"Remind me what the fuck we're doing down here again," said Sam, wiping the rest of the powder off her nose. She gave her fingertip a cursory glance and, after a second, rubbed it onto her gums.

"It's called a Pulitzer, baby girl," I said, crushing the cigarette butt beneath my heel. "Once this shit hits the press, we're gonna be famous. Hey, you think Kelly Ripa looks like she gives good head?"

Sam snorted. "That skinny-lipped, wide-mouthed bitch? Puh-lease, Max." She sniffed loudly a few times as her body fought the screaming effects of the drugs. "Seriously though, fuck, what makes you think they're even going to let us in? If this is for real, there's no way they're gonna let us film it. Or, for that matter, live past tonight."

"We were invited, weren't we?" I said.

"Yeah, well, so was Rasputin," she said, knocking her head against the brick alley wall. "Christ, I am so going to need more blow." She tilted her head towards me. "You are carrying, right?"

"Always, baby girl," I said. I patted the bulge tucked beneath my arm to reassure her.

"Stop calling me that, you dick. I don't even like you."

"You don't not like me."

"I don't anything you. I nothing you."

"Why you gotta play me like that, baby girl?" I said in mock-hurt. "You know I'd move mountains for you."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Whatever, queer. Let's just get this over with, all right?"

I nodded assent and rapped three times on the steel door at the end of the alley. The small viewport slid aside almost immediately, and a pair of brown eyes stared out at us.

"What?" said a voice.

"Um," I sputtered, momentarily taken aback. "We were, uh, invited. Samantha Lane and Max Urich?"

No response other than that same blank stare.

I tried again. "From NYU? We received a call from a Mr. Ayres asking us to be here tonight."

"The film kids?" he asked. I nodded. "Wait here," he said, shutting the peephole.

A late night wind gusted into the alley, blowing Sam's skirt around her legs flatteringly. I let my mind wander for a second, imagining myself trapped between the pale flesh of her upper thighs.

"He called us kids," she said in disgust. "Fucker."

I lit another cigarette and shifted the camera to my left shoulder. "You're twenty, Sam. Enjoy it. You'll be missing these days once your labia start hanging down like satchel handles."

"I fucking hate you, Max."

"What happened to 'I nothing you?'"

"Eat me."

"Believe me, baby girl, I would in a heartbeat."

From the other side of the door came the sound of several bolts sliding out of place. The heavy steel scraped open, revealing a black man roughly the size and build of a small house and an older man in a charcoal-gray suit.

"Miss Lane, Mister Urich. Welcome," said the second man in a soft voice. I recognized it as the one I had talked to over the phone a few days ago.

"Mister Ayres?" I asked.

He nodded. He was in his mid-fifties maybe, with storm-gray eyes and a neatly-trimmed beard on a handsome face that looked like it was carved from stone by one of the old masters. His hair was white at the temples; the rest was jet-black and oiled into tight curls. He was short, no taller than my shoulders, but with a solid, powerful body that looked like it had been chiseled from the very same stone as his face.

"Follow me," he said, turning on his heel and striding away without waiting for us.

Sam and I found ourselves walking down a flight of narrow metal steps lit dimly by naked light bulbs jutting at intervals out of the walls. Neither of us said anything at first, awed into silence by our host's presence, and before we knew it we had been descending for nearly a quarter of an hour.

"I must admit, I thoroughly enjoyed your first exposé," he said, finally speaking in that same humorless tone. "Society's elite bankrolling underground fight clubs between society's detritus? Very engaging and professionally done, considering the two of you are still in school."

"About that," piped Sam, wheezing slightly from the descent. "It was strictly undercover. You know that the majority of the backers were arrested on several federal charges, correct? I mean, why call us? If half of what you say goes on down here is true, you're going to be facing some serious legal issues if we release this."

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Ayres without looking back up at us. "But my reasons are my own. And rest assured, Mister Urich, you have my word that no harm shall come to the both of you while you remain my guests, so there shouldn't be a need for that pistol." He stopped suddenly and reached his palm up. Feeling red in the face, I reluctantly took the Beretta from its shoulder holster and placed it on his hand.

"Filthy things," he said as he looked at it. He tucked it beneath his jacket and continued to walk down the stairs, his wingtips echoing loudly throughout the stairwell. "Cheap things. No effort involved whatsoever. Whatever happened, Mister Urich, to the days when taking a human life meant more than squeezing an inch-long piece of metal? What happened to the pure joy of battle? What happened to the honor?"

"Um, progress?"

"Christ," breathed Sam, shaking her head into her hand.

