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[i]They were marched through the sterile, white hallways one at a time. Half-a-dozen individuals each flanked by a pair of red-armored guards. Their basic cloth outfits, devoid of any color, matched their drab expressions. The six had been through this routine before and knew what to expect. 

For some, this short journey had been repeated so often they had lost count months ago. For others, the more recent [/i]guests[i] of this place, they could count the number of times they had been lead down these halls on one hand. For all, it marked another opportunity for death. 

The six had started their marches separately. None of them had any clue to the existence of the others; a few were even under the impression they were lone prisoners of this strange hellscape as they had not seen a single soul aside from their captors in months. 

Six survivors stolen from their homes and stripped of their freedom and dignity, forced to face pain and suffering and terror daily, denied any hope, and made to perform for the sadistic pleasure of others. Six one-time heroes and warriors whose existences were now little more than that of dolls to be played with and tossed away once they no longer provided sufficient entertainment. 

Then, their isolated paths converged. 

The child; the soldier; the scientist; the vigilante; the cowboy; the alien. 

Each of the six were no strangers to this process. Each time before the [/i]games[i] the individual prisoners would be brought here to change into their uniforms and collect their gear. Each time they would be rendered unconscious through the metallic collars around their necks, the same collars that inhibited their abilities and weakened them physically. Then they would awake inside of a vast arena filled with deadly traps and often equally as deadly foes, temporarily free of their inhibiting shackles, where they would be forced to survive through any means necessary. 

For the six, though, this was the first time in all of their many collective months of captivity that they had been brought into the chamber at the same time as another. This was surprising to all, though more so for the few who had not encountered another being outside of their abductors until then.

Then came the gaunt man. Tall with sharp features and silver hair down to his waist, he was familiar to the six. Major Domo. He had at different times appeared to each of them in the past prior to their very first matches, explaining their circumstances then. As [/i]guests[i] of Mojo, the master of this world and an entertainment mogul, the six had been told they were expected to compete in a wide host of deadly games where their chances of survival were minimal, all for the enjoyment of a bloodthirsty audience. 

This was the second time Major Domo made himself known to the six, and the second time he explained their circumstances. This time each of the six had earned the highest honor of being selected to compete in the highly-rated battle royale event. Six would enter. One would survive. 

For some of the six, this news was a shock. For others it was just another sadistic twist that had come to be expected, their hearts and minds already dulled from past experiences. 

Heroes. Warriors. Saviors. Protectors. 

Soon-to-be murderers and fodder. 

However, the six never had a chance to embrace the honor of shedding blood for the battle royale. Soon after they all entered a single, large chamber filled with their costumes and gear and had prepared themselves for the upcoming skirmish, an explosion ripped through the facility. A massive hole was blown through one of the walls of the room, and several of the six had been knocked from their feet from the shockwave. 

The chaos of the moment distracted the six from the realization that simultaneous to the detonation their inhibitor collars had disengaged and clattered to the floor. Soon, though, as they recollected themselves and took stock of their new situation, the realization donned on each of the six one by one. 

It took only a moment for the word to be uttered from the lips of one of the six. 

"Run." 

The six did run, together, despite just moments ago preparing to face one another to the death, each of them now sharing a common goal: escape.

Racing through the identical hallways with random selection, the six collectively fought their way through the complex. With their armor and weapons having been provided to them just moments before the explosion, and their fantastical powers and skills now returning after their shackles had been removed, the battles with the guards were quick and decisive. 

One of the six revealed to the rest that months ago, during one of his forced marches down the stark-white halls to the waiting chamber, he had witnessed something that would possibly enable escape from their hellish prison. A device carried by some of the guards that apparently allowed for mass transportation. Teleportation or a portal to someplace else it couldn't be sure, but certainly a way out of whatever complex they were currently trapped in. 

During their next skirmish with the guards who chased down the six, they managed to retrieve the device from one of the fallen red-armored troopers. A thin tablet-like apparatus roughly five inches long and affixed with a touchscreen displaying a scrolling list of alien symbols unknown to all of the six. 

The more technical-minded of the six scoured over the gadget hoping to unlock its secrets of transportation. The rest tried to buy them time as the hordes of Mojo's armor-clad soldiers swarmed their position. There wouldn't be enough time, however, and it became clear to the six that despite possessing the device the lack of knowledge in how to use it would spell their deaths. 

In this final battle between captives and captors, the six slowly became overwhelmed by superior numbers. One of their group was struck down, the vigilante sacrificing himself for the child, and the six became five. 

In what was perhaps a last-ditch effort or a bout of futile frustration, one of the five pressed a random sequence of symbols on the display. Be it a miracle or sheer dumb luck, something was activated as a thin, silverly translucent beam fired into the air from the apparatus. From that beam, just several feet away from the five, formed an oval, silver doorway of shimmering energy. 

None of the five knew for sure that this was in fact a transportation system. Not one of the five had any guarantee that it was indeed a doorway and not some sort of disintegration field. And not one of the five cared. 

For the five it was an escape from their captivity, one way or another. 

For the five it was a chance. Hope.

The remaining five of the six survivors of Mojoworld stepped into and through the energy field. 


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Minutes later, Major Domo stood at the spot the five had departed from, surveying the aftermath of the quick but costly battle. He prodded the corpse of what was once a member of the six with the toe of his boot. The man had an amused look on his sharp-angled face. It had been some time since he had witnessed something so entertaining, ironic considering the nature of his master's business. Still, as much enjoyment as he had gotten from watching the contenders flail around in their desperation, their possession of the device and its apparent use would spell trouble sooner than later. 

Turning on his heel, the thin, silver-haired man strode off back the way he had come. Mojo would want to hear of this. And what Mojo wanted, Mojo got. No matter what or who he needed to go through to get it. One way or another, Major Domo knew, his master would reacquire these gladiators gone [/i]rogue[i].
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