Chapter Text
It was the worst sound Saparata had ever heard in his life.
Worse than the sound of dripstone splitting open the heads of six island leaders. Worse than the shouts of enraged citizens calling for his death in the streets. Worse than the explosions and clangs of broken armor at the base of the Infernus volcano whilst soldiers died.
None of them compared to the thud of Fluixon’s body hitting the floor, red spilling from his stomach and onto the sandy ground where Saparata’s diamond blade struck deep. He was dead before he could say a word, could give Saparata any kind of closure for all that he’d done. All that he’d put Saparata through the last few months.
Saparata was turned away from the body before he knew what he was doing, incapable of watching the life drain from his former best friend onto the sandstone. It was over. He had ended it.
He hardly registers the chorus of joy from the Westhelm army, the Coalition and Luminaran soldiers crying their praise at Saparata’s kill. The congratulations stemming from Schpood once the leader reaches his home nation swims in his ears, as if everything is taking place as deep underwater as all the Conspiracy’s plans had been formed in their hidden chamber.
The trip home is deafeningly quiet, sound of his axe reverberating against half-broken armor ringing in his ears every step he takes. It’s all like a dream— a nightmare that he knew was coming from a mile away and yet still caught him horrifyingly off guard.
Fluixon was dead, and Saparata had killed him. This was the way it was supposed to go. Saparata just wishes it hadn’t had to be him to deliver the final blow.
The horizon cast shades of orange over his long-since abandoned home, lighting it up as if it was meant to be a beacon of relief for Saparata to see after so many weeks of being on the run. It only felt empty to him. A shell of what used to be a safe haven for the man, forever stained with the past.
He tries not to look at the bloody floor on his way to his bedroom.
He barely takes the time to strip himself of his cracked armor before collapsing, the whole process feeling robotic, mind on auto-pilot. The sheets are clean, but Saparata is not. Everything he touches feels contaminated now, permanently soiled.
It doesn’t take long for the tears to come, hot and suffocating. He can’t remember when he finally drifts to sleep, sand in his mind and dark eyes weighing on his heart.
The only thing Saparata feels when he wakes is cold.
Freezing, in fact.
For a moment, he’s convinced he’s back in his ivory tower in the tundra of the wasteland, the Battle of Infernus merely a distant figment of his imagination while he rested. Then, his eyes crack open and above him are bushy trees, thick and towering.
Before he can process the unfamiliar surroundings, he’s wide awake, automatically in survival mode and certain something hostile was coming for him. But even as he stands uneasily and shakes the snow from his lashes with wide-eyed fear, there is nothing but the silence of flakes falling and the wind blowing.
A shiver runs down his back and he finally acknowledges that this was not at all his home back in the archipelago, nor was it the freezing north of the wasteland.
The snow was far too deep under his feet, and the trees were unlike anything he’d ever seen before. He has no armor, and even worse, no sword to defend himself with. Saparata was terrifyingly exposed in his unknown surroundings.
The chattering of his teeth motivates him to move, distant buildings just barely visible through the weather and white forest. It doesn’t take him long to get in view of what appeared to be a rather rundown town, slanted buildings and slick stone roads with architecture Saparata had never seen in either island he’s been on. He would try to make sense of where he found himself but the cold was numbing his mind, only thought present being to find a place to get warm.
He stumbles through the calm settlement, townsfolk hardly batting an eye at him while he looks around in wonder. It doesn’t take him long to find a small tilting tavern on the edge of the block, yellow lights shining on the front porch like an invitation.
Upon stepping through the door the heat washes over Saparata, melting his bones and thawing his teeth. The man behind the bar looks familiar, but not enough for Saparata to pinpoint where he’d seen him before.
“Nice day out today, innit?”
Saparata blinked in disbelief. Nice day? It was so snowy he could hardly see ten feet in front of him.
“The snow’s pretty bad, don’t you think?”
The man only chuckled at what Saparata said, as if it were an intentional joke. It was not.