We continued to walk for several more minutes until eventually we reached another steel door at the very bottom of the stairwell. I looked back up and experienced a slight sense of vertigo when I saw just how far down we had climbed. My lungs were burning, my legs were cramped and my left shoulder felt numb underneath the suddenly leaden weight of the camera. Sam looked like she was about to collapse. Mr. Ayres, however, didn't have a single curl out of place.

"Before we continue," he said solemnly with his hand on the latch, "allow me to remind you that you are about to cross a line that you cannot easily step back over. You will see things. Things that ethics, morality or legality might not allow you to agree with. You may find yourself sickened and repulsed by what transpires within. Down here is a completely different world that holds no ties or allegiances to the one you just left. Down here, there is no word but mine, no law but conquer at all costs. Do you understand?"

Sam and I nodded dumbly.

"Think carefully. Do you still wish to continue?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well." He opened the door soundlessly, and we stepped out onto the arena.

"Welcome," said Mr. Ayres, with a grandiose sweep of his arms, "to Warworld."

I honestly wasn't sure whether it was Sam or I who said "Fuck me," out loud, but it was said nonetheless.

I was too stunned to say anything else, but I yelped loudly when I felt an elbow jab sharply into my side.

"Roll the fucking camera, you ass," hissed Sam into my ear.

It was massive. Huge, elliptical and lit by countless burning electrical torches, the sand-covered arena floor was just a little over six-hundred feet long and five-hundred feet wide. Near the center of the colosseum were two rows of free-standing marble columns over twenty feet in length. All around it rose tiers of leather seating: we were standing on the uppermost tier, nearly two-hundred feet above the arena. Flawlessly mimicking the ancient Roman Colosseum, the theater had a majesty to it that was almost tangible. At the moment, we were the only ones there, and the eeriness of such a vast place devoid of people raised the hackles on my neck.

Nearly a minute passed before I reminded myself of the necessity of breathing.

"Kelly Ripa is so going to go down on me," I said to nobody in particular.

"How-how is this…" whispered Sam.

"Possible?" ventured Mr. Ayres. "A lot of dedication, time, money and love, Miss Lane. I have had a long and fruitful life, but I still believe this to be my greatest gift upon the world."

"How many seats?" she asked, sweeping her head from side to side, taking in every last detail.

"Fifty-four thousand, seven-hundred and fifty-five, not counting the private boxes," he said, pointing with a square finger to the dozen glass-fronted booths ringing the arena ceiling. "And every single last one of them filled on Sunday nights."

"But how?" repeated Sam. "How were you able to build this beneath New York of all places without anybody noticing? I mean, just how far underground are we?"

"Far enough, Miss Lane," said Mr. Ayres, "to avoid unwanted incursion. And as for your first question, I am a very wealthy man, my dear. More and more these days I find that, unfortunate as it may be, that is all you need to accomplish near anything. Now come."

Sam elbowed me—hard—in the ribs once more. "I swear to God, Max, there better be film in that camera or I'm biting your goddamn dick off."

"It's digital, you hateful yet gorgeous cow. But I get the point."

Mr. Ayres led us down a flight of stone steps between the seats to the lowermost tier, twenty feet above the floor, where an attractive blonde in a white blouse and gray skirt stood waiting. She bowed almost imperceptibly as Mr. Ayres arrived.

"This is Anna," he said, "my assistant. She'll answer any questions you may have and help you with your film. Now, if you'll excuse me, things to do. I'll see you once more before the event starts."

His assistant waited until he disappeared before offering us her hand, grinning widely beneath a pair of oversized, wire-rimmed glasses.

"Anna Hind," she said, shaking both our hands. "Very pleased to meet you." She looked all of seventeen and was very, very doable.

"Please follow me to the hypogeum," she said, "and I'll be glad to answer all your questions." She began walking towards a set of wooden doors built into the side of one of the stone walls lining the tiers, her blonde hair, tied into a bun, bobbing as she went. I tried hard not to look at her ass and failed miserably.

"Can I smoke in here?" I asked as I panned the camera around. We were in a narrow stone corridor lit by fluorescent rods. Beads of water dripped from the porous walls, stinking of mildew and decay. The ground was covered in a layer of dust, marked by numerous sets of footprints.

"Feel free. Warworld isn't exactly conducive to one's health, anyway."

Beside me Sam took out a small recorder and began speaking into the mic.

"Fifteenth of November, two-thousand and seven," she began. "It is eight-fifteen in the evening, and I am currently, at a guess, fifteen-hundred feet beneath the streets of New York City, at a hidden colosseum complex known as Warworld. Miss Hind—"

"Anna, please," she interrupted.

"Anna, for the record, what exactly goes on down here?"

"Exactly what you think, Miss Lane," she said, giggling. "People fighting."

