The transport vessel hums with a strange energy that sets my teeth on edge. Not the usual facility power systems but something deeper, more alien. Through the viewports, I watch our approach to what they call Central Arena.
"Holy shit," Eli whispers beside me, gravity field wobbling momentarily with his shock. "That's a fucking planet."
He's not wrong. Central Arena isn't just another facility, it's an entire artificial world hanging in space. Its surface shifts visibly even from orbit, landscapes transforming from forests to deserts to frozen wastelands in real-time. Massive viewing platforms hover above the atmosphere like metal moons, their undersides dotted with observation ports where I imagine countless alien spectators watch the combat below.
"Artificial construct with approximate diameter of 1,200 kilometers," Desta reports, eyes flickering with code patterns as she attempts to process information. "Environmental manipulation systems operating at quantum level for instantaneous terrain reconfiguration. Designed specifically for multi-species combat assessment."
"In normal human speak: they built a whole damn planet just to watch us fight," Ember translates, flames dancing nervously around her fingertips. "These aliens are seriously fucked up."
The transport's interior speakers activate with a sound that's not quite human. "Terminal approach sequence initiated. Prepare for atmospheric entry and transfer hub docking."
I feel the ship shudder as we pierce the outer atmosphere. The viewports briefly flash with superheated plasma before clearing to reveal the surface rushing up to meet us. The scale becomes more apparent as we descend, entire mountain ranges form and collapse in the distance, oceans drain and refill in minutes, all part of the constantly shifting combat zones.
Our transport docks with clinical precision at a massive hub structure that rises like a metal spire from the surface. The alien voice returns, each syllable just slightly off from normal human speech patterns.
"Welcome to Central Arena. Team Exodus transfer protocols complete. Proceed to preparation sector for assessment and match allocation."
The docking tube extends with a metallic hiss, and we gather our minimal possessions. None of us speaks as we exit the transport. The air in Central Arena carries a different quality, cleaner, sharper, almost artificially perfect.
A tall, humanoid figure with blue-tinted skin and eyes that reflect light like mirrors waits at the end of the tube. Not human, but close enough in shape to be unsettling.
"Team Exodus," it says, voice modulating strangely in its throat. "I am Liaison Threllix. Follow for preparation assignment."
We follow Threllix through corridors that dwarf the facility we left behind. Everything here is larger, more advanced, built to accommodate multiple species of varying sizes. We pass massive insectoid creatures with metallic exoskeletons, serpentine beings that slither alongside floating orbs, and other forms so alien I can't even process what I'm seeing.
"Each competitor group maintains assigned quarters within Central Arena," Threllix explains without turning. "Team Exodus will occupy Human Sector 7, previously held by Team Dominion before their advancement failure."
“Wait, aren’t we the first team to make it here?” I ask, feeling confused.
Threllix's head rotates a full 180 degrees to look at me without breaking stride. "For your facility, yes. Not across all facilities."
Other facilities? Just how many people have the aliens abducted?
As we continue down the corridor, I notice even more humans. Not competitors like us, but Nulls, dozens of them, moving efficiently through the facility in maintenance uniforms. Their expressions are blank, focused entirely on their tasks, not even glancing our way as we pass.
"There are a lot of Nulls here," I observe, watching a group of them disassemble a complex piece of machinery with practiced precision.
"Central Arena maintains optimal operational parameters through efficient labor distribution," Threllix responds. "Human Nulls demonstrate particular aptitude for maintenance functions within specified parameters. Current complement: 4,327 units."
"Units," Ember mutters, flames flaring momentarily around her hair. "Fucking wonderful."
We reach a massive chamber lined with preparation pods, each designed for different physiologies. Threllix directs us to a section marked with the now-familiar human silhouette.
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Before we can even set down our things, multiple screens activate throughout our assigned area. Two distinct notification panels illuminate with pulsing red text:
---
SOLO COMBAT ALLOCATED
Asset: KINETIC (Human Facility-005 Transfer)
Opponent: CRUSHER (Dornian Enhancement Program)
Combat Time: 0600 Hours Tomorrow
Arena Sector: Adaptive Plains
Classification: B-Rank Trial Match
---
TEAM COMBAT ALLOCATED
Team: EXODUS (Human Facility-005 Transfer)
Opponent: BRUTE FORCE (Dornian Collective)
Combat Time: 1200 Hours Tomorrow
Arena Sector: Urban Ruins
Classification: Initial Assessment Engagement
---
"Back-to-back matches?" I look between the screens, confirmation of what we feared. "Six hours between solo and team combat?"