“Hey, you’re funny sir, I’ll give’ya that. You visitin’ out here or somethin’? Never seen your face ‘round these parts before.”
Saparata was still taken aback by the response. Was this some foreign place where it snowed year-round? He’d never heard of anywhere on the islands like this in the slightest, the archipelago was known to display mild temperatures no matter the season, and the wasteland only got cold enough for weather like this high up in the north where the land was devoid of civilization. He would know all too well.
“Ah, something like that. By any chance, do you think you could give me the name of this nation?”
The bartender’s bushy eyebrows knitted, clearly confused by Saparata’s request.
“Nation? Not sure what you’re on about, but this is Bruma. Small town in the Snow District. You ar’right sir?”
If Saparata’s head wasn’t spinning before, it definitely was now. There was certainly no town called Bruma on either of the islands, let alone something named the Snow District.
He laughs to hide the panic on his stricken face.
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Think the cold just got to me, made me slow.”
The excuse was weak, that was for sure, but the man didn’t seem to press any further, merely leaned back with a mustached smile and offered Saparata a warm drink. He can’t find anything else to do but accept.
The first thing Saparata can think of doing following the complicated interaction was to find something warmer to wear. After spending weeks in the dry atmosphere of Westhelm he had gotten accustomed to wearing thin clothing, light and loose to minimize the sweating he endured underneath the blazing sun. But this place was a polar opposite, clouds constantly overhead and casting this grey hue over the already-bleak town.
The scruffy bartender had been kind enough to direct him somewhere he could purchase thicker clothing, and upon entering Saparata comes face-to-face with the first person he could recall the name of.
A thin man he knew by the name of Micro— someone Saparata knew owned the island nearest to his own— stood at a shelf, and appeared to be reorganizing some knitted mittens of various color. The relief washes over Saparata tenfold. Perhaps Micro had some answers for this precarious situation.
“Micro! Man, am I glad to see you.”
The pale man turns, looks ready to greet Saparata with a friendly tone before meeting eyes and turning confused. The relief Saparata had previously felt deteriorated in record time.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
Saparata’s face drops. There was surely no way Micro had forgotten who he was? He had just seen the man the day before at the volcano, one of the many archipelago civilians eager to fight for his nation and receive justice for those Queen Cynikka had harbored’s wrongdoings. But today, he only looked at Saparata with a lost look, polite customer service smile apparent.
“You really don’t remember me? Saparata? Lived on the island next to you?”
Micro slightly tilts his head with creased brows and Saparata falters.
“You know… the guy that got framed for the archipelago leader’s deaths? None of this is ringing a bell?”
The purple-scarved man only shakes his head, takes a miniscule step back at Saparata’s words. He is starting to look concerned and Saparata is quickly realizing how off-putting his words sounded.
“Dunno man, I’ve never lived on an island. Born ‘n raised in Bruma, been here my whole life. Definitely would’ve recognized you if I knew you— pretty tight-knit community we’ve got around here.”
Saparata is feeling this sudden urge to scream at the top of his lungs, but refrains.
“Well, shit. Must’ve mistook you for someone else I knew.”
Not-Micro seems to move on from the brief oddity, lavender eyes softening at Saparata and moving to put down the mitten he’d been pairing with another back on the shelf. He puts a hand out, a cold one that Saparata takes with his own clammy hand.
“Well, nice to meet-ya Saparata. You must not be from around here, what you’re wearing is definitely not suited for our weather. You from the Snow Capitol or somethin’?”
It was clear Saparata was in a completely unfamiliar place, one with odd things like ‘districts’ and ‘capitols’ instead of nations and islands. He isn’t sure what else to do, so he plays along.
“Yeah, you got me. I’m out here visiting someone right now, wasn’t totally prepared for how cold it’d be out here.”
Micro seems to light up, leads Saparata towards the racks of fur coats he kept on display. The selection held all sorts of different animal hides, from brown patterned bear, to smaller parkas made from rabbit, to sleek and heavy moose skins. Micro is talkative as Saparata rummages through to find something that fit properly, silent and a bit afraid of saying anything else out of the ordinary.
