Danzel is extremely paranoid and has his own private army. During the game, my spotters and I clocked seven of his goons in the stands. We had to pull you out quickly because of this.
"What are the charges?" Grimly, Torin asked.
"Treason, conspiracy to commit treason, violatin' travel laws, sabotage, espionage... oh, an' multiple counts o' murder an' aggravated assault apiece," Zayn casually stated. "Quite the rap sheet, eh?"
"Violation of travel laws?" Kieran interrupted, his voice tense with rage. "My travel permit was already revoked, shit! "What else do they desire?" The stain on his once flawless pilot's record still made him angry.
"Where are you taking us, Zayn?" Nora inquired.
"Safe 'ouse," said Zayn. "All right, Idden. It's more secure than that small factory you guys moved. Arrive in roughly three minutes.
As Yan noted, "I have a match scheduled tomorrow,"
Zayn reassured him, "Don't worry, we'll get you to the arena for your fights." However, only for the games. Don't linger; get in and out. After we're settled, we'll sort out the security details. Then, talk. Zayn killed the channel with one last nod, and his image disappeared from their screens.