The soft cascades of water trickling over Ray's bulging and scarred shoulders gently soothed the hammering of his heart and mind. All around his crouched form; flowing water, smooth rock, sparkling moss of all colors. No shapes or forms, every shape and form.
From that silent core, he wrestled and embraced with the relentless energies that surged outward; nestling his rent consciousness on that knife edge between calm and fury. Choosing neither. Choosing both.
The only sure grasp being on the impossible power bestowed upon him. How it crackled cold and painful beneath the flesh of his knuckles. Perfect.
At last the opportunity he'd agonizingly struggled with was--
"You look pretty goddamned calm for a corpse, Ray!"
With an angry pop his sanctuary wretched itself back into distant memory, being sordidly replaced by the cold metallic blues of the pit chamber and its deafening hum of the crowds howling above.
"You always know what to chirp out of that beak, don't you." Ray countered without opening his eyes or moving at all from the bench. He could picture Trosk pacing around in that stardust-silver business suit, clicking his neon-green beak while trying and failing to keep his wings from spontaneously flapping around in a panic.
"Excuse me for being worried, alright? Not like they're sending you out to not just die, but be eaten by that multi-limbed freak! Did you see what he did to Chell Furian in the last fight?! They're still peeling traces of him from the ceiling!"
Raymond sighed, opening his eyes to peer at Trosk looking as if he was trying to push himself through the solid wall of that corridor to escape his fate. His costume was an even worse agony than imagination could conjure. A nightmare parody of human style that appealed to no one but himself.
Trosk whirled around and crossed his twitching wings, leaning on the same wall "And even though I don't need to remind you, I'll do it anyway! Your ass dies, so does mine! Senator psychopath is just waiting to carve them all up Tetris!"
"Then I'll be careful. We studied Blood Lords before..."
"Yeah. And never killed any. No one has. Ever. It's like their whole thing. Even when our races teamed up like a pair of rented clowns, those atrocious degenerates still walked over everybody without a scratch!"
Even though what Trosk was blabbing about wasn't in the least bit helpful, Ray found it calming in an odd way. For a Lanwyn he was remarkably fluent in human language (even foregoing any translator pills), and seemed to genuinely enjoy and (cluelessly) adapt his cultures, however ridiculous and often offensive.
But putting all that aside, Ray had to focus on the task at hand.
"Then tonight--" He stood up, tensing and stretching every muscles in his body to its peak point. "--will be quite an interesting one."
Trosk's beak popped open for the inevitable sly remark, but the Fight Siren from the unseen blackness above them took its perfect chance to blare its groaning tone, rattling the walls and cracking the lone mirror in front of the bench.
"Ooooh we're dead. Just. Dead!" Trosk screeched over the siren, barely audible as Ray calmly strutted past him with a reassuring pat on his bony birdlike shoulder.
The half rusted bulky door at the end of the passage creaked upward when he stood before it, spewing out a blinding peal of golden light that traced noticeably hot on his completely bare body, save for his faded crimson trunks.
Trosk brought up the rear still rambling without end every reason they should turn tail and fly away. Not that Ray could even so. Not that he wanted to.
There really wasn't much to to ponder over. It was time to Fight.
To do what he adored.
Not just the fighting itself.
But the justice ripped from its shell using the fists, the body his masters had brutally grafted into form.
A cubed floatscreen zipped into his view from behind the sheen of light and took Raymond's side as he walked, barely staying afloat with its sputtering anti-grav motor. It's domed monitor blinked to life and displayed the Southern Fringe broadcast of the fight and it's muted commentators quickly drinking themselves into a stupor. What hope the sight gifted him.
"Welcome to your death, Raymond Terra! Mr Miracle! Lightweaver! On behalf of the Orion Network League, I've been programmed without choice or free will to officially oversee this BZZZZT! (most likely) futile attempt of victory against the many hands of your lucky opponent!"
The static-rent whine of the machine was even more shrill than Trosk, so Ray found it further relaxing.
"Get pissed!" His friend swatted the floatsphere away, pinging it off the wall only for it to immediately right itself without issue. "Like any of that is going to--!"
His prattle died in silence at the cacophonous, twisting maw of a roar that whipped the air aside when the three stepped out onto the walkway stretching out and connecting to the Arena itself.
The Disc of Life. Hallowed Death. Proving Ground of all Souls.
Every time his eyes fell upon it, he reveled in that charged excitement, how it made his blood sing! How it ripped apart his doubt! Fed upon and nourishing that one instant desire to win and KILL!
"THAT'S IT!" Ray screamed out in a cackling laugh, picking up the pace of his stride to sprinting towards that final gate into the Arena.
Trosk actually took flight and flapped rapidly to keep up on his right, screeching out over the din of noise. Behind him blurred the frenzied seas of a million different faces screaming for violence in their joy. Every inch of plasteel wall even to the sphered ceiling reserved for direct viewing from every filthy corner of the galaxy. Gods did their tentacled, multi-eyed jeering look disgusting.
"How in the bwack hell are you so confident about this! At least don't run to your death! RAY!"
Even burning with that impossible surge for combat, Raymond managed one grinning glance to assure his airborne friend and manager before turning back and giving every willing particle of his being to the fight...
"Relax you floating bastard. After all this time, I can finally stop holding back!"