“Kinda surprised you’d be visiting this time of year. Especially with the Purge drawings starting tomorrow. Wouldn’t you rather be at home with your family for it? I know I would.”
Saparata turns, forehead wrinkled in confusion that was starting to become all too common in this new setting.
“Purge? What’s that?”
The shopkeeper snorts at him in disbelief.
“Jeez man, you live under a rock in the Capitol? Everyone knows the Purge drawings start the first week of winter. Thought it was the biggest event y’all over there watch, what with all your fancy tech and stuff.”
When he doesn’t answer Saparata’s base question of what the Purge is in the first place, Saparata chooses to stay quiet, lost look obvious on his ashen face. Micro rubs a hand over his mouth in mild distress.
“The annual Purge? No idea? The event where the Desert, Jungle, and Snow Districts all choose their competitors to participate in a tournament? I can’t imagine you’d be too young to know what I’m talking about— you look just the right age to be drawn yourself, actually.”
Saparata smacks his head in feign realization, a poor attempt to persuade Micro that he was only now remembering whatever the hell the Purge was. Micro doesn’t look too convinced.
“Oh, that Purge! Yeah… my family doesn’t really, ah, watch it. You said the drawing is starting tomorrow?”
Saparata tries to move past the apparently unbelievable fact that he didn’t know what this yearly event was, focuses his attention back on the coats in front of him to avoid the blistering gaze Micro was serving him out of the corner of his eye.
“Yeah, tomorrow. Jungle’s drawing first, they’re the ones hosting this year. Never met anyone that doesn’t watch the Purge, must be real nice to not even be slightly worried that you’ll get chosen. You… do know you can get drawn even if you live in the Capitol, right? I always thought you richies out there got special training ‘n stuff just in case you ever did get drawn.”
It appeared Saparata now had to run with the truth that he was indeed from the Capitol, which could only be assumed was the central nation of this place. From what he gathered, it seemed to be where the wealthy lived in the Snow District, and Bruma was far outside that area.
He pulls a white-collared coat over his shoulders and wraps it around himself.
“Most of the time we do watch. My family was just very… indifferent, I guess you could say. How many people participate in this thing again?”
“Three duos from each district, eighteen competitors in total. Of course, only one duo makes it to the end, but you must know that at least.”
The goat’s fur coat Saparata had over his shoulders was perfect, and he only shrugged it off to hand it back to the shiny-headed clerk to ring up.
It is when Micro makes his way behind the counter and Saparata feels around his sides that he realizes he did not actually have any sort of money with him. Now that he thinks about it, it was unlikely his currency would have done him any good here in the first place.
The panicked look on Saparata’s face is enough for Micro to sigh, shakes his head in mild annoyance.
“Let me guess— you don’t have any money with you.”
Saparata is prepared to go out and brave the freezing weather again to find any place with a source of warmth to hide out for the day to avoid frostbite, but Micro only slides the coat back to him.
“Just take it, man. You’re clearly not from the Snow District at all, and I dunno if you somehow managed to escape one of the other districts or something, but I’d rather not know. It’ll just get me in trouble. I’d feel real damn guilty if I found you on the side of the road in a day or two frozen head to toe, though.”
Saparata thanks Micro endlessly, promises he’ll pay him back as soon as he can get his hands on something on value, and sets back out into the snowy town in search of answers.
The only place Saparata could find willing to let him stay the night was the very same tavern he’d visited upon arrival, finding himself stood back in front of the amber lights after aimlessly wandering the streets for the afternoon. He supposes it wasn’t all futile, he knew the densely overpopulated Bruma much better now, well enough to finally accept that the timid weathered archipelago he grew up in was no more.
The cold wooden bench was surprisingly not the worst place Saparata had ever slept before, and he wasn’t the only one. Bruma was home to many trapped in poverty it seemed, and the bartender was kind enough to allow many of the homeless to stay in his abode to avoid freezing to death in the middle of the night.
