Chapter Text
It was a poorly hidden secret.
It was a fight club made of stolen soldiers, a scene so gut-wrenching that some of even the twisted crooks of the underworld had to turn away. It was a gladiator ring coloured in so much red that even the Romans would be impressed. Many had attempted to take it down, from inside and out. However, when some of the cruellest cartel members and mafia bosses owned the business in a nausea-inducing deal - it was difficult to even step foot in the place without being shot on the spot.
Many soldiers had been presumed dead - killed, or missing in action. Their condolence forms had been sent to loved ones with nothing more than a robotic apology and a poor imitation of comfort in the form of the Army’s care program. They would send money to mothers who would collapse onto the floors in tears; fathers would be offered funded therapy, which they would stare blankly throughout. Siblings would be left to tell trembling stories of blood lost in brutal, avoidable warfare.
However, unbeknownst to most of the world, these soldiers were engaged in a fight for survival. They would be faced against their brothers and sisters in arms. Some knew each other, but many spoke different languages and had long since given up babbling pleas of release.
Yet no matter where they came from, there was always an understanding in their eyes as they readied themselves against a fellow soldier.
‘One of us will die; I won’t let it be me.’
The fights never lasted particularly long unless one of the ‘top dogs’ threw in some weaponry or drugs to make it an enjoyable viewing experience. Many soldiers fighting were malnourished, beaten and weak from sleep deprivation. Those on a kill streak often lived a better life than their comrades - a blessing and a curse. They would have a private cell, be fed scraps somewhat regularly, and be beaten just that little less than their counterpart. However, with every ‘perk’ in that lifestyle came an ultimate downfall.
Criminal leaders would gaze down upon the soldier that was willing to kill their comrades to live in a hopeless existence. They would tilt their heads, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed in contemplation. Indeed, when faced with that life, it would make sense that you would reach out and grasp at the hand that would offer a way out. Even if it meant joining the side they were trained to fight against, even if it meant being branded irreversibly and shunned from ever living some semblance of a normal life.
Many took that offer. Those left behind watched with distraught eyes as their comrade was purchased and as they turned their backs on what they knew. Childhood friends, captured together, would end up in a scene so tragic even Shakespeare would tremble. One's blood would stain the other's hands, their eyes gone cold from the brutal hell they had to endure just to get out of that Hell and live a life they had sworn to fight against.
The soldiers were free to deny these opportunities but were not free of the repercussions. They would be isolated, starved, and set against the freshly kidnapped. It was a death trap. If you denied the criminal, you accepted your death. Their loyalty snatched that last glimpse of freedom away from them. The captors didn’t like loyalty. They punished it. In their world, it was kill or be killed. Die or live. You earned no favours by being kind. That last bit of food could be the difference between living or dying in your next fight. That piece of clothing could be the difference between freezing to death or living to make it to the morning.
Yet, despite all odds, there was one soldier who prevailed.
Who had killed yet never been killed. He was the favourite of the leader of this ring. This soldier alone had collected so much blood under his fingernails, death under his belt, and money under his master that he was granted the life of a decorated gladiator. He had his own tattered cot, somewhat regular meals, and was free from the touch of everyone but his Owner. The nickname came whispered from his line of opponents. It came from the shadows on the walls that wailed in despair. It came from a victorious man who tilted his captured soldier’s head up with a cruel sneer and donned his head in a balaclava that would add to his stomach-dropping appearance.
‘Ghost.’
The only soldier captured who had survived the Gladiator ring.