"Uh-huh," said Sam. She sniffed and wiped at her nose. "And what do they fight for?"

Anna shrugged. "For glory. For honor. For money or the adulation of the crowd." She paused. "Or maybe for the hell of it. You'll have to ask them."

"And these fights, they're unsanctioned and unmonitored by any legal gaming commission, am I right?"

"You are," said Anna. "Everything that goes on down here is in violation of any number of state and federal laws. And a fair amount of human rights laws as well, I'd imagine."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because we can," she said simply. She led us down another flight of stone steps and we emerged into a cavernous arched hall strewn with rushes. The walls were lined with racks and tables stacked with swords and shields, javelins and axes, and a myriad assortment of other weapons. To our left was a steel portcullis, barring the way to the arena floor, and to the right the hall stretched on into darkness, dotted every so often with wooden doors. Behind the doors I heard sounds of occupation: muffled movement, labored breathing, rumbling coughs and murmured prayers. I took a moment to sweep the camera around the area and focused for a while on a stack of badly worn gladii piled in a heap. Their edges were cracked and chipped, the blades coated with what looked like dried blood.

"The hypogeum," said Anna, turning in a slow circle with her arms outstretched. "The veins of Warworld. This is where we house our gladiators to prepare right before the games. Those of them without homes stay here full-time as well. Practice rings and a gymnasium are located further down—I'll take you there later—as well as our in-house physician, blacksmith and armorer."

I focused the camera back on Sam, who was looking suddenly bloodless at the moment. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you people—what?—stage mock gladiatorial battles or something? Like back in Rome? This is all just a game, right?"

Anna tilted her head at her and grinned. "Oh, no," she said, "the battles are quite real. We strive for authenticity."

"With swords and shit?"

"Well, it wouldn't be authentic without the 'swords and shit,' now would it?"

"And people actually die down here?"

She shrugged. "Not so much nowadays. When Warworld first began all the battles were to the death. Needless to say, it soon ran dry of available competitors. Now the majority of the battles are to first blood or incapacitation only. This way, we keep a steady number of gladiators at hand, as well as providing them with increasing combat experience, which in turn leads to more exciting fights in the future.

"However, the main bout of each weekly event is still to the death, as well as any fight where both combatants consent to it. Obviously, even in the standard matches mistakes can be made, and we've lost a fair amount of people to that as well."   

"And that doesn't bother you?" asked Sam, her voice becoming increasingly frantic.

"Why should it?" answered Anna matter-of-factly. "We don't force any of our gladiators to fight. They are free to come and go as they choose. If this is the life they chose, who are we to deny them that? We don't operate under the guise of civility the rest of the world masks itself with, Miss Lane. We don't pretend to give a damn. We don't repress our basic human urges, our primal desires to kill and conquer. We unleash and celebrate them. You asked me earlier why these men fight. Do you want the truth? These men don't fight for thrills. They fight because they understand what it is to be alive, and what it means to be human."

Sam exhaled loudly. "And what does it mean, then?"

Anna peered at us through the rim of her glasses and, in that moment, statutory or no, I had never wanted another woman more.

"It means you struggle, Miss Lane," she said in a whisper. "You struggle. Life is a treasure—a finite one—and you should never, ever, settle for complacency. We weren't meant to live forever, and we sure as hell weren't meant to grow old. Simply put, there is nothing natural about natural causes. We were meant to die with our enemy's throat in our teeth.

"But in this 'civilized' world of enslaved desire," she finished sadly, "we live and die not how we were meant to, but how we're told to."

"And this is what Warworld is for?" I asked. "To earn their right to die?"

She smiled. "No, Mister Urich. Warworld isn't a celebration of death. It's a celebration of life, an acknowledgment of a priceless gift, and these men fight for their right to earn and keep that gift."

"Christ," moaned Sam, rubbing her hands across her face. "And these men? These gladiators? Where do you dig them up?"

"From anywhere and everywhere. Our stable consists of warriors from every single walk of life, numbering at eighty-four as of this morning. We have no minimum age requirement or maximum age limit. No prior combat training or experience is requested of them. On the contrary, we actually encourage the common man to join. For every ex-soldier or mercenary or martial artist we employ, we have just as many—if not more—schoolteachers or lawyers or waiters or doctors. We even have a fair amount of convicts and death-row inmates given a second chance at life. And even they are free to walk away should they choose to. The only requisite here is respect. Respect for the choices and desires of your fellow gladiator."

As they talked I walked up to the gate separating the stable from the arena floor. I poked the camera through the bars and tried to imagine the view from a gladiator's perspective: the sand, the lights, the screaming crowd. I imagined the jarring impact of steel on steel and choking on air that was heavy with sweat and dust and blood. I imagined the excitement and the adrenaline rush and the warm insides of my opponent as he opened and spilled himself all over my hands.