He had pointedly given Saparata an odd look, especially after being under the impression the man knew someone living in town, but did not comment when Saparata found a corner to wrap himself in his new coat and drift off uneasily for the night.
Saparata’s head was reeling, the silence of nightfall giving him a chance to unpack the circumstances.
He specifically remembered going to sleep in his own bed on his own island after the war ended, only to wake up on the frosty ground of a place that did not exist in his world. He pulls the fur-lined hood over his ears, shifts on the flat bench uncomfortably. There’s more than a few accusations running through his mind, pointing the finger at those who wronged him in the past without any substantial evidence to back it up.
Realistically, Saparata knew there was just no plausible outcome in which the man he drove an axe through the day before was behind this change in scenery, nor anyone else for that matter, but it gave Saparata an outlandish sort of comfort to convince himself that he had any grasp on the situation.
It is only after he’s exhausted himself with thoughts attempting to puzzle out his new reality for an undetermined amount of time that Saparata’s eyes finally weigh shut, frosty air seeping into his bones with sleep.
The morning was just as cold as the day prior, but to Saparata’s joy, it had stopped snowing for the most part.
He only stepped out from the heat of the tavern in the late morning, the barkeeper with the soft eyes insisting he have something to eat— a tough and stringy meat he couldn’t pinpoint the taste of, but Saparata had a feeling there weren’t many substitutes in the area— and chilling glass of water before heading out for the day.
Nonetheless, the ground remained coated in a thick blanket of white, and he could still see his breath fogging out in front of him when he stepped back into the new atmosphere.
The crisp morning air and night of contemplation had Saparata accepting his fate, always destined to be forced onto his feet, endlessly travelling. Whether it be to avoid civilization in search of a peaceful life, escape being caught for crimes he never committed, or somehow be transported to an entirely different world from the one he had known and cared for, Saparata was never allowed to simply sit and stay.
He ponders again if there was some sort of external force at play; he had never been all too religious, but perhaps there really was something up there out to get him. Perhaps it is Fluixon from beyond the grave, stubborn enough to refuse Saparata the leisure of just living.
Today seemed different, however. More lively.
The townsfolk were all out in the streets, businesses had ‘closed’ signs in the windows, and they all seemed to be gathering in the middle of the forlorn village in anticipation. Saparata suddenly recalls the unfavorable conversation he’d had with the Micro that did not know him yesterday, an event called the Purge set to begin today.
He follows the townspeople inconspicuously, hoping to avoid drawing any attention to himself in the crowd. There was this large white sheet propped up in the center, flashing images displayed on it, the unfamiliar faces of people shifting every few seconds. Saparata had never seen anything like it, confused by how the sheet could change appearance in such a way.
There was writing at the bottom of the screen, changing with each lifelike painting with what he could assume was the names of those being displayed followed by a year and a district. In order they changed as he watched in awe, from Desert, to Jungle, and every so often, to Snow. None of the faces were recognizable in the way Micro’s had been.
Saparata finds himself beside an elderly group of women towards the back of the crowd, all bundled up with fabric covering half their faces and ears, cheeks rosy.
He tries to listen as more people continue flooding in, surprised at how many actually lived in what initially appeared to be a generally small town. Some of the ladies seemed to recognize a few names, reminiscing on them in hushed voices.
“What do you think of our chances this year? Any Capitol youth that’ve looked promising?”
A shorter woman with a green shawl asks the group, eyes still fixed on the slideshow that currently displayed a pair of men. One held a drained look in his eyes, tension on his face that was engraved in his wrinkled forehead, and the other was beaming like he’d just won himself limitless riches and titles.
“I’ve heard a few rumors that they’ve really stepped up their training this past year. We can never know who might be chosen, but President Elanuelo seems adamant on bringing home a victory for the Snow District this year.”
The ladies muttered about the information, but Saparata is finding it difficult to follow their conversation as more civilians arrive at the square, back pressed to the quartz wall of what appeared to be an ore depot behind him.
