James opened his eyes.

His head throbbed painfully as it had been doing rather often recently. His condition was not significantly improved by the fact that he appeared to be in a dark brick room, laying in a pile of straw.

James was not terribly surprised; he rarely was. He only felt the calming warmth of acceptance. His headache even subsided slightly. He lay in the straw for a few minutes and stared at the dust trickling from the wood planks of the ceiling.

He noticed with some interest that the sun was shining at noon, a celestial position it never took in the habitable parts of Gaea. The sky took on a much fuller, healthier blue color as well, and James realized with joy, the gravitational shackles of the planet had dissolved. His day continued to get better.

Encouraged to get up by his own lightness, James rolled off the pile of straw and stretched in the beauteous warmth of the sun. He was unfortunately confined, for the time being, in a small room composed mostly of limestone brick, with a tiny window striped with iron bars, and a wooden door, locked. It struck James that this sort of architecture was exceedingly rare, and he was momentarily confused. He then decided that he honestly didn't care and returned to cheerful contentedness.

A short time later, the door opened and revealed a huge, muscular man. His face, mangled and sun-bronzed, was unlike any James had ever seen. The eyes were wide, as if the man was permanently surprised, and his features skewed, imperfect. Despite his heavy musculature, the man was short, coming up only to James's shoulder.

"You," grunted the man, pointing at James. "Come with me."

James followed. His good mood was beginning to erode as he walked. The place was beginning to appear more and more like a prison. The corridor was flanked by doors identical to his own, each with its own barred window set beside it. A few of the cells held mean-looking men, equally bulky as the man he now followed. They glared through their windows at the passersby, sometimes sagging under terrifying wounds.

By the time he reached end of the corridor, James's happiness had boiled away. he found himself in a large room, made of the same limestone block. A large portcullis was set in the far wall, and the full brilliance of daylight shined through it. The short man turned to him and spoke.

"Your fight begins in half an hour. I would suggest you prepare yourself well. I hear Flamma is due to fight today."

"Excuse me?"

The man stared back at James with growing contempt. "Just put on your armor, pretty boy."

James looked at the pile of leather rags at his feet and began to strap them onto his body. He found it surprisingly intuitive where each vaguely oblong piece was meant to go, and he was ready in a remarkably short time. The man then gave him a bronze trident seven feet long, one that he had no business carrying. He hefted it with surprising ease. He was then given a net with stone weights attached to each corner.

"Are you ready to fight, Barbarus?"

"I... don't know," responded James, now completely out of his element.

"Then move," grunted the man, pushing him toward the portcullis. It was only now that James realized that the metal spires were grinding upward.

The sun was blindingly bright, and the sound that accompanied it was deafening. The roar of nearly a hundred thousand shouting voices was not one James was especially keen on hearing so soon after waking up. Even so, he marched forward, feeling the gravel beneath his sandals. Once he had reached the center of the arena, he raised his trident into the air. It felt like the right thing to do.

The gesture was met by a crescendo of shouting from the crowd. He couldn't tell whether they were rallying for him or against him. It didn't really make a difference.

The portcullis on the opposite side of the arena began to rise with the grinding of chains. Once it had opened completely, two massive warriors stepped into the sun and bellowed their challenge. They wore identical helmets, round and smooth and punctured by two tiny holes where the eyes were. The warriors were armed with a sword and a large shield, the latter of which held a symbol that looked like a wheel with ten spokes.

Far off in the arena, a horn sounded, starting the fight. James leapt toward his opponents as the two scattered in opposite directions, looking to surround him. He angled so that he faced the larger of the pair while keeping the other in his peripheral vision. Charging, he threw his net with remarkable force at the gladiator. The web tangled around the man's limbs and brought him down. The stones held him to the dirt as he struggled to get back up.

Having temporarily taken care of one opponent, James turned to the other. The gladiator was regarding him through the expressionless holes of his helmet, brandishing his sword and covering his torso with the curved wood of the shield. Having lost his net, James was forced to fight with only the trident, an ungainly weapon at best. He nestled it into the crook of his elbow to absorb the shock of impact and charged.

The gladiator was caught by surprise and could not leap out of the way in time. James smashed into him with pulverizing force, crushing the shield behind the points of the trident. The wheel symbol disappeared in a spray of splinters. The satisfying sound of shattering bone and muscle resounded through the sudden shocked silence of the stadium.

The gladiator staggered back as a wave of renewed applause roared from above. James shouted his triumph. He then turned back toward the other opponent. The net was in tatters at that point, cut in frantic swipes by its victim. The gladiator was now sawing at the last knot tying him down.

James gave him some time. He walked over slowly, displaying the bloodied trident to the adoring crowds, smirking slightly as he watched the expressionless helmet snap up to glance at him, like a frightened animal.

His sandals crunched in the gravel as he came to a stop in front of the gladiator. The exposed back of his opponent shone with sweat. The rope holding him in place was worn to a few frayed fibers. Only a few more strokes of the dagger were needed to free him.

The trident was surprisingly difficult to drive through the man's back. Its prongs got caught in the ribs and spine, but eventually broke through into the soft organs beneath. Black poured out.

The resulting uproar was air-shattering. James reveled in the noise.

He only noticed the notes of surprise and anger moments before the bronze dagger ripped through his side.

James turned to see the other gladiator, still on his feet and grasping his sword with his one remaining arm. The other arm hung limply alongside his body, red and pulpy. He lashed out once again, but James managed to dodge the blade.

The trident was still lodged in the slumped body, and James was unable to wrest it out from the mess of crushed bone and muscle. He lurched out of the way of yet another jab with the sword. The crowd above had begun to tire of watching two wounded men sway at each other, and shouts of distaste began to fill the coliseum.