I breathed out: long, low and hard, and tried to imagine myself living this life.

And to my horror, I wasn't that disgusted by it.

It was Anna's voice that snapped me out of my daydreaming.

"Now," she was saying, "allow me to leave the two of you alone for a moment. I need to go and check on your first interview subject. He should be almost ready."

Her heels clicked loudly on the stones as I watched her bobbing hair fade from view.

Sam took out a small aluminum cylinder and a compact from her purse and spilled a fine line of cocaine onto the mirror. She snorted it savagely and swished the rest around her mouth with her tongue.

"Goddamn," she said, bracing herself against the wall as her body twitched violently. "Fucking insane, Max. These people are absolutely fucking insane."

"Yep," I said, sidling next to her and placing the camera on the ground. I picked up a gladius from a nearby bench and hefted it around in my hand. Despite the blade being shorter than two feet, it was still a lot heavier than it looked. "Nucking futs, indeed."   

"Jesus shit goddamn," she said. "They're probably going to fucking kill us, too."

"Yep," I said again. "We should, like, totally fuck before they do. You know, a 'celebration of life' and all that."

"Goddamn you, Max" sighed Sam. "Are you completely retarded? Do you even know what the hell the word 'lesbian' means?"

"It's cool, baby," I said, leaning over and kissing her shoulder. "I dig girls too."

"This is serious, Max. This shit is so fucked up on so many levels that I can't even begin to wrap my head around it."

The clacking of Anna's footfalls interrupted me before I could reply.

"He's ready," she said quietly. "Follow me."

We walked further into the hypogeum, trailing behind Anna while Sam kept pointing out various things for me to zoom in on: a barrel overflowing with iron helmets crushed beyond repair; wooden training dummies marred with endless cuts and slashes; leather arm guards, greaves, and breastplates hanging from hooks on the ceiling, dripping blood into battered metal pails. Some of the wooden doors leading to the gladiator quarters hung open, and from the hallway we could see hulking shapes moving around in the darkness; one gladiator stood in a doorway, smoking a cigarette. He watched us warily for a moment before breaking out into a wide grin, displaying the worst set of teeth I had ever seen on a human being.

"So, uh," said Sam, trying to recollect her thoughts as we walked, her shadow dancing in the flickering torchlight, "who is this person we're seeing?"

"He goes by Shadow," answered Anna without slowing down. "He's our present champion, undefeated in two-hundred and sixty-five straight fights, all of which were to the death. He's scheduled to defend his championship tonight. It's to be his last fight, actually. He's retiring afterwards. Says after twenty-five years with us he's getting to be too old."

"Huh. What happened to 'nothing natural about natural causes?'"

Anna looked over her shoulder and grinned at Sam. "Somehow I doubt that he'll meet his end lying on a hospital bed with a tube down his throat, Miss Lane."

"Uh-huh," said Sam. "So who gets the title if he retires undefeated? Do you employ a ranking system down here?"

"No. Everyone is free to challenge whomever they wish to at any given time. In fact, Shadow's challenger tonight is a Tiro, a new gladiator who has finished his training but hasn't fought an actual fight yet."

"And he's challenging the champion?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Courage and ambition are encouraged down here, Mister Urich. That being said, Shadow himself said that he was impressed with Titus after witnessing his training. This fight may not be as one-sided as we all think. But should Shadow retire undefeated, we've scheduled an unprecedented event for next week to determine the new champion: a fifty-man grand melee, unarmed and unarmored, where the last man left conscious and breathing is crowned the grandmaster. We're here, by the way."

We stopped suddenly at another non-descript doorway. Despite how far we had already walked, the hallway still stretched on into darkness.

"I'll leave you now," said Anna. "After you're done with him, feel free to talk to the other gladiators. All of them know why you're here." She checked her watch. "It's ten minutes past nine. The event starts at midnight. I'll come get you a little before then."

She walked away without waiting for a reply, and soon enough Sam and I found ourselves alone outside the door of Warworld's unbeaten champion.

"Um," I said, swallowing hard. "Ladies first?"

She rolled her eyes at me. "Dick."

She shouldered open the door without knocking and stepped inside. Almost reluctantly, I followed.

The room was damp and claustrophobic, lit by the guttering flame of a single candle on the floor. Besides a small wooden chest sitting in a corner, the only piece of furniture was a thin mattress resting atop a rickety wooden frame. The man sitting on it didn't resemble a man so much as he did a rhinoceros that had learned to walk upright.

