This is both an exercise to show switching between the third- and first-person POV in A.T.X.D. Full Scale and also covers the core of Ashley's war trauma that is reaching its peak in book two of the saga.
If Richard could share a traumatizing experience with her, maybe she could share one with him. The trouble for her though was that the whole Kronosian War had been traumatizing. But then, the darkest memory appeared in her head. She tried to ignore it, but the memory clogged her throat with anxiety the more she tried to swallow it. Finally, she decided she couldn’t keep it down anymore.
“I guess you want me to talk about my experiences now,” Ashley suggested quietly.
“Well, Dave told me you lost a lot of comrades in the Kronosian War,” Richard tried to piece together. “You made bonds, but then they were broken almost the next day.”
“But that’s not the worst of it.”
Ashley stood up and walked over to the small counter at the rear of the barrack, her back facing Richard before she inquired, “Did Dave tell you anything about us being captured?”
“Only what he knew. That the two of you were held on Kronosia itself until rebels broke you free. But…”
Richard hesitated, not knowing how to rephrase the vague description Dave had given him months earlier about a secret horror Ashley had experienced during her imprisonment.
“He did mention you’d been….abused or something. But he wasn’t totally sure.”
“If you’re thinking it was sexual assault, no,” Ashley corrected calmly but firmly. “And God, maybe I would’ve preferred torture. But no, they subjected me to a far worse fate.”
Richard was starting to feel gravely uneasy. Was he treading in forbidden territory by inquiring about such a deep dark moment in his superior officer’s personal experience? Well, she’d been the one to start the conversation, so maybe his Team Leader wanted to get this experience off her chest. Ashley then beckoned Richard closer before opening one of the drawers and taking out a small, heavy plastic device.
“They used me.”
Richard was just about to ask, but then his heart jumped into his mouth when Ashley flicked a small switch on the device. Instantly, two bright white jets of energy shot out, revealing the device to be an advanced, double-bladed energy dagger.
“I was a gladiator, fighting in an arena for the Kronosians’ personal pleasure.”
Now it was Ashley’s turn to retreat to the bed and confess her experience. Richard had never heard of modern-day gladiators, but it was immediately clear to him before Ashley began describing the experience that it was nothing but a living hell for her.
>>>>>>>THREE YEARS EARLIER<<<<<<<
>>>>>>>12 MARTIAN MONTHS INTO THE KRONOSIAN WAR<<<<<<<
>>>>>>>OVER 200 LIGHT YEARS AWAY<<<<<<<
>>>>>>>PLANET: KRONOSIA<<<<<<<
I remember that it was night time when they deactivated the energy wall around my cell and escorted me out. They took me to an enclosed space and stripped me of my uniform and inner clothing behind cover. In place of my uniform, they put on this very thin layer of fabric that covered only my chest and areas of my stomach and shoulders. Thin vinyl-like straps looped around my shoulders and connected the upper half of this new uniform with a tight yet flexible lower segment. They tossed my tactical boots aside and replaced them with thinner-layered ones that stretched to the bottom of my knees, were tied together with a complex net of laces, and featured smooth, hard footing and rock-solid low heels.
My ponytail was undone, and a so-called “stylist” changed it to a tighter, braided design that yanked at my scalp and was briefly thrown over my shoulder for decoration. Then they handed me this double-edged blade, but the guards made sure I didn’t activate it prematurely as they lowered their spears at my heart the minute my fingers closed around the handle. I was also given a moderately-sized, circular shield that looped around my arm and activated an energy field, but I’d later find out it too could be used as a lethal weapon.
I was then guided up a wide flight of stairs, through one of a few gated archways, and into the blinding flame light of the colosseum's battlefield. A guard grabbed me by the shoulders and positioned me roughly on a specific space in the dirt, right in front of a tall pillar. An anthem played out across the arena, some kind of electric tune that just repeated over and over, and the audience roared with excitement and competitive eagerness. At the same time, the Kronosian flagship, The Serpentine I recalled, appeared over the arena as the Klaris himself came to watch with his “royal crew.” Surrounding me, in the sand-covered arena, were twelve other combatants, each armed with a certain weapon. I quickly noticed that I was outmatched, as only two other female gladiators had the exact same weapon as me: everyone else carried advanced versions of typical medieval weapons like axes, spears, and other hellish tools.
There was no announcement, no encouragement to the audience, no babbling about dying in the name of the empire and all that B.S. They simply had one of the military’s generals, Stilatro I believe his name was, approach a podium up top. All he did was stand and thrust a staff into the ground, creating a pounding echo that reverberated across the arena. A single one was to order the guards to clear the arena floor or move to safe zones, and then a double-bang followed by an order of “Begin!” was issued to tell us to start.
Nobody told us how to move or if there was any particular chant we had to shout beforehand, so we all just moved in on each other. The first combatant I came across was a mystic ally of mine, Cal-Tria-Liqui, or just Cali as I at least was allowed to call her. But something was wrong: she didn’t greet me and withdraw. She just charged at me and knocked me to the ground. As I parried my weapon with hers, I saw in her eyes that she wasn't Cali anymore, at least not consciously. The Kronosians had apparently brainwashed her, and now she only saw me as a threat in a race for survival. So we dueled, struggling in the dirt, kicking, punching, and yanking each other head over heels. At some point, I landed a fatal blow to her torso, then ran elsewhere before she could even look at me one final time.
