The roar of the crowd.

The echo against the walls of the stadium.

The roar in his aural sensors. Which was which, again?

Oh, wait, he was also being pounded into the dust of the floor, too, wasn't he. That should have been a clue.

Finally, the pain stopped increasing. "Come on, piddler! Get up! This isn't any fun, your way!"

This isn't any fun your way, either, came the unspoken rejoinder. I'm a lot braver in my mind, he knew. But wasn't that the point? Develop some courage? Otherwise, why was he subjecting himself to this?

His opponent picked him up. "The crowd only likes a one sided fight if they hate one side, lightweight. They might start feeling sorry for you. And hating me."

For once, he was able to speak. "Then . . . you could lose . . ."

He was thrown against the wall for his trouble. Although this was an intriguing tactic, it obviously wasn't working. He would have to try to put up some kind of fight, and soon. Or he would be bludgeoned to death.

So when his opponent came by to scoop him up, he grabbed at his arms and tried to . . . twist, or wind them or something. He didn't know. He wasn't a fighter.

Apparently, it was a mistake. His grip wasn't strong enough, or else the paint on his opponent's arms was oil-based, because his hands just slipped. He was thrown again. He hit the floor, slid several body-lengths, and then stopped.

If I could just get a chance to . . . think! he thought, but by then, his opponent had grabbed him again, and had him in a fierce hold. He tried to punch and kick his way free, but it was just no use. He wasn't a fighter. This had been a mistake. There were less painful ways to get killed . . .

Suddenly, he fell to the floor, barely on top of his opponent. Glancing around for an explanation of the strange reprieve, he noticed something glowing and wet in his hand. As he focused on it, the glowing sputtered and stopped, and he realized what it was.

An optic sensor.

Euagh.

He dropped it and wiped the fluid off on his thigh.

And he realized the stadium had gone deathly silent. Uh-oh.

He looked around the stadium again. Everyone was staring at him in horror. Except his opponent. He was lying on the ground, clutching his head, covering the wound, writhing in pain, obviously too injured to make a sound.

And now he felt a different kind of fear. "Oh, wow, I'm sorry. Here's your optic back." He bent down to retrieve it, but the goop on his thigh had slid down his leg and as he knelt to stabilize himself, he slipped, and fell, and . . . and . . . and . . .

Uragh.

Crushed it. Crushed it flat. Crushed it so that the rest of the refractive fluid gooshed out and covered his torso so that he slid around on the dusty floor of the stadium a bit more before the guards came and dragged the two of them away.

His opponent was taken to the repair bay. This was probably the most serious non-life-threatening injury they had ever dealt with.

"You're, uh, 'Bludgeon'?"

Bludgeon had been taken to the arena's manager. "I thought . . . it sounded scary."

"Well, I've got to tell you, I hope I never see you around here again."

Bludgeon hung his head in shame.

"I mean, you showed some spirit, but the end result . . ." He didn't need to say anything. Bludgeon had felt it himself. "Listen, this arena fighting, it's not just some fling. Robots don't do this for fun. Sure, the crowds love it, they can't ever get enough--'cept in Iacon, I guess, they say they're closing 'em all down over there. But what the smelt, they're all crazy in Iacon anyway. My point is, pit fighting isn't just entertainment. Fighters train and train and practice and train some more, do you get it?"

Bludgeon's head, hung in shame, barely nodded, but it nodded.

"Look, I know it's a lot of energon to enter, but you lost your first fight. There's no refunds."

Bludgeon froze. Refunds? What kind of robot does he think I am?

"My point is, you got that much 'gon, you want results, right? Well, if you've got half that much left, I know someone, maybe could help you."

. . . Oh. "A . . . trainer?"

"That's right. You'll get beaten into shape for the regional/semi-regional amateur pits. Maybe with this help, and some experience, you'll make more of a show of it next time?"

And with that, and the contact information, Bludgeon left with a little hope.

He got washed up first, of course, and collected the energon. And then he went searching for "Beat and Pound's How-To Pummel Training Hall."

It was glitzy. It was flashy. It was loud. It was the perfect place to begin learning how to fight in the pits.

Beat and Pound apparently rarely showed up on the training floor anymore, preferring to give advanced private lessons to truly exceptional students, the ones they felt were destined for the state games try-outs.

Instead, Bludgeon was "pit-trained," grouped with other beginners, and taught very basic hand-to-hand combat techniques, simple holds, and also what would get the crowd riled up.

Mostly, it was how to get the crowd riled up.

How to seem weak at the beginning so the crowd's sympathy's lay with you.

How to make seemingly impossible moves so that the crowd thought you were more impressive than you really were.

How to take your cues from the crowd at dramatic moments, so they could live vicariously through you.

Others.

In the end, Bludgeon couldn't take it. "What GOOD is this stuff in a FIGHT?"

After that outburst, he was relegated to the back of the pack.

And so he toiled in obscurity for six quarteces, silently reverse-engineering what few actual combat techniques he learned, alone in figuring out the meaning behind them, and where to go from there, until the time came for one-on-one practices.

"State your pit names, bow to your opponent, and . . . begin!" commanded the trainers overseeing the event.

"Banzaitron!"

"Uh, buh--Bludgeon?"

They bowed.

They began.

Banzaitron was fast. Banzaitron was agile. Banzaitron was actually pretty skilled, and showed real promise.

Bludgeon . . . Bludgeon was angry.

The humiliation of that first pit fight. Being marginalized in training. And every indignation ever suffered in his entire life erupted.

Bludgeon won. Bludgeon didn't do any of the stupid tricks to win the crowd, and yet, still, they cheered his victory.

And it felt good. Not just the cheers. The triumph.

And Beat and Pound took notice.

But they weren't happy.

"Look, uh, 'Bludgeon' is it? Bludgeon, we've got a formula."

"We train up guys who'll be better than average in the pits."

"We get them to the point that they're international! Maybe even global!"

"So that they're famous, you see. Maybe not clear champions, but they've got name recognition."

"And their moves are recognizable, too."

"And then, they sponsor us!"

"And they say, 'I learned these techniques from Beat and Pound! Their How-To Pummel Training Course turned me from a 30cc loser to a 230 cc winner!' Others hear our names, too."

"And they come check us out."

"But if you're going to be fighting the way you fought today--"

"Without any of the stuff we teach--"

"Then nobody's going to want to learn what we teach!"

"We've got a business to run, here!"

"Do you want us to go out of business?"

"Is that what you want?"

"Well? Huh? Is it?"

Bludgeon had moved his head back and forth between each of them as they spoke, and even a bit after they stopped. Finally, he gathered his wits and spoke: "Look, I just want to learn how to fight."

Beat and Pound exchanged a glance.

"Oh."

"You want a master!"

"Well, why didn't you say so before?"

"He never said so!"

"You should have said so!"

Then, together: "You're not going to find that here."

And he was dumped out. "We reserve the right to refuse service to any one at any time. NO REFUNDS!"

So Bludgeon was left all alone, again, but this time he knew.

He needed a master.

END OF PART ONE