Shadow seemed to be in his sixties. His skin was dark and weathered, long since tanned into leather and crisscrossed with scars from hundreds of battles. His torso was tattooed with elaborate whorls and sigils marked in black ink, almost invisible against his dark skin. A shock of long white hair spilled from his head onto shoulders and biceps that looked quite capable of taking down a charging bull. Pale blue eyes stared out at us from a deeply lined and craggy face.   

Judging from his presence alone, I already felt sorry for Titus.

"Holy Shit of God," said Sam.

Shadow peered at her quizzically.

"I-I mean good evening," she stammered, trying to recover.

"Good evening," he said politely in a voice heavy with a Native American accent.

"You're Shadow? The current champion?"

He nodded. I placed my eye to the camera's viewfinder and was about to start filming before suddenly thinking better of it.

"You, uh," I began nervously, "you won't mind me filming this, right? You're not going to, um, eat me or anything?"

He smiled, something that seemed unnatural on his stony face.

"No," he said. "I suppose we were bound to be exposed one way or the other. It seems fitting that it should be on our terms."

Sam took out her recorder. "So, Mister Shadow, how long have you been involved in Warworld?"

"A while," he said simply.

"Um, okay. And in that time you've fought two-hundred and sixty-five fights, correct?"

He shrugged. "If you say so. I tend not to count them. Though we regret nothing we do down here, I would prefer it if I were not reminded of how many lives I have taken."

"Oh," said Sam, blushing, "right. Sorry 'bout that. So, uh, where are you from originally?"

"Hoboken."

"Huh," I said. "Didn't see that one coming."

"Shut up," she hissed at me. Then, to Shadow, "How old are you, sir?"

He leaned his gigantic frame against the wall and closed his eyes. "I honestly don't know. Time flows strangely in this place. There will be occasions when it slows to a crawl, when the days seem endless, and other times it seems I have just gone to bed when I must fight once more.

He rubbed at the white stubble on his jaw line. "The last birthday I remember was when I had turned eighty-two. That was right after I had become a gladiator."

We both stared at him, mouths open. "You're shitting us," I said.

"Will you please shut up?" said Sam through clenched teeth.

"No," said Shadow. "I am not 'shitting' you."

"Okay… Christ," said Sam. "Um, well, how did you come to be a gladiator in Warworld, then?"

He reached behind him and brought out a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniel's. He unscrewed the cap and took an enormous swallow.

"I was on death row at Joliet Prison at the time, convicted of murdering two men in a bar brawl." He began to exhale loudly as he talked. "It was in self-defense, but back then the color of my skin was all the evidence they wanted."

"Woah," I said. "Some serious Attica shit, huh?"

Sam slapped her palm into her face. "For fuck's sake, Urich, you piece of shit. Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Ten days before I was to be executed Miss Hind came to me offering a second chance," he continued, ignoring our exchange. "She explained Warworld to me and said that, if I were to give it a try, I would be exonerated of all charges and given a new life."

"Wait," said Sam, clearly as confused as I was. "Anna Hind?"

"Yes."

"Skinny little blonde chick with the great ass?" I said.

"If you say so."

"But-but that's not possible," said Sam. "She told us you've been here for twenty-five years. That girl barely looks old enough to drive. Are you sure it wasn't her mother or something?"

He smiled slightly and shook his head.

"She is a very special woman."

Sam sighed. "Right. Any family?"

"Once," was all he said. After a few moments it was clear that was all we were getting from him."

"Really wish I had some more blow right about now," whispered Sam to herself under her breath.

I started to get uncomfortable when I realized that I was trapped in a small room with a coke-head and a small, taciturn mountain that held no qualms about killing people. Strangely enough, it was only the first time that night that I asked myself what it was I was doing there.

"Mister Shadow?" said Sam, almost timidly. "Doesn't doing this bother you?"

He leaned towards Sam and placed his forearms on his knees. When he spoke next, there was gentility to his voice I hadn't noticed before.

"Child, I slaughter people every week. Of course it bothers me."

"Then why do it?"

"Because they wish it of me. They long for it, you see. It is not about dying, but dying well. Whatever race you belong to, whatever god you follow, there is no purer death than death at another's hands in combat. Yes, it distresses me to end another's life. But at the same time, it is an honor to give them the death they have proven themselves worthy of. Ask yourself, is dying old, alone and unremembered how you truly wish to leave this world?"

"But doesn't it scare you?"

"No one can claim to walk those sands without feeling fear, young miss, but I go down there every week with confidence. You see, I will not die here. My life belongs to something greater than all of this."

"I don't understand."

Shadow took another swallow from the bottle and wiped his lips with the back of a mammoth hand.

