3.
All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.


Matt Hayes no longer thinks about himself as Major. He no longer thinks about himself as Matt or Hayes either. He's simply ‘Tak'ai' now, the foreigner too afraid to fight. Blue is fear and his body is all black and blue now. They won't let him rest until he bleeds. He forces his opponents to push him up against the thick metal posts that hold up the awning just to get some reprieve.

He never thought he'd tire of a fight. He's been beaten beyond and inch of his life by one of the ‘information specialists' down in Colombia. He's had a goddamn hole put in his chest from an alien lizard. He's been stabbed, slit, broken, and battered and still come back for more. He's military and proud of it. Each wound is a symbol of a sacrifice made in blood for peace and justice and stability on his planet or for his planet. Each one meant something and he came back because he still had a job to do, because despite all the scars and breaks and nightmares, he still hadn't found a mark with enough meaning to make him feel complete. So he keeps searching. But now he knows that he won't find that here. Here the fights are pointless. And he's immune to the adrenaline rush now. Maybe when he stops fighting he'll go into withdrawal. If they ever let him stop . . .

He tells them that he's too weak to fight tonight. He tells them out of reflex because they'll never believe him. His opponents are other Hil'aka with ‘the madness.' They are so far gone that they have signed their lives over to caretakers. They have consigned themselves to violence because if the state got a hold of them, they know they would be executed.

And Matt did the same. He too, was cursed with ‘the madness,' consumed by war-lust, not because he ever enjoyed the sound of riffle fire, or the resounding crack of snapping someone or something's neck. He got addicted because that's what he's always done and he doesn't know how to do anything else.

Now, as he lies curled, bruised and hurting in a clean but practically empty cell, he knows that despite all the marches and the machismo, the reason he's here is fear: he was afraid to step outside of the box. He was afraid to be someone else, just as he was afraid to defy the captain's orders that time when he got infected by the insectoid hatchlings. He wasn't lying when he told Reed that he just wanted to do his job all those times when Reed wanted to play politics, the game Matt'll never understand. He just wants to do his job, even when now that job is meaningless.

"Tak'ai, today is important fight. People pay big money to see you, no?" This fights are underground but held in broad daylight. They take place in an open arena in the desert, away from the tributaries, easily policed. They're not exactly illegal, because as long as no damages are done, people's property is their property and Matt belongs to Raj'a.

"I can't, Raj'a." Really, he can't. He can barely move. His knuckles are bruised and sore and his right pinky has been sticking out at an odd angle for so long now that he doubts it will ever heal. He can't breath properly and the bruising on his right side doesn't fade. He hopes he hasn't damaged any organs, but he can tell by the pain in every breath that there are a few ribs floating around there somewhere. It hurts to talk and he can forget trying to smile. He only sleeps because of exhaustion, otherwise the aches would keep him up and sweating all night. "I'm sick. You need to let me heal."

"You are a funny one, Tak'ai. You beg me to let you fight even though you are a puny little male who is always white. And then you turn so blue. Why are you afraid, Tak'ai? You love to fight. You know it. I know it. And most importantly the customers know it. You are so very strange. But you know you are my favorite. Come now."

The door opens and Matt stagers out. He has no other choice. Raj'a is firm but gentle. They will push him and prod him but never so much as hit him to get him to fight. Once he's in the arena, though, all bets are off.

He didn't understand why ‘violence and sedition' was so heavily punished until he got in the arena for the first time. With the Mil'aka, it truly is warlust. It's a disease and those who have it will keep fighting and beating, bludgeoning and crushing each other with their great big bodies until the enforcers pull them apart.

Raj'a only keeps them from killing each other because he thinks having his assets die would be a waste of resources. He has a staff of doctors – the best in Mil'aka medicine. And, Matt supposes, if you are a Mil'aka with incurable violence, there is no better place to be. But to him it's hell. One man's paradise is another's purgatory, or something like that.

So he walks forward, wondering if this time truly will be his last, all the while knowing that there's nothing he can do about it. Raj'a is not a bad man. As far as food and accommodations go, he takes care of Matt's every need. One time, when Matt got a pretty serious hit to the head and was concussed and bleeding over everything, Raj'a stayed in the cell, just holding onto him and comforting him when he cried out nonsense. He even flashed a light blue the entire time, out of fear for his charge. Sometimes, Matt thinks that if things were different, they might have even been friends.

He steps into the arena, looking up at all the featureless faces, crystal clear and brilliant in the sun, waiting in silent anticipation. Those that are teetering on the brink come here. Like pedophiles hanging out in schoolyards, they come here so that they don't snap and do something someday. They must live their lust vicariously.

The sun is beating down on him. Today the fight must be staged in his advantage, because the awning is open and he is much more resilient to the desert than the Mil'aka, who lose water fast through their gelatinous skin.

He cannot tell from appearance, but from the way the stands are filled to the brim and the fact that the awning's open, he judges that it must be Sir'a, the farthest gone of all the Mil'aka. Matt can tell them apart only by their fighting style, and Sir'a fights like the essence of madness, unpredictably, but with such overwhelming strength that Matt finds it hard to get a single blow in against him.

Today, Sir'a is deep dark royal purple. He's angrier than Matt has ever seen before and ready to charge, which he does the second Matt enters the arena.

The first thrust is easily parried. Matt ducks out of the way, more agile than the thundering Mil'aka. He rolls to the side, despite the explosion of pain that causes in his chest, and manages to jam his hand firmly into the soft flesh of Sir'as back. The Mil'aka cries out in pain, flashing red just briefly, before the purple deepens even more. He throws Matt off with ease, sending him tumbling into the rough sand of the arena floor. Pain sears through his side and Matt knows that the damage he's not thinking about just got worse.

As Sir'a leans over him, he delivers a good kick to the midsection, the sharpened tips of his boots making a nice cut into the slick skin. Sir'a howls in pain and Matt struggles to his feet, stumbling forwards to land another blow to the head. But he is too dizzy from the pain in his side and the heat to notice one of Sir'as limb-like appendages coming up to meet him, throwing him back against one of the columns. Matt hears a sickening crunch, his vision blurring white with pain. He thinks the pain is in his left arm, but he can't really tell as it all fades to black.