Mahlon remembered violence, but he did not remember war.
The arena had been one thing, full of death, staining his hands and making him wholly unclean, but Four was an arena none of them could escape. The fighting seemed endless. Mahlon was sure there would be no victor. Gunfire riddled the air, clouding the sky, blocking the sun with smoke. As a result, the waters turned grey and murky. Fish died and bobbed on the surface. What little foliage remained died or fell barren. The earth was cold, but white-hot heat emanated from weapons, from wounds, from ships and bodies being burned.
Mahlon pulled the bandana higher up over his nose, trying to block out the smoke. From his right, there was friendly movement, a form inching closer to where he was tucked.
"Careful," Mahlon grunted, holding out a halting hand. "Wilder trap. Watch--" He kicked a rock forward, the weight of it triggering some sort of spring or wire, and gunfire rained down, riddling holes into the sand.
@merrymerielle