It is when the last few stragglers arrive that the screen changes again, but this time to an unknown symbol of spread out wings, white in color with sharp pale blue lines encircling it. The crowd quiets in an instant, all eyes turned towards the massive screen that Saparata still had no explanation for.
The picture fades once more, only now it was replaced by a moving image of a man adorned in very formal looking wear, dark green sleeves and a pin attached to his chest with wings similar to the ones a moment before, only surrounded by thorny vines instead. His sharp face looked regal, stern expression to the lens before his eyes slackened, mouth opening to speak.
“Welcome all of the Jungle, Snow, and Desert Districts, to the fifty-sixth annual Purge.”
There were cheers, scattered shouts called out in the crowd with a bubbly tone. Saparata blinked. Was this the President Elanuelo the women spoke of?
“The Jungle District is elated to be the host of our long-standing tradition between the three districts in a symbol of peace among people. We shall get to the much-anticipated Purge drawings in a moment, but first, a word from your Presidents.”
The ash-haired man clears his throat, pauses for just a moment in a practiced way before continuing on.
“The annual Purge has been a celebration of our alliance as the three shining jewels of Imperia, a rejoice in the face of prosperity. Let this event be a show of our strength, and a reminder of all we are blessed with in our districts. We have gone fifty-six tranquil years in the absence of war, thanks to our people’s resilience to persevere in the face of struggle. I stand proudly beside President Schpood and President Elanuelo to call Imperia my home along with all of those watching from your own residence.”
Saparata’s head snapped to the sound of a familiar name. Schpood. He exists in this world like Micro does, and as a president no less. The man on the screen finishes his speech with a finality in his tone.
“Without further ado, I present the three Purge drawings of the year, beginning with my own District of the Jungle.”
The projection pans away, and Saparata now sees soldiers in hunter green uniform standing in position beneath another screen just like the one he was witnessing the entire scene from.
A platform with a unusually dressed man behind a microphone poised towards the image of the Jungle president patiently, bright lime suit standing out with a leafy texture to it. In front of him, a singular black box that Saparata could not decipher the use of.
The crowds begin clapping, the image mirrored in what Saparata could only predict was the Jungle District, lush background and half-cloudy scenery helping to confirm. The Jungle people were gathered and watching exactly what he was from another location, horde of citizens formed in tandem with where Saparata currently stood.
The verdant man joins in the clapping for a moment longer before turning towards the mic to address the audience. Saparata swears he’s seen his face before.
“A big thank you to President Solev for that fantastic opening speech! Can we get another round of applause for our wonderful leaders?”
The crowd obeys, whoops popping up and the screen changing again, this time to display the sea of Jungle people chanting their president’s name from the floor. Micro really wasn’t kidding— everyone from all over was tuned into the Purge.
It takes a few moments for the crowd to wind down, the excitement reminding Saparata of the few Westhelm rallies he had attended during his short stay, two competitors entering the colosseum to fight to the death in front of the whole nation.
His fight with Fluixon wasn’t like that. It was only the two of them, the handful of allies he had taken with him to spectate in case anything went awry, and the sole remaining member of the conspiracy, Thomas, being the only figure on the other end of the stadium.
The announcer waves his hands, urging the crowd to quiet.
“Alright, alright, let’s not waste any more of the people’s precious time. As many of you may know by now, my name is Sidefall, and I’ll be your Jungle District reporter for this year’s annual Purge event. I’ll be joined by the fabulous Madzvie of the Desert District, and of course everyone’s favorite Purge commentator, Oppenheimer of the Snow District!”
The audience goes mad again, and Saparata feels like he’s going mad himself. The screen flashes to live cameras of the mentioned commentators, waving at the camera with a brief greeting to those watching on and low and behold, they look the exact same as the parallel versions of themselves Saparata knew existed in his own world.
This was the first time though, that he was seeing someone presumed dead in the form of Sidefall, who had been killed much earlier in the year with his Warden outbreak that wreaked havoc on the wasteland. Saparata had never met the man personally, only heard of the propagandistic newspaper he produced on the wasteland island prior to his death.
