S(l)ay Your Preyers #2

Part 1 

After every game of Slay your Preyers, there was a victory ceremony. Usually that meant the Predator was given their Preyer – dead or alive – to do whatever the Predator pleased with. When a Preyer won, it was a public opportunity to hand over the money and do more interviews to tide over interest until the next time that the games were on.

The last Preyer to win had been on a publicity circuit for six months after the games ended before they were finally allowed to slink away, dead-eyed and deflated, with their winnings.

Was that going to be them?

The Predator stepped up in front of them on the stage, with that big beautiful charming smile, and handed the protagonist their check. It was so big, and over the top and heavy that the protagonist’s exhausted body buckled under the weight of the card and its ludicrous figure. The Predator steadied them gently as the cameras flashed, blinding bright, and leaned in to the protagonist’s ear.

“You embarrassed me, little rabbit,” they whispered. “Someone’s going to pay for that.”

The protagonist saw the photos of that moment later, saw the grim nausea behind their own fixed and overwhelmed smile, and thought they looked like nothing so much as breakfast.

All the triumph of survival had already fizzled out.

***

The next year, when the games were once again on, their Predator got a second shot at the arena. That year it was made to look like an old-fashioned mental asylum. The protagonist suspected if the Predator failed to catch their assigned Preyer a second time that they would not be allowed in the arena again – Predators were not the type to root for the underdog. That time around though, the Predator obliterated their Preyer and the competition with such single-minded ferocity that even the reaction shots of other Predators in the audience included some shocked gasps.

The game makers were, of course, thrilled.

The protagonist stared numbly at the screen, and imagined themselves in the Preyer’s place, the Predator’s voice a saccharine horror against their ear. Gentle. Like they were really there to help as they hefted up a bone saw.

A week later, they received the Preyer’s heart in the mail, all ready to be hung and framed on a wall, stuffed in fancy gift bag sodden with blood. 

I’m going to make our games go down in the history, said the tag. What do you think the gamemakers will do with that?

The protagonist shivered, and wondered if there was anywhere in the world far enough for them to run.

***

The year after that, their Predator won again. The arena was a haunted house – hardly original, but always popular. That time, the Preyer wasn’t killed, but the hunt was brutal and creative nonetheless. Within three years, despite their short tenure, they were one of the highest-ranking career Predators in the business. The protagonist remained their only blip.

The game-makers typically left winning Preyer’s alone, for the most part, because they could hardly pretend there was anything to winning the game if they didn’t. A Preyer had to have something to hope for in order to actually put on a decent show. For the farce of it all not to bubble over so badly that potential Preyer’s revolted, slit their throats the second they were chosen, or worse. So, along with the possibility of a comfortable life, that was the unofficial promise that they’d never have to play in the games again if they won once.

But…

But it was sport, a game, and the protagonist could see the path that their Predator was laying out so very clearly, carved out in blood and bone. Maybe not next year, or even in five years, but one year their Predator might casually drop a hint to someone important in the game committee like ‘hey, for this anniversary of a game, wouldn’t it be fun to do a rematch between the two of us? A ‘greatest hits’ or ‘one that got away’ type thing? People would love that!’

And the Predators would love that, they’d eat up that stupid rematch, and whatever novelty or surprise the protagonist had possessed the first time wasn’t going to help them on the second. It still felt like some kind of miracle, like someone watching out for them, that they’d even found their music box at all in the entirety of the area! It wasn’t like that was any guarantee.

So.

So, the Preyer forced themselves to return to the game makers first, and suggest a plan of their own.

***

“Mentoring, little rabbit?” The predator slung an arm around their shoulders. “I have to say, I’ve never heard of a career Preyer before.” Their arm squeezed, just a fraction too tight. “But you’re a slippery one, aren’t you? Very clever. You do love to foil my plans.”

The protagonist forced themselves not to tense, but couldn’t stop their breath from catching. They hadn’t even heard the Predator come close, hadn’t heard until they were already ensnared in the deadly trap of their embrace.

“You had plans?” They kept their voice innocent, as if innocence actually mattered. “I thought you’d be busy with your latest press tour, hyping up the crowd for the today’s preying, if that’s what you mean. Didn't expect to see you here.”

“Mm. Keeping track of me, are you? I'm flattered.”

The protagonist mouth pressed thin. They didn’t want to watch the Predator, particularly, but it was also almost impossible not to. It was compulsively awful. It was like glancing every few seconds at a big spider lurking in the corner of the room; it was even worse not knowing where it was.