"When I was a child," he said, a cloud of nostalgia forming in his eyes, "I would visit my father every year. He had a cabin in the Saskatchewan woodlands in Canada. There we would spend the winter hunting wild game. I was only eight when I experienced my first kill. I had shot a deer with my father's old Winchester. Though my father could not have been prouder, even at that age I realized just how unfair it was to hunt something that could not hunt you back. To take a life with a weapon that afforded its victim no chance to fight back.

"I realized how inherently wrong it was, and vowed I would never again hunt that way. From then on I would steal away from my father's cabin at night and go into the woods with nothing but a knife. I would track my prey, and I would run them down or engage them in combat. Stags, wolves and bears; I hunted and fought them all and gave them a noble death. And in their dying throes they each of them thanked me for it."

He produced a cigarette seemingly out of thin air and lit it with a match. He smoked it halfway down in a single breath before continuing in a voice so low I could feel the vibrations.

"I was seventeen when I met the god-wolf for the first time. Never had I encountered a creature as majestic as she. Her fur was as coarse as needles and black as tar. Stronger than any bear, swifter than any deer, her eyes were hate and pride and passion, and her fangs were pure oblivion. That was the first time I died."

Shadow pointed to his heart where, even in the dark, four diagonal scars could be clearly seen.

"The god-wolf was the first to mark me, and I her. We killed each other that first day. In a single blow, we killed and saved each other. As she carries me within her, I carry her within me. Every year I return to those mountains, and every year she is larger and fiercer. And we battle each other, and we slay each other. There is no malice in our intent, no desire to conquer. Just the unbridled joy of the battle, and of the kill.

"She keeps me safe, you see. We belong to each other, and she will allow me no harm until the day of the final battle comes, and we die one last time in each other's arms."

Shadow rose from the bed, making even such an innocuous movement seem so majestic, and walked to the small trunk, where he removed a dagger with a curved white blade attached to an ornate handle. It wasn't until he brought it closer to us that I recognized the blade was actually a fang: razor-sharp, nearly a foot long and stained with dried blood.

"The last time we fought," he said reverently, touching a large round scar on his shoulder, "she sank her tooth into me. I struck her and it broke off, and she ran away. Tiberius, our blacksmith, forged the fang into a dagger for me, and I will use it to finally end our long and loving dance. Like calls to like, you see, and even from down here I can sense her. Like me, the god-wolf is old and wounded and tired, and when next we meet it shall be for the last time."

He held the dagger to the candle's light and turned it over slowly in his hands, admiring every last detail.

"Can you think of a more appropriate instrument for a more appropriate end?"

I could only nod my head in silent agreement. Hearing him talk, standing in his presence; it was something I could never have prepared myself for. Impossible as his story was, I found myself believing every word and, judging by the expression on her face, so did Sam. In the span of a few minutes, Shadow had morphed from a blood-crazed loon into the type of legend you only ever read about, and already I found myself cheering madly for him.





"So what do you think?" asked Sam as we watched a few fighters spar in one of the training rings. It was later that night, and we had just finished interviewing several other gladiators. She inhaled a lungful of smoke and passed my cigarette back to me.

"About what?"

"About the situation in Darfur, you dolt. What the fuck do you think I mean?"

I shrugged. "Fucking weird. These people actually believe in what they're doing. The weirdest part is I'm not so sure I disagree with them."

Sam nodded solemnly. "Yeah." She exhaled loudly and shook her head, looking defeated. "Yeah," she said again before falling silent.

Before long we heard the telltale clacking of Anna's heels on the stone floor. It was a minute before she popped into view.

"There you are," she said, smiling. "It's almost time. Follow me, please."

"Actually," said Sam, clearing her throat suddenly, "Max, why don't you go on ahead? I'll catch up. I just, uh, need to ask Shadow one more thing for the film."

Anna looked at her strangely for a moment.

"Okay," she said finally, "but make it quick. We'll be on the bottom tier. Mister Urich?"

"So how was your experience down here?" she asked me as soon as we were alone.

"Informative," I said. "Listen, um, Shadow."

"What about him, Mister Urich?"

"He told us that you were the one who sprung him from death row."

"That's correct."

"And you told us he's been here for twenty-five years?"

"Also correct, give or take."

"Well how fucking old does that make you then?"

She laughed softly and stopped walking to take my hand.

"Mister Urich," she said, looking into my eyes, "Max. There are some questions you just never ask of a woman, okay?"

I found myself grinning. "Are you seriously playing that card with me, lady?"

She didn't reply, only winked, let go of my hand and kept on walking.

We still weren't out of the hypogeum, but already I could hear the murmuring of the crowd above.

"Christ," I said. "Full house, huh?"

She nodded. "Always is."