It only now registers to Saparata that in this world, everything seemed to reset. All the faces he had watched disappear in his past were undone, standing before him with a wide grin on the projection and a very clear pulse running through his veins. If that was the case… perhaps the only death Saparata regretted being fulfilled by his his own hand was cleared from history as well.
The dread sets in at the idea of being forced to follow through again.
“Now, let us begin the drawings starting off with my gorgeous homeland, the Jungle District! I’m sure we all know how this process works, but for any new folks at home that might be old enough to tune in for the very first time, I’ll give a brief rundown. There will be three pairings drawn from each of the three districts, with a total of eighteen lucky chosen competitors to participate in the Purge.”
The exact same as Micro had mentioned the day prior. Sidefall continues on.
“Should you be fortunate enough to have your name picked, you will be directed to stand at the front stage of your town until the drawings are complete. From there, you will be escorted by the District soldiers to board the train leading to glory! Enough technical talk, let’s get this show on the road!”
Saparata expects the crowd to burst out again, but it only remains eerily silent, mutters running through the hushed group in anticipation.
Sidefall steps away from his microphone temporarily, leans down to press a button on the side of the black box before him, waiting as a white strip of paper slowly protrudes from the slit on the top. The man rips it off, pearly smile still intact as his mouth reverts back in front of the microphone, clearing his throat.
“The first duo of the Jungle District drawing… Lingu of Thicketgrove, and Snowbird of Ranivene. Wow, a Jungle player by the name of Snow, what a misnomer!”
The uproar of the Jungle District echoes through the clearing, Saparata only recognizing the first name called when the respective people appear from the crowd, remembering Lingu differently and much more aged in his past. The two stepped up, far greener and dense background behind their respective stages.
There stood the former leader of a Mafia that Saparata recalled fled to the Coalition after angering Queen Cynikka of Infernus, face edited beside one of the very government officials of Luminara that was directly involved in Saparata’s framing. It was an outlandish pairing, one Saparata’s brain had never thought he’d witness, but nonetheless they stood on the wet platforms, faces knitted in determination in an oddly similar way.
They were only broadcasted for a moment or two before Sidefall’s face returned, hand outstretched for the small white slip.
“Our second pairing for the Jungle… we have Thomas of the Jungle Capitol, and Benji of Bamboro. Our first Capitol specialty, everyone!”
Every new name drawn was like a blow to the stomach.
Now Saparata was confronted with yet another guilty face from his past, his former best friend’s most loyal ally. Alongside him, a cowardly man that’d refused to face his own actions in the call for the assassination of a previous name called for the Jungle.
At least Lingu and Benji weren’t on the same team, Saparata supposes. But again, he still had no idea what this Purge entailed, what sort of competition these contenders were meant to face against one another.
Despite the loud cheering at the names, Benji looked quite uncomfortable as he was ushered on stage, Thomas looking unreadable when Sidefall clapped a hand on his shoulder. By now Sidefall had the final piece of paper in his grasp, microphone at the ready.
“And our final two for the Jungle District… Sitzkrieg of Ranivene, and Seraphim of the Jungle Capitol! Let’s hear it for our Jungle District candidates this year!”
There was a hint more applause for yet another Capitol drawn name, the psychotic assailant Saparata knew as Seraphim climbing up to the stage with a nearly predatory smile on her misleadingly innocent face. Sitzkrieg came up to stand beside the only other chosen of his town, Snowbird glancing sideways towards him only briefly in a calculated look.
Saparata watches as the screen displays each of the called people once more, before Sidefall hands off the announcing to the Snow representative Oppenheimer, and the flock of Snow citizens Saparata stood with began getting antsy at the prospect of their candidates being chosen next. He pushes the hood of his coat from over his head slightly, intrigued to see who might be drawn from the district he inexplicably found himself in the day before.
The equally suited man stands on a much whiter and snowflake littered podium, only dressed with many more formal layers to match the environment, same black box to pick the names from. Oppenheimer gives his own brief introduction but otherwise gets right to the point, and Saparata gets the impression he’s had this job a long time now.