The Predator chuckled, and released them. When the protagonist glanced over, helplessly, there was no laughter in the Predator’s eyes. Nothing.

“Keep up this mentoring lark up, little rabbit,” the Predator said, oh so casual, “and I won’t be the only thing to watch out for. Everyone will want a bite out of you.”

The protagonist snorted, before they could stop themselves.
“I’m a Preyer. Everyone wants a bite out of us anyway.”

The Predator fell silent for a moment, at that, head tilting as they examined them and for an odd moment the protagonist thought the Predator might see them as something other than Prey, something to be toyed with, a sport more than a person.

Then, “you really are delicious,” the Predator said, voice dark. “Just divine.”

The protagonist turned their gaze back to the screen, feeling nauseous. They didn’t have much in the way of family or friends – not anymore – but watching a preying still tugged at some primal, childhood dread. Even when they knew, now, that it wasn’t going to be their name called. Not unless the Predator had talked the game-makers around. Was that why they were there? Was that why—

The first name wasn’t theirs.

The protagonist exhaled a breath. “We both know you wouldn’t let someone else have a bite out of me. Would you?”

They felt the Predator’s eyes on them.

“No,” the Predator said. “Does that comfort you, little rabbit?”

The protagonist considered saying ‘yes’, just on the off-chance that it might make the Predator deeply uncomfortable, but instead they found themselves scoffing, shooting the Predator a long hard look.

The Predator grinned back; the menacing thing more genuine than their usual.

The second name was called.

They stood side by side, watching.

“I assume they intend to announce you as one of the contenders again,” the protagonist said, holding their voice steady. “At least until another of your kind manages to seize the crown off you by beating you.”

“That would be a reasonable assumption,” the Predator said. “Do you think you’ll be able to save them from me?”

“I saved myself.”

“You were my first.”

The protagonist swallowed, and hated that the Predator no doubt heard their traitorous heart pick up. They dropped their hands in their pockets, fingers curling around their small vintage music system for protection. The earbuds trailed out like guts. Still, there was nothing to hide behind. The only thing keeping the Predator from attacking then and there was reputation; the strange honour code that meant Predator’s didn’t go around outright slaughtering the protagonist’s kind outside of games.

Maybe that was the kindness the horrible things were originally meant for. Make it a sport instead of just another day. The protagonist couldn’t quite muster enough in themselves to feel grateful for that possibility thought.

The third name was called; the initial preying at its end, a whirlwind of final farewells and desperate bids for life to follow.

The protagonist remembered their own time. The loneliness of it, the warring desires to survive and resign because maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so much. The initial moments were almost the worse, when it was just the numb shock of it, and there wasn’t enough data yet on the arena to plan.

“But no, actually,” the Predator said.

It tugged the protagonist’s thoughts off the screen, back to them, brow furrowed even as relief flooded them. Defeating the Predator again, stoking their ire and their obsession more, was not something to look forward to. It was not cathartic, even if they should win one more time, and get the Predator’s bloody track record off the board. They may have been a particularly vicious monster, they may have been the protagonist’s monster, but they were still one of so many monsters.

Stopping their Predator wouldn’t stop the games.

“No?” they managed.

“No.” The Predator’s attention made at least a show of tracking the figures on the screen until they were out of sight, even if the protagonist knew that every other sense was locked in on them. It was there in the small curl of the Predator’s lips, the way they rocked on their feet with a hint of childlike excitement. Performance was for the audience, after all, and the menacing grin was gone. “I’m mentoring.”

The protagonist’s body went abruptly cold. If they’d been holding a physical weapon, a shield, anything, it would have fallen slack from their nerveless fingers.

“…You’re mentoring.”

They both turned to face each other, properly, and the protagonist’s brain flashed dizzyingly to the arena.

The Predator affected a shrug. “If the Preyers’ get a mentor, the game committee figured it only made sense that one be available to support the other contenders as well.”

As if anything in the games was fair. As if Predators needed help. The protagonist’s ears rang.

The Predator hummed, softly, just loud enough for the protagonist to hear; the funeral march from their first game.

“Such a slippery rabbit.” The Predator reeled them in, twirled them, dipped them in the silent corridor in a whirl of motion…and then let go. The protagonist hit the ground hard and winded. “Don’t worry.” The Predator leaned over them, and brushed the hair out of their face. “I’ll make sure they all die screaming your name.”

Then they walked away.

But they both knew it wasn’t over.

The next round of games had only just begun.