Chapter Five – The Table 

The drone docked in eerie silence. Ash barely had time to get his footing before the hatch opened to reveal a corridor of polished chrome and matte black walls, humming faintly with power. He helped steady Mouse as two enforcers flanked them, gesturing wordlessly toward the end of the hall. 

The doors opened without a sound. 

Inside was a long dining chamber, minimalist and pristine—its shadows sharp, its lighting surgical. At the head of the table sat The Director, gloved hands folded before him, his face still hidden behind mirrored glasses and an expression that never seemed to change. 

Surrounding him were members of the Children of the Seven—perfectly coiffed influencers, glittering business idols, and high-ranking tech overseers. Their faces were familiar from the feeds: gods of the screen, draped in luxury, laughing softly as upwardly mobile servers refilled their glasses and presented glowing tablets of curated entertainment. 

Corwin stood off to the side, tense. 

The Director didn’t rise. He simply gestured. 

“Please,” he said. “Join us.” 

Ash clenched his fists. Mouse hesitated, then limped forward, eyes wide with awe and fear. 

The Director turned to Mouse first, voice even, almost gentle. 

“You’re very… compelling, you know,” he said. “Sickly, weak, fragile. You elicit sympathy. A rare commodity these days. We’ve tracked your stream impressions. You’ve become something of a curiosity.” 

Mouse swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean to—” 

“No need to apologize,” the Director interrupted. “You were born with the very thing most pleebs lack—value.” 

He turned slightly. “And you, Ash… you gave us quite the performance today. Bravery. Loyalty. Violence, even. Very marketable.” 

Ash narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to twist this into a highlight reel.” 

“Oh, but we already have,” the Director said with a small smile. 

He gestured, and a screen lowered behind him. Footage played of Ash fighting the cop. Another angle showed him helping Mouse. Paused, cropped, filtered for drama. 

“I’m offering both of you a chance,” the Director said. “Mouse will be reassigned—to something comfortable, something more… visible. But only if you, Ash, agree to join the upwardly mobile. The next phase of your life awaits.” 

Ash didn’t respond. Mouse looked at him, silently begging. 

The silence stretched. 

Then the door opened again. 

Headmistress Elira entered the room, holding a small bundle. 

She placed it on the table. 

Ash’s blood went cold. It was his books—the forbidden histories, the smuggled manifestos. 

The Director spoke without looking at them. 

“You have two choices, Ash. You join the next assignment track—upward mobility. Or…” He tapped the table. “You go to the killing fields. With the others who believed old lies could save a broken world.” 

Corwin stepped forward. “Ash—don’t be stupid. Please. Just… take the offer.” 

Ash looked from the Director, to Elira, to Mouse—then to his brother. 

He took a breath. 

Then spit. 

The gob hit the Director’s plate. 

Ash’s voice shook with rage. “You sent our parents to the fields. Didn’t you?” 

The room went silent. The servers froze. One of the Children of the Seven laughed, softly. 

The Director didn’t flinch. “They made their choice. As you just made yours.” 

He tapped the table again. 

“Take him. 

— 

Ash and Mouse were thrown into a holding cell that smelled of bleach and desperation. Ash slumped onto the cold bench, jaw clenched. Mouse curled against the opposite wall, arm in a fresh cast, eyes still swollen. 

“Ash,” Mouse said softly. “Please… change your mind. You can still ask for mercy. Maybe they’ll listen.” 

Ash didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was cold. “I’d rather die free than live playing their game.” 

Mouse whimpered. “But you don’t have to die. They’re giving you a way out.” 

“Not out,” Ash muttered. “Just further in.” 

The door hissed open. 

Corwin stepped inside, face pale and drawn. 

“I made a deal,” he said quickly. “You’re not going to the killing fields.” 

Ash sat up, suspicious. “What kind of deal?” 

“You’re going to the fighting pits.” 

Ash stared at him in disbelief. “The fights? That’s just bloodsport for the elites. Content garbage.” 

Corwin nodded. “But it’s not the fields. And I can help you. I’ll get you matched smart. Trainers. Gear. I’ll protect you.” 

“I don’t want your protection,” Ash snapped. “I was going to the fields for a reason. I thought I might find our parents there.” 

Corwin froze. “They’re dead, Ash. No one survives the fields. You know that.” 

“I don’t know that.” 

“You need to let them go,” Corwin said, his voice shaking. “You’re all I’ve got left. This is the only way I could keep you alive.” 

Ash laughed bitterly. “You mean keep me entertaining.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“You made your choice,” Ash spat. “You serve them.” 

Corwin didn’t flinch. “I have one loyalty. To myself. And to you.” 

For a long moment, the brothers stared at each other—one bloodied and furious, the other cracking under the weight of compromise. 

Then Mouse’s voice cut through the silence. 

“What about me?” 

Corwin turned slowly. “You’ve been reassigned.” 

Mouse’s eyes widened. “To where?” 

“You’re going to the pits too,” Corwin said softly. 

Ash snapped to his feet. “What?! He can’t even stand up without wheezing. You’re throwing him into that?” 

Corwin held up his hands. “It’s not what you think. The Director has a plan. So do I.” 