"How do they know how to get here? I mean, this place isn't exactly on Craigslist, you know?"

She bit her lower lip and smiled mischievously. We had almost reached the portcullis leading to the arena floor. Already a dozen or so gladiators were forming around the gate. They huddled in small groups, talking and joking softly among themselves. They checked their weapons and adjusted each other's armor. Even just looking at them I could feel the camaraderie they shared. There really was no spite there. No anger. Just the desire to fight.

"You know what they say. 'If you build it, they will come,'" she said, as we ascended the stone steps that would take us to the stands. "The people who want to seek Warworld, whether they consciously know it or not, will inevitably find themselves drawn here." She looked at me and smiled. "Some just need a little help finding it."   

"Uh-huh," I said. "And what kind of person finds themselves drawn to Warworld?"

"All kinds, Max, all kinds. Warworld costs no money to enter and be a part of. The problem we find with professional fights nowadays is that their booming popularity causes a price hike that enables only the wealthy to be a part of. The common man can watch it on the television, sure, but that's never going to be the same as actually being there. Here, on Warworld, the homeless can rub shoulders with millionaires and be treated as equals. That's what this place is about, Max. Not barbarity, but humanity."

"So you wouldn't call cheering as one man kills another barbaric?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.

"Please," said Anna as we emerged onto the stands, where I was nearly deafened by the sudden explosion of sound. Fifty-five thousand screaming spectators waved and clapped and stomped madly from their seats, cheering as two men clad only in loincloths and helmets circled each other on the sand below, their short swords held warily in their hands.

"Look around you, Max," said Anna, motioning to the crowd. "How are these people any different from the spectators at other fighting events? Others may claim to be civilized, sure, but when a referee stops a fight prematurely because a fighter is too injured, do you think the crowd will cheer that decision? Yes, they'll cheer for the winner, but deep down you know they're cursing the referee for stopping it. Why else would they go to an event like that? For the ring girls? For the sportsmanship? Please. They go to see blood, and a lot of it. We just don't bother to pretend anymore."

Mr. Ayres waved at us from the other end of the arena, standing on a stone balcony that jutted out over the floor, motioning for us to come to him. Even with his short frame surrounded by the swelling mass, it wasn't hard to spot him.

"One more question," I asked as we made our way over to him. "Who's Mister Ayres? I mean, for one man to bankroll all of this, well, he's got to be incredibly rich, right? I never even heard of the guy. Fuck, Google's never heard of the guy."

"Rich enough," she said, "that you'll never read his name on the Wall Street Journal or see him on TV hobnobbing with the president. He pays well to maintain his anonymity."

"Mister Urich," said Mr. Ayres as we neared, reaching out his hand. He still spoke softly, but his voice carried easily over the crowd. "I trust Miss Lane will be joining us shortly? Thank you, Anna, you can go now."

Anna bowed slightly and melted away into the crowd.

"So, tell me, what do you think of Warworld?" he asked me, smiling for the first time.

I balanced my camera on the balcony's ledge and aimed it at the two gladiators. The crowd gasped collectively as the smaller of the two jumped backwards just in time to avoid his opponent's sword.

"It's definitely impressive, sir," I said. "But to be honest, I still don't truly understand why you do this, or why you wanted us to film it."

He grinned, displaying square teeth the color of iron.

"I invited you here because it is time the rest of the world knew what goes on beneath their feet. It is time for them to embrace their instincts. It is time those who feel the desire to struggle for their very existence know that they are not alone.

"Yes, it is illegal. But by the time you've finished telling the proper authorities where to find us, we'll have gone, and all they will find is an empty colosseum, and perhaps not even that. Warworld will have moved on, and those who wish to partake will inevitably find a way to follow. They always do.

"And as to the why of it, Mister Urich?" he whispered without looking at me. His eyes, I saw, were misting up. "It's simple enough, really. Because these men deserve it. Because they are not just gladiators. They are not mere entertainers or athletes or warriors or heroes.”

He ran a thumb across his eyes, wiping away something unseen.

"They are gods."

"Excuse me?"

He took his eyes of the arena and locked them squarely onto mine. I found that I wouldn't have been able to look away even if I had wanted to.

"Jesus died for your sins," he said in utter seriousness. "These men die for your entertainment.

"Tell me, who do you think loves you more?"

I was saved from having to reply by Sam, who came running in from the hypogeum red-faced and panting.

"S-sorry I'm l-late," she wheezed, doubled over. "What'd I miss?"

"Not a thing, Miss Lane," said Mr. Ayres, whose attention was once more focused on the floor. "We're just getting started."