That first night ended with two-thirds of the combatants dead before the audience or Stilatro got bored for the night and the match was terminated. But they brought another batch in the next day, including three more former allies as well as more muscular combatants who had likely been selected to even the odds against the fast and nimble ones….such as myself.
I was trapped in that arena for five days, fighting and slaughtering fellow gladiators and somehow surviving each day and night, but being denied much in the way of food to keep me actively alive. There were no sides, it was everyone for themselves. I bonded with nobody and avoided alliances, only relying on my close-quarters combat skills from training to protect me. And while an energy-blade does a good job of not collecting blood stains, or causing a gorey mess for that matter, I can’t bear to recount how many combatants I killed with just this blade alone.
Two of my comrades, one a guy and the other a girl, were not brainwashed and tried to protect me one day. But the muscle-combatants quickly put them down, breaking the male combatant’s neck and the female combatant being impaled by an energy spear later on. When the neck-breaker came for me, I remember being driven by rage, swinging onto his back and stabbing him repeatedly with my blade. The spear-thrower gained on me, but as I said earlier, I learned that my shield was a weapon itself. I threw it and must have shattered every bone in her body, because the shield struck her vertically in the middle and the head and she did not get back up when I retrieved it.
For those of us who were “the champions” of the arena, the Kronosians also sent in “fodder prisoners.” These were warriors who were wild, untrained and apparently given a reason to hate us as they tried to attack us head on. Oftentimes, I just kicked these guys down and left them for the other combatants to finish off, though some of them gave me a run for my money.
The final day, though, I truly met my match when one combatant, a human female and former Marine from one of the rebellion’s ally militaries, engaged me as yet another brainwashed subject. Unlike Cali, this woman, Patricia Segoya or Trish I remember calling her, was like a sister to me. Her swag in combat and her bravery reminded me of a few sisters-in-arms back here in the force. But Trish was also a real muscle girl on the inside, and being one of those brainwashed, she packed a helluva punch. Within seconds of our first clash, I was on the ground, bleeding from my nose and lip and my chest cramped so bad I could barely breathe.
But Trish, as was her way, ordered me to get up, so as soon as I mustered the strength, I returned to my feet. Trish, while not a burly person, had her strength, though I had my speed, and we both made fierce use of our limbs as weapons, forgetting that we had alternative tools. But it seemed each time one of us landed a critical blow, the other would respond with a blow of equal force that would stun the other, leaving both of us stumbling aimlessly for a couple seconds at a time as we recovered and re-engaged.
To a point, the two of us just became battle-worn ragdolls, both of us battered and bloody but neither one able to match the other. I forget how many other moves we used on each other during that fight, but I remember how it ended: We were both standing, probably critically wounded, but Trish made another effort to charge and knock me down. I was not going to get pushed back onto the arena floor, so I used the only other thing available to me: my energy blade.
As Trish fell, I grabbed her and we both collapsed together. Trish stared up at me, and I could tell the brainwashing appeared to have subsided as she looked at me with shock and recognition. She didn’t say anything, the wound was too severe, but her eyes communicated it all: I had been forced to turn against her in a bloody struggle for survival from which only one of us could be victorious. Although she’d paid the price, Trish touched me on the forehead as a means of forgiveness before slipping away.
The other combatants were dead, we had been the only two left that week, and I was the victor. But all I could do was cry, loudly, as I held Trish’s body: the body of a close friend I had slaughtered, before being dragged to my feet and hauled back to my cell. Two minutes after I’d been ‘fixed up’ and kindly shoved back into my cell, an explosion blew open a breach in the holding area, and rebel insurgents posing among the audience broke Dave and myself out of the cells along with any of the surviving prisoners. They handed me my uniform and clothing, and I freed myself of that war costume and left it there in the arena.
I never told Dave or any of the others what had happened: that I’d killed several of our allies in that godforsaken hellhole. So I made up a lie: that Cali, Trish and I had been tortured and I was the only one who survived the interrogations despite all three of us managing to hold our tongues. The fact I bore wounds and scars from the duels and was almost as thin as a pencil by that time was proof enough. Dave didn’t need a further explanation and made every effort to keep prying tongues of curiosity away from me.
--
[Return to narration]
Ashley couldn’t continue: her lip was trembling with terror and tears were trickling down her face. Richard felt cold and empty on the inside, not horrified of Ashley, but of what she’d been put through: killing her own comrades, who didn’t even know her anymore, especially being forced to slay one so close to her? Now Richard began to question his own experience, if it really compared to Ashley’s. Then again, why compare it? These were not fond memories they were talking about: these were personal horror stories from war, and things that haunted their dreams. What good was it to compare one hell to another when it made more sense to look forward instead of back?
But then, Ashley looked up and locked a surprisingly reassured gaze through her glassy, hazel eyes.
“Y’know, I guess you’re right. Talking about these hellish memories actually does make me feel a little better. But I probably made you think twice about ever talking to me again, didn’t I?”
“No,” Richard replied solemnly, but then smiled reassuringly. “That’s why I stayed with that talk group even after I relieved myself of my own trauma: so I could hear others’ stories and give them advice on how to survive it. And while I’ve never heard of an experience like that before, I could tell you wanted to get it off your mind, so I was ready to hear whatever it was.”