[b]Marianne![/b]

Slaves and Annunaki alike are being packed into the stands. You have picked, likely out of sheer mischief, one of the University Boxes. So it is that when a gaggle of students on the Honors Track enter, whispering furtively to each other, you are there to greet them. And, ah, look who’s right there!

If it isn’t Celestine Ravenelle, staring you dead in the eyes as her classmates gasp and her Thornback minder bristles. The Thornback declares his intent to go and get the guards in his high, waspish voice, and that’s when the door slams shut behind him.

You have some of the city’s bright young minds in here with you. A captive audience, even. Give them a show, collaborators and brown-nosers and cowards all!

***

[b]Anathet![/b]

The Seneschal’s strikes are more measured, now. His rage is burning cold: you can feel it. He’s furious that you would dare be here. You don’t know your place. If you defy the proper order, the position he’s entrenched his identity inside doesn’t mean anything. But he’s not a rampaging blinded bull, no matter what the symbol of his master might imply.

“If you have come to speak—“ He feints, testing. You don’t fall for it, so he recovers smoothly into a high kick that forces you to bend back over the model of Caphtor. “You had better do so while you have the opportunity. Caphtor? Summon assistance.”

Caphtor bows and winks out, and it’s just the two of you, dancing. He’s not willing to damage the model, which makes it a wonderful centerpiece for your back and forth. One solid hit could send you flying into a wall, and for that reason, you do not allow him a solid hit— but you don’t have any openings on him, either.

“You are degenerate,” he adds, matter-of-factly. “You are [i]diseased.[/i] You and Canada Taliv and [i]Marianne.[/i]” A lance of silver-white light blows a chunk out of a window shutter, redirected by a clever portal. His glove vents energy in a backwash that makes his wispy veil flutter and his braids tremble. There’s something to remember about how that works. “The priestess of a dead barbarian god, my daughter’s oblivious tool, and [i]anarchy.[/i] Go on. Speak!”

***

[b]Canada![/b]

Shamash lands in the arena with the classic superhero landing: on one knee, fist down, head lowered. The shockwave sends sand into your face. It stings.

Then they stand, lift one hand, and bellow so loud that spectators clap their hands over their ears. As if in response, a thunderclap, a blinding flash: a lance falls from heaven neatly into Shamash’s waiting grasp. They spin it almost contemplatively between their fingers. It writhes and shudders as if trying to stop being a spear, barely contained. This is a bad weapon. You don’t want to get touched by it.

“Champions! Esteemed Lord of the Upper Airs! Malicious and Contemptible Rebel!” Jezcha’s sneering voice rings out from the Seneschal’s Box. And there, beside her...

Tirzah sits, listening to all that is going on.

“By command of Most Terrible and All-Consuming Shamash, Breaker of Horses, you fight to... destruction.” Not even Jezcha can bring herself to say death. Maybe even if you lose, you’ll be spared.

You just won’t enjoy it. At all.

Horns blare. Trumpets ring out. Banners are flown. This is a [i]production[/i] now. And here you are at center stage.

Good luck.