The first fight came to an end when the smaller gladiator side-stepped a forward lunge and drew his blade lightly across his opponents stomach, spraying blood into the sand. The crowd jumped to their feet and cheered wildly as the loser collapsed and the victor took off his helmet and held it up in triumph. To our surprise, Sam and I found ourselves joining in on the maddening applause.

"Infectious, isn't it?" said Mr. Ayres, clapping his hands softly.

Several other gladiators and a white-coated man rushed in and tended to the wounded man while the winner was hoisted aloft on the shoulders of several others and subjected to the praise of the crowd, who showered him with roses.

A few minutes later the second fight was ready to begin, between a large armored man armed with a net and a trident and an equally large man armed with a battleaxe. The match ended as quickly as it started when the second fighter proved unable to dodge the thrown net. Entangled, he thrashed on the ground helpless to stop his adversary as he used his trident to stab into the man's thigh and pin him to the ground. The resulting scream wasn't loud enough to be heard over the crowd's manic shouting.

"Ouch," said Sam.

I didn't reply; I was too busy zooming the camera in on the man's gushing leg-wound. He had fallen at nearly the exact same spot that the first gladiator had, and I watched with morbid fascination as his blood mingled with that of the previous loser's.

The third match, Mr. Ayres told me, was to be to the death, a stipulation both contestants requested. They both marched out of opposite ends of the arena decked in full Legionnaire armor and were greeted with the loudest of the cheers yet.

I didn't know much about swordplay, but I knew enough to know that both men were exceptionally skilled. They relied more on their speed than their swords, and they danced and weaved around each other for nearly a quarter of an hour, their swords clanging loudly against each other, with neither gladiator scoring a clean hit. They ran each other down, using the marble columns as cover, each deft move and countermove drawing cheers from the crowd.

It finally ended when one of them turned to parry a lunge and ended up twisting an ankle. The snap and his pained cry was clearly audible as the crowd sucked in their breath. The other gladiator quickly took advantage, burying his gladius into his opponent's shoulder. As the man slumped to the ground, his attacker continued the assault, hacking at his downed opponent's neck until his head finally rolled free of his body.

"Jesus Christ," said Sam and I simultaneously. It was the first time I had ever seen someone die in front of my eyes, and I had to fight to keep the bile from rising in my throat. Sam didn't look much better off.

As silence filled the arena, the victor pulled his helmet off and knelt beside the body of his fallen comrade. He touched his forehead to the man's still chest and began to weep openly.

For a while, the crowd didn't say anything, and nearly a minute passed before they erupted into pandemonium, showering the winner with flowers and small golden coins.

"Cladius! Cladius! Cladius!" they chanted loudly, over and over again.

"Is that the winner?" asked Sam. She sounded like she was about to be sick.

"No," whispered Mr. Ayres, "it's the loser."

He nodded his head approvingly, and a tear began to make its way down his tanned cheek. He made no effort to wipe it away.

"Glorious," he said. "A glorious death."

For the next hour Sam and I watched silently as gladiator after gladiator came out and fought valiantly for the crowd's approval. All were to first blood only, but one combatant received a fatal wound when his adversary accidentally slashed through his femoral artery. The crowd murmured sympathetically as the physician tried vainly to stabilize the man. Several people in the crowd wailed loudly when it was announced that he was dead.

There was a fifteen-minute intermission after that, during which three of the large gates leading to the arena opened. From the northern gate came three feral hyenas, snarling and snapping at each other. From the south came a lion and a lioness, their powerful muscles roiling beneath their skin as they stalked their way around the sandy perimeter. And finally, from the western gate came a giant grizzly bear, a roaring mound of rage that the other animals gave wide berth to.

"What's going on?" asked Sam, concerned. "Are the animals going to fight each other?"

Mr. Ayres only smiled grimly and shook his head. Once everybody had returned to their seats, he raised his arms for silence. The crowd instantly obeyed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted, his voice booming loudly throughout the colosseum even without a megaphone, "for your viewing pleasure, allow me to introduce the greatest of Warworld's bestiarii, undefeated in over a hundred fights against the fiercest creatures of the wild... Artemis! Goddess of the Hunt and the Hind!"

The crowd exploded once more as the eastern portcullis rose and out stepped a woman armed simply with a javelin and a single curved dagger. She was barefoot and clad only with swaths of white cloth around her breasts and groin. A white silk sash was belted around her waist, trailing all the way to the ground. Her only pieces of armor were a length of light chain-mail that covered her left arm and a small buckler strapped to her elbow. She wore a steel diadem around her head, a pair of golden antlers extending from the crown, glinting brightly in the torchlight.

She wasn't wearing her glasses, and the blonde hair that fell in waves around her pale shoulders now had streaks of blood-red in them, but I recognized her just the same.

It was Anna.