"Central Arena prioritizes efficient assessment protocols," Threllix explains, those mirror eyes revealing nothing. "Transfer assets undergo accelerated evaluation to determine appropriate competition tier placement."
"They're testing us," Ember says, flames intensifying around her hair. "Seeing if we break under pressure right out of the gate."
Desta approaches one of the system terminals, eyes flashing with code as she attempts to interface. After several seconds, her expression shifts to something I've rarely seen from her, frustration.
"System access denied," she reports, code patterns stuttering behind her eyes. "Central Arena utilizes quantum encryption protocols beyond my current interface capabilities. Limited information retrieval possible, but system manipulation restricted by multiple security layers."
"That's going to be a problem," I mutter. Desta's system access had been a key advantage in our previous matches, providing tactical information and environmental control that often tipped the balance.
"Information regarding opponents accessible through approved channels," Threllix notes, gesturing to a separate terminal. "Combat assessment data provided within standard parameters."
Eli activates the terminal, bringing up information on my solo opponent and our team opponents. "Dornians," he reads aloud. "Physically enhanced humanoids with... holy shit, these guys are basically living tanks. Enhanced muscular density, reinforced skeletal structure, basically brute force fighters."
I study the images on the screen, massive, gray-skinned beings with bulging muscles and bony protrusions. They look like someone tried to cross a rhinoceros with a human weightlifter. Not subtle, but definitely dangerous.
"B-Rank opponent for solo match suggests manageable challenge," Desta observes. "Team opponents utilize straightforward physical enhancement without complex ability integration. Initial assessment appears calibrated for baseline measurement rather than maximum challenge."
"In other words, they're starting us off with the simple stuff," Ember translates. "Seeing how we handle direct physical threats before throwing the weird shit at us."
Threllix makes a strange clicking sound that reverberates in his throat, something like an alien version of a chuckle. Those mirror-like eyes reflect our faces in distorted patterns as he regards us.
"Surface assessment based on limited data often proves... incomplete," he says, the words carrying an unsettling undercurrent. "Central Arena matches are curated with specific evaluation parameters that transcend obvious physical attributes. The Dornian Collective has eliminated three advancement-qualified teams this cycle alone."
Ember's flames flare with renewed concern. "So they're not just dumb brutes."
Threllix's head tilts at an impossible angle. "Initial matches determine adaptation potential for transferred assets. Performance metrics establish subsequent combat allocation parameters." The alien straightens with unnatural fluidity. "Rest period recommended before combat engagement. Preparation facilities available for tactical analysis and enhancement optimization."
As Threllix leaves us to settle in, I move to the viewport that shows the constantly shifting surface of this artificial world. Somewhere out there are the adaptive plains where I'll fight tomorrow, and the urban ruins where Team Exodus will face our first real test.
"We knew it would be different," I tell them, watching a forest morph into a desert before my eyes. "We just didn't know how different."
"Adaptation represents primary survival metric in evolutionary assessment," Desta observes, her voice carrying unusual emotion beneath the clinical analysis. "Team Exodus has demonstrated exceptional adaptation capability."
"In normal human speak: we'll figure this shit out like we always do," Ember translates, flames steadying around her hair as determination replaces shock.
I turn from the viewport to face my team. "Let's get to work. Desta, see what information you can extract without triggering security protocols. Ember, Eli, review everything we can access about our opponents and combat zones. I need to understand what I'm facing with Crusher before my solo match."
As Team Exodus settles into preparation mode, I feel the weight of tomorrow's challenges. This artificial world represents a quantum leap beyond the facility we conquered. The beings that built it aren't just studying enhanced humans, they're pitting multiple species against each other in ever-escalating tests.
Five victories to freedom. We're starting from zero again, but on a playing field designed by minds whose goals we barely comprehend.
The freedom pathway just got a hell of a lot longer, but Team Exodus didn't come this far to turn back now.