Mouse’s voice shook. “What kind of plan?” 

Corwin hesitated, then said, “One that might keep you alive. And useful. There’s more to this than just fighting. The right angle, the right image—it could change everything.” 

Ash shook his head in disbelief. “You’re both insane.” 

Corwin stepped closer. “I’m trying to buy you time, Ash. And options. I’m not the enemy here.” 

Ash turned away, fists trembling. “We’ll see.” 

The door sealed shut behind Corwin. 

Ash sat back down, jaw clenched. 

Mouse whispered, “Are we going to die?” 

Ash didn’t answer. 

But he wasn’t sure anymore. Ash sat alone in the chamber waiting area, surrounded by cold concrete walls and the low thrum of machinery. The only warmth came from a single oversized screen mounted on the far wall, glowing with the colors of the Seven.

Chapter 6 – The Package

A synthetic voice announced the start of the next fight.

“Up next in the Arena of Merit—PLEEB versus PLEEB. Sponsored by Apex Channel One.”

The screen flashed to a tightly produced, emotionally manipulative package.

Footage of Mouse as a young child—frail, solemn-eyed—appeared in slow motion. Narration played over soft orchestral music:

“Born sickly. Orphaned young. Raised on rations and routine. Mouse was never expected to survive, let alone shine.”

Clips rolled: him coughing through lessons, collapsing in a field, curled alone in a bunk. Then a transition—lighter music, brighter cuts.

New footage showed Mouse trying desperately to make content: awkward skits, messy challenges, pie-to-the-face antics. It was clumsy but earnest, and it resonated in the way only unpolished pain could.

“But sometimes, the smallest stories make the biggest waves.”

Footage of Ash saving Mouse from the cops played next—slowed down and framed like a hero reel. The angle made Ash look iconic, noble. Ash winced at the screen, jaw tightening.

Then the package faded, and the broadcast switched to a live feed.

The Arena of Merit was a brutal contradiction. The fighting floor was circular, raw, and stained from prior matches—blood, sweat, oil. Above it, tiers of audience seats climbed high. The upwardly mobile sat in plush climate-controlled boxes behind shimmering glass, sipping synthwine. Farther back, pleebs crowded into open-air trenches with rusted rails, clutching outdated handhelds. Their breath fogged in the chill air, while the elites reclined in perfect comfort.

Mouse walked into the arena slowly. His fight gear was too big, the armor clearly borrowed and barely modified to fit. His right arm glowed beneath a slick, segmented robotic cast—the only sign of tech favoring him.

Then came his opponent.

Adam.

Tall, broad, smug. A rising pleeb-star infamous for tormenting others on stream. His brand was humiliation—he hurt people and made it look fun.

He raised both arms to the crowd and drank in the cheers. They chanted his name like a punchline.

“Let the match begin!”

The screen exploded with the words: PLEEB VERSUS PLEEB.

Adam struck first.

Mouse dropped instantly. The blow was clean, practiced. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Mouse tried to rise—another hit sent him sprawling.

Adam mocked him, pacing in circles, holding his own chest and faking a wheeze. The upwardly mobile roared with laughter. The pleeb sections watched, divided.

Mouse struggled up to one knee. His eyes flicked around. Then—

A glint of defiance.

He scooped sand from the floor and threw it into Adam’s eyes.

The bully staggered back, bellowing. Blinded, he swung wild.

Mouse climbed to his feet, clenched his good arm, and drove the robotic cast into Adam’s face.

The hit echoed. Adam collapsed to one knee, blood leaking from his nose. Mouse advanced.

Adam surged up in rage, grabbed Mouse, and drove a fist into his gut. Mouse went down hard, wheezing on the floor.

Adam pounced.

He began pummeling Mouse, striking again and again. The crowd fractured—some roared for the finish, others booed, voices clashing.

Then—

A sharp tone. A pulse of static.

From the far side of the arena, a Director’s enforcer stepped into view—towering, armored, an opaque helmet hiding his face.

Without warning, the enforcer struck Adam from behind with a stun rod.

Adam convulsed and crumpled.

Gasps turned to cheers. The enforcer paused, then removed his helmet.

Text flashed across every screen in the arena:

BRUTUS VON BRUTE

The arena erupted.

The pleeb section roared with ecstatic screams and chants of “BRUTE! BRUTE! BRUTE!”

Upwardly mobile patrons offered a scattered, polite clap—some even booed.

In the commentary booth, the announcers lost it.

“Brutus Von Brute! Can you believe it? The most famous pleeb fighter of all time is back in the arena!”

“The man, the myth, the machine—delivering justice with style!”

Two massive digital bars appeared overhead:

ADAM: A chaotic storm—likes and dislikes swirling, almost equal.

MOUSE: Rising steadily. Mostly positive.

Brutus lifted Mouse’s limp hand.

“By merit of the people. By decree of content. Mouse is the victor.”

“Mouse is now upwardly mobile.”

Ash sat frozen in the waiting area.

The broadcast cut back to the two grinning announcers, dressed in crisp silver jackets, basking in the chaos.

“There you have it, folks! Might makes right…”

“But likes don’t lie.”