James twisted and danced around the corpse, all the while gripping the trident in one hand and his gashed stomach with the other. He was eventually able to jerk the weapon out, but could not trust himself to let go of his wound. The trident swung wildly in his one free hand, weak and ungainly.

The same could be said for James's opponent. The gladiator was still losing blood through that mess of an arm, and was growing paler by the second. His life spilled soundlessly onto the sand and gravel, leaving a trail of large, blurry spots. His breath came in ragged gasps.

Steeling himself, James let go of the wound and clasped the trident with the bloodied hand. He glanced at the laceration as it renewed its weeping, and saw his vision narrowing into a slim tunnel, focused squarely on the limping gladiator. Once again, he charged.

The helmet, gleaming in the noonday sun, divulged no emotion as the spikes of trident punctured the ribs and sternum. It flung back, staring at that magnificent sky one last time. The weight of the newly made corpse pulled the trident out of James's hands.

The arena reverberated with the joyous, excited cheers of the masses, but James did not bask in it. He once again clutched the wound and limped toward the portcullis. It opened to accept him, revealing the dark confines within.

He was tended to with attentive care, and James was back in good condition in a remarkably short time. The short man threw a spear at his feet and muttered something about the crowds wanting more of him.

Feeling rejuvenated and ready to join the fray once more, James strode confidently into the sun. The arena was once again empty, the corpses carried away and the spilled blood covered up. James gripped his spear with both hands and waited.

The opposing portcullis opened once again. At first, nothing appeared from within it. A hush settled on the crowd, tense and expectant.

In the silence, James thought to look up at the spectators. The coliseum was much larger than he had initially thought. It stretched upward into the hazy distance, impossibly steep, like a cup, with him at the bottom. None of the seats were occupied. They were all filled with pale dust, pouring toward the arena below. On opposite sides of the stadium, an ornate throne sat in its own isolated complex, flanked by two golden statues. One a frog, the other a locust. In the throne was the only audience member. The figure was dark, consumingly black, filled with twinkling stars.

Still in shock from the sight, James hardly noticed the creature that crawled out of the opposing gate. A gasp of disbelief rippled through the nonexistent crowds. It was then that James saw the snake slithering toward him.

It was more of a rope on closer inspection, with no recognizable head. It ended in a spray of fibers, sprouting from the sinuous tube of its body. They waved languidly at him as the snake approached, rustling against the gravel.

James took a step back as he tightened his hold on the spear. His palms were sweating profusely, and it threatened to fall into the dust at any moment. The snake suddenly reared up, silently watching his trembling form. It lunged.

James dodged the dark blur and blindly stabbed with the spear, hoping to do some damage. The blade sank into the snake's flesh, satisfyingly deep, and stuck there. It was ripped from his hand. The snake rolled onto its side, snapping the spear in two.

He held his own for a few moments before he realized he had no chance. James ran toward the outside ring of the arena, toward the tall stone walls that contained him. They were obscured by torrents of dust. The snake rushed behind him, hissing. James stumbled at the base of the arena walls, among the piles of sand deposited there. He backed against the limestone wall, kicking dust uselessly at the approaching snake.

He felt something beneath his fingers. Hard. Plastic. A gun.

It was an older weapon, projectile-based, but still perfectly capable of doing harm. Without thinking, James pulled the automatic rifle from the sand and began to fire on the snake.

The fibers at the head of the rope exploded in a flurry of shredded twine. The snake reared in some obscene mockery of pain, exposing half its length to the lash of James's desperation. It jerked as the bullets deposited their lethal energy into its body.

When the snake fell, it had been reduced to tatters. It twitched on the arena floor before lying still. A silence filled the coliseum, and was quickly shattered by the uproar of a phantom crowd.

James lay gasping in the dust for a time, ignoring the sounds of jubilation above him. He clasped the gun tightly, and stared wide eyed at the still corpse, watching for movement. There was none.

Shakily, he stood. He appraised the walls of the coliseum, stared at the torrents of sand cascading down. His eyes eventually rested on the dome of perfect blue above, with the sun neatly framed in the center, glaring like the pupil of a celestial eye. He realized that he had never seen such a sky. His life on Earth had largely been confined to Lagos, which hadn't experienced an entirely clear day in all his thirty years, and he had only ever seen Gaea's sun as it threatened to dip below the horizon.

This observation struck him as baffling. Why should all these inexplicable things happen, all at the same moment? It didn't seem very likely to him. He was lost in speculation for a time, and once again failed to notice the portcullis rising. It regurgitated another indescribable monstrosity for James to fight, much to the delight of the crowd.

James eventually decided that all this was an illusion. It was obvious, in fact. He kicked himself for not noticing before. Someone must be messing with his chip.

He stood and glanced at the monster that charged toward him. He couldn't quite tell what it was supposed to be. Maybe a cross between a scorpion and a beating heart.

The process by which a VR chip was deactivated was simple. The chip was wired to various regions of the brain involved in language processing and emotion. It would turn off upon detecting especially intense feelings of anxiety, unless specifically instructed not to. Alternatively, the chip could understand direct mental commands. If he were unable to speak, James could deactivate it by simply wishing so. This he did, and the universe crumbled around him.

The soaring walls of the stadium crashed to the ground without noise, and the eldritch terror that pulsed and spat blood before him flickered and disappeared. The black figure was the last apparition to disassociate. It seemed to stare at him with curious interest as it faded into the dark ether.

James breathed heavily, clasping at the coarse sand beneath him. He had expected his eyes to begin sensing reality soon after the chip shut off. But there was nothing. He was still in the dark, still confused. It would be some time before the light returned.