“I know my lovely Snow folks are just as excited to see this as I am, so let’s get straight into the first pairing. Our first Purge duo of the Snow District… Cass of the Snow Capitol… and Jophiel of Blizzara. Congratulations to our first selected competitors, and may the prosperous wind blow in your direction.”
Bruma— alongside the flocks of Snow civilians displayed on the screen— are clapping with vigor, and Saparata feels compelled to follow along.
He puts his numb hands together, but his face doesn’t reflect the cheerfulness when he sees the stony expression on the face of who he used to call a friend, Cass standing on the only podium not entirely overrun by snow at this point, boots scraping the thin ice sheet as she comes to a stop beside Oppenheimer.
Unlike the overly friendly Sidefall, Oppenheimer gives her a firm shake of the hand, moving on speedily to the second pairing with a nod towards the camera and Jophiel’s trembling smile in acknowledgment.
“Our second Snow District duo… Saparata of Bruma…”
Saparata freezes.
“…And Fluixon of Bruma. Two names from the same town, now isn’t that unlikely?”
Suddenly the scattered falling snow was too stifling to breathe in.
There’s a moment of Brumans looking around expectantly, crowd fallen silent to see who matched the unfamiliar name. He sincerely doesn’t want to accept what he’s just heard, wants to turn and slip out through the back alleys before anyone noticed, but a desperate scan of Saparata’s surroundings to see the countless empire officials trapping him in the area made it impossible.
Saparata’s legs are moving before they can stop themselves, head poking out from the back of the town square in the aisle of people that slowly opened up.
His mouth is cotton, unfeeling hands coming to pull his hood fully off and get a clear lay of the land. Saparata can see his own startled look on the wide screen before him in a jarring reflection, forcing himself to move faster and look at the ground instead of his own infuriatingly frightened face.
There’s a split second of absolute panic under his skin when he finally make it to the top of the white stage and witnesses just how many eyes lay on him— even sees Micro’s purple-scarved figure in the midst— but the feeling shifts into something far worse when he finally processes his chosen partner beside him.
Fluixon, alive and breathing and already stood beside Saparata with the exact same features as the lifeless one he saw crumpled on the colosseum floor days ago.
“Congratulations to the competitors of Bruma, and may the prosperous wind blow in your direction.”
The voice is like white noise to Saparata. His unblinking stare only breaks from Fluixon’s oddly neutral eyes when the man held out a hand, horribly fake smile plastered on a face Saparata had come to loathe for so long. He knows he should take the hand, but every freezing bone in Saparata’s body was screaming its objections.
Fluixon doesn’t take long to realize Saparata was not going to return the handshake, eyes only narrowing for the briefest of seconds before turning to the townsfolk under them and waving, beaming widely in such an unfathomable way to the ashen man standing with.
Oppenheimer’s monotone voice was still coming through the screen, much louder now than it sounded when Saparata was at the back of the group, but still difficult to register anyway.
He can hear two more names, Legacy— who was apparently from the Capitol just like Cass— coming to give her a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek in an indication that the two knew one another, and Alke of Flyrrcaps, eyes wide like a deer in headlights as he stood on the crunchy ground of his podium. More names Saparata recognized, but it no longer felt weighted with significance anymore.
He’s since torn his eyes away from Fluixon to look out at the crowd listlessly, and only now notices the duplicate smaller screens at the back of the clearing displaying the same image.
Oppenheimer spouts the same favorable message, introduces his fellow reporter Madzvie to draw the Desert candidates with a final thanks to the people of the Snow District. Which somehow included Saparata now. Did he always exist in this world? Was he taking the place of someone else with the very same face and name?
Madzvie looks far too colorful and glamorous for the barren landscape of the Desert Capitol, but calls out to her district with the same heart the previous announcers had. She’s wearing a pink-something lacking sleeves, an article of clothing Saparata could not imagine having on in his current location.
