Beyond the Limit (DC)

Nimokar lunged forward, sword slashing horizontally.

Joseph rolled beneath it, grabbing a handful of arena sand and flinging it into the Branx's eyes.

Nimokar roared, blinded.

Joseph seized the opening, slamming his knee into the warrior's gut. It barely staggered, but it was enough—Joseph spun behind it, grabbing the Branx's sword arm and twisting with all his might.

Nothing happened.

Nimokar lifted his arm with Joseph attached, and with its other three arms, it lashed out, catching Joseph's shoulder and sending him flying into the arena wall.

Joseph hit the ground, gasping. His body screamed in protest.

The Branx warrior hit like a truck. Its reach was bigger. Its durability was better. Joseph couldn't see a way to win, especially with no weapon.

Then—something stirred.

A surge of foreign energy.

Not Nova. Not the Speed Force. Something else.

It coursed through his veins—hot, electric, overwhelming.

His injuries were healed. Strength flooded his muscles.

Joseph got to his feet—faster than before.

Nimokar charged again, but this time—Joseph met him head-on.

Their fists collided, sending a shockwave that scattered the sand around them.

The Branx stumbled back.

Joseph didn't.

He moved, faster than before, slipping past the Branx's defenses. A fist to the ribs. An elbow to the throat. A tug on the sword followed by a kick to the knee, buckling its leg.

The Branx collapsed.

Joseph stood over his opponent, sword in hand.

The crowd erupted.

Joseph couldn't make out all the languages, but what he understood sent chills down his spine.

"KILL HIM!"

L-Ron's voice oozed with glee.

"Oh dear! It seems our Homo sapien is hesitating! Poor, poor thing—does it not understand the murder-ism of our beloved arena? If it does not kill, it will be the one to die!"

Joseph's grip tightened.

He felt sick.

He had never killed before, even though he'd been tempted to many times before.

But he wasn't going to die here.

Not as entertainment. Not on a faraway planet where no one would even remember his name.

He raised the sword.

A clean cut.

The Branx warrior's head hit the floor.

The arena shook with cheers.

"EXCELLENT! What a delightful display of execution-ism! Our Homo sapien proves itself worthy of another round!"

Joseph's hands shook.

The shackles around his wrists clicked together.

He wasn't free.

Just bought more time.

He clenched his jaw.

No matter what it took—he was getting out of here.

**

Joseph had been escorted back to the cells from which he awoke.

When he was initially roused, he hadn't had much time to look around, still groggy and confused, his mind clouded by whatever the Gordanians had used to sedate him. The cold, metallic atmosphere of the facility had barely registered as he was forced out into the blinding arena.

Now, however, he had time. Time to notice.

Hundreds of captives, beings of various alien races, each confined within sterile, high-tech cells about ten feet by ten feet. The walls shimmered faintly with some kind of energy field, ensuring that none could escape. The cells were uniform, each containing a simple metallic slab for a bed and a structure resembling a toilet and a shower combined. Minimal accommodations for beings expected to kill or be killed.

Joseph was shoved forward—rather forcefully—by the same Gordanian guard who had kicked him into the arena.

He stumbled but caught himself before hitting the ground. He turned, glaring at the reptilian brute, his hands twitching at his sides. For a moment, he considered retaliating, lashing out. But the moment passed.

What would be the point?

Anger flared, then faded. Then came the despair. The hopelessness.

Sleep eluded Joseph that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Branx warrior's decapitated head, those lifeless eyes burning into him, judging him.

He had killed. And the worst part? He would have to do it again.