The man woke up in a cell. He was surrounded by cement and steel and two armed guards watched him. He woke up screaming. His eyes adjusted slowly to the weak sunlight, filtered in through bulletproof windows.

Through the window, he saw only red sand and knew he was in the desert. The guards wore bulletproof vests and carried military-grade weaponry. He had no idea who they were for, or who the guards worked for. "Where am I?" He croaked, his throat a dry rasp.

One of the guards heard him and stiffened. The man brought his assault rifle up. "Stay on the bed, competitor. I am authorized to use deadly force if you do not comply." He almost sounded nervous. "Stay. Down."

"No, please! I just-" The man reached a hand towards the bars.

There was an explosive noise and the prisoner turned to see a smoking bullet hole in the cell wall, less than half a foot from his left eye.

"I will not miss again. Stay down, competitor." The guard warned, his muzzle still smoldering. His partner had not even flinched.

There was an eerie whine at the end of the room, the sound of ancient hinges creaking open painfully. The biggest man that he'd ever seen walked in, accompanied by two more armed guards. The giant had an ebony crew cut and icy blue eyes. "Put down your gun." The big man rumbled lazily. "Open the door."

The guard who had fired looked more likely to take another shot than to obey the newcomer. The giant merely waited for the guard's eventual compliance. The big man only had a knife on his belt, as compared to the guards. But his size seemed to imply that he only needed the knife.

"Where am I going?" The prisoner asked as the guard unlocked his cell.

"It's show time." The giant said by way of answer. The guards flanked them both as they exited the cell room and began walking down a long metal hallway.

"Why did he call me a 'competitor'?"

"Because that's what you are." The man didn't even look him in the eye as they walked.

"But what does it mean?"

One of the guards finally lost his patience. "Shut the hell up, freak! God, I hope you lose."

"Lose what?"

"The game." The giant rumbled as they reached a massive door, like the drawbridges of old. "Try not to die, rookie. I always bet on the newbies, and I hate losing money." He smiled nastily, raising a fist the size of a frozen turkey and slamming it against the door. Once, twice, three times the big man knocked.

Finally, the door swung open slowly, leading to what the big man called 'the game'. It just looked like more desert. He felt a hand on his shoulder pushing him forward, and a slight breeze as the door slammed behind him. There was no going back now.

The prisoner squinted. The harsh glare of unfiltered sunlight was far brighter than his cell had been. And he still had no clue where he was.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" An announcer's voice suddenly filled the place. "Welcome to Colosseum 48, the Southwest's largest interspecies arena!" His jovial tone was almost completely at odds with what he was saying. The announcer's voice took on a nasty edge as he asked the crowd, "Are you ready to see blood?"

The crowd cheered an affirmative. The prisoner felt sick. He was in a mutant fighting pit. Looking up, they were closed in by a massive dome made of some kind of thick wire. A box was mounted behind the bleachers, overlooking everything. Several other dazed people were strewn about the arena, in varying stages of confusion. None of them had any idea what they were supposed to do. Fortunately, the announcer told them. "Welcome as well to our competitors, whether you came here willingly or not. Today, you will have a maximum of five hours, and use of our various weapons to do battle! Like the gladiators of old. The winner, at the end of that time, will receive half of all profits made in this bout, and the chance to move on through our ranks. The losers, of course, will be dead." The announcer chuckled darkly. "Happy hunting, champions! Your time. Starts. Now!" An airhorn blast accompanied his words.

The competitors stood there for a second, stunned. One man took off running, and then all hell broke loose. The prisoner scrambled through the sand, trying desperately to find a weapon first.

He slipped and caught a mouthful of sand. He spat it out and clawed his way up, the sand still causing him to skate rather than run. The others were having a similar time, he saw, except for one man who now had what looked like a kind of sword or machete. He vowed to stay well away from that man until there was no other option.

There was a blast of fire suddenly. The prisoner swore, the fire bringing something back from his dazed memory. A woman's voice, screaming. Derek! He winced. He kept running, away from the source of the fire.

Something metal glinted in the sand and he pounced. It was a knife with a wicked triangular point and a flat, deadly edge. He grabbed it and looked up. The fights were starting to happen, clashes all around the field. He picked a target, a scrawny woman who looked like an easy target and started running.

She didn't even see him coming. When he brought the blade down on her, then she finally turned. Her mouth opened in a wide 'O' as he drew the blade from her neck. The young woman collapsed, her blood staining the sand red.

"Well, well, folks. First blood, coming from the underdog. A healer, killing." The announcer chuckled. "Imagine that."

And suddenly everything was clear. Where he was, why he was here, even the things he should have known, like his own name. Dr. Derek Andor. He was... a surgeon. A healer. And he had signed up for this. Even knowing why he had, the thought was still ludicrous. Signing up for these glorified dogfights was a death sentence. But again he realized: There was no turning back.

The others paused their fights, staring at the one had managed to kill. Derek panted for breath, resisting the urge to look down at the blood on his hands. The others looked at him curiously. Then as a group, they lunged.

He ran for his life in the most literal sense. Knife still in his hand, he dashed through the sand kicking it up behind him. Derek felt them behind him still, a unified pack with one goal: His death.

There was a sound like sails flapping. and then a steady rhythm. War drums, Derek thought. Then he realized: Wings.

The man with the machete landed in front of him, large tawny wings extended. He grinned cruelly. "Not a bad start. But I've come too far in these competitions to let a rookie screw my chances." He raised the weapon. "Good luck in the afterlife, Healer." He brought down the blade.

Derek dodged it and brought up his own blade, piercing the flier under his sternum, piercing his heart and lungs. The man dropped to the ground, coughing up blood. The rest of the group waited patiently to kill him, to strike back.

Derek wheeled around. "Who's next?" He asked hoarsely. He sounded braver than he felt. "Because it sure as hell ain't me." He looked at them all in turn. "Eh? Who is it? Which one of you sorry, good-for-nothing, mutant sons of b****es wants nexty?" He screamed defiantly. Then he lunged impatiently.

They jumped on him. He felt their bodies, their weapons burying him in an ugly dog pile. Steel and sweat covered his whole body. They brought him down, and he sank into darkness for a final time. His wife... His wife would die not knowing where he went. His family would not mourn him. No one would know who he was. 

With a roar, Derek threw them off of him. The ones closest to him, he stabbed to death. The ones farther away, he took his time with. When it was their turn, he snapped each neck in turn, quickly and viciously. He rose from the last body, his clothes and skin stained with blood. The announcer's voice was hideously gleeful as he proclaimed, "The victor! Derek Andor!" 

The door opened again. The giant was waiting, with an outstretched hand. Derek made his way to the door, and the giant man grinned. "My name's Goliath. Welcome to Championship.