“Hello to my wonderful people of the Desert, and a big welcome to the fantastic people of Imperia! We seem to have some formidable opponents shaping up, so let’s see what the Desert brings to this electrifying lineup! Starting off with the first two Desert candidates, we have… Remy and Cynikka of the Desert Capitol! What an exciting first pick!”
Saparata can hear a few people below him calling out the words ‘rigged!’ and muttering to themselves, but the overall population claps along politely at the announcement. Of course Saparata was not going to be rid of Cynikka either, the Queen of Infernus was back and had that familiar expression of daggered ambition that never seemed to leave her dark features.
Remy appears to have the same unwavering expression striking his face, the two sharing a momentary look of recognition for who they’d been teamed with.
“As for the second pairing, our next two competitors of the Desert District are Gotoga of Temproa and Turntapp of Canidae! How fun!”
Madvie claps her hands together eagerly, throwing the slip of paper up in dramatic flair while the camera captures the next two chosen as they step in front of their own orange and beige towns.
Saparata cannot stop himself from wrinkling his forehead at the inconceivable pair, both dedicated to their former nations with a ferocity not many people held. The two look pleased, sharp smiles turned towards the audience and fellow citizens.
“And our final pairing not only for the Desert District, but for this year’s Purge! We have… Hyvro of Dunyan… and… Spyder of the Desert Capitol! That’s three this year for the star of the Desert! Congratulations to our selected competitors, and I sincerely hope you all find your ways to the oasis at the end of the sand!”
The screen finally cuts back to Sidefall’s permanently ready-to-speak face, delivering a final few words.
Saparata can feel the soldiers on either side of himself and Fluixon step a fraction closer, signaling the end was near.
“A big thank you to all citizens watching at home right now, we truly value each and every one of you, and your continued support to keep the harmony in Imperia. A big thanks to the chosen of the fifty-sixth Purge, and we hope the empire’s fate resides within you. And finally, the biggest thanks to our three dashing presidents, the President Solev of the Jungle, President Elanuelo of the Snow, and President Schpood of the Desert. Tune in for our first look inside the world of the competitors, and exclusive interviews with this year’s Purge candidates in just a couple days!”
Saparata breaks his gaze on the smaller screen to see the people of Bruma clapping once more, waiting with their eyes on the stage as the soldiers moved up behind Saparata, ushered him with a firm arm towards the back of the stage to a rather official looking building Saparata only now registers the screen was hanging off the roof of.
The door before him opens, and puzzled by the mess he found himself in, he found he had no choice but to enter, Fluixon in tow far too quietly.
There isn’t any chance for words to be exchanged between Saparata and Fluixon before they’re being whisked away to separate rooms, at least two soldiers following each of them as if anticipating a struggle that did not surface. Saparata is suddenly in an icy room with a door opened to the wintry outside, but none came through to meet him. One of the uniformed steps beside him.
“You are allocated ten minutes to say your goodbyes to your family. From there, you will board the Competitor’s Train to be escorted to the Jungle Venue. Any personal belongings are prohibited to be taken with your person onto the train. Your ten minutes begins now.”
Saparata turns back to the ajar doorway in silence.
It only takes him three minutes to realize there would be no one coming to send him off. He may as well have been an outsider in this town, out of place in such a foreign world.
He wills himself to keep a hopeless gaze for a moment longer on the entrance, breeze blowing in and sending a chill along his skin.
Perhaps his family, his soft-eyed mother and stiff-lipped father existed in this universe, were at the back of the crowd and currently fighting their way through the current to see him in this dreary grey room in the five minutes he had left. He hasn’t seen them in years, not since their untimely deaths that left a young Saparata to pull himself up by his bootstraps and move to Luminara in search of opportunity.
The time ticked, and Saparata’s patience thinned. At the seven minute mark he tears his eyes away, pushes down the horrible feeling in his chest and asks to be taken to the train. The soldiers do not argue, faces unreadable under the masks they wore as Saparata was escorted back out and down the lengthy hallway in the center of the building, stomach turning.