"Ladies and gentlemen! We come together for a day of celebration and remembrance. A day to honor the good men who defend our nation. Soldiers who embody our most sacred of virtues." The man beamed at the crowd with his dazzling smile, a hypnotist working his magic. "Soon after today, our champions will join these brave souls beyond the Rim and devote their lives to preserving this beautiful nation."

Jacob Gilmore was the head of the local Council and the most influential politician in Belgate. He always hosted these events, year after year, and his enthusiasm for the Tournament never waned. With his prominent chin, striking features, and booming voice, he was the closest thing Belgate had to a celebrity, and he embraced the role like no other.

"Now," he said, channeling that spokesperson charm and exuberance, "on with the Tournament!"

The crowd cheered and whistled and stomped their feet as the band burst into our national song. In the stands, women's sundresses transformed the audience into a colorful mosaic, while men had traded their work clothes for casual wear—or in other words, drinking wear.  Children waved homemade signs and little district flags, offering support to their siblings, cousins, and role models.  At the bottom of thesteps, vibrant banners embellished the court walls, forming a quilted necklaceof red and gold.

I grinned.

Here I was, clad in the armor of some random kid I'd locked in a closet, standing where Tom had once stood. Staring out at the crowd, at the world.

And Patrons, I was so stupid.

But I told myself I would try my best, and when I was eliminated, I'd conveniently disappear before the Revelation. That way, I could compare my strength to the boys. I could prove to myself I was capable of fighting, that all women were.   And maybe one day I could reveal my accomplishment to my father—the one person whose support mattered most.

I was the turquoise helmet, I'd say. Profoundly, of course.

Thankfully, and perhaps regrettably, I passed for a boy without much of a makeover. My long, tangled hair fit inside the helmet with extra room to spare, and my flat chest and narrow hips finally made up for years of inappropriate comments about a healthy, childbearing body type. Add that to a pair of fighting gloves and a layer of recycled armor, and I blended in perfectly.

If I played my part, no real trouble would come of this.

I noticed a couple Specs—weeds who bet on the contestants—chuckling, watching me bounce up and down eagerly from the sidelines. They were sizing me up.  Up, down, and sideways.  I knew I was small for a guy, but in their eyes I was nothing but a weakling. A runt.  A shrimp.

As if they sensed my scowl, they grinned wolfishly and made a show of dropping a few more rounds into the hat. Betting against me.

Welts.

Standing upon a raised platform at the opposite end of the court, Gilmore motioned for us to move into place, a composer conducting his choir.  We lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along the edge of the concrete floor, filling the space from one corner to the other, as instructed.  From above, we must have looked like a linear rainbow, or maybe just a long row of push pins. 

Gilmore raised the silver mic to his lips. "Contestants, your first trial is a testament of speed and stamina, a tradition we've adopted since the Tournament's inception."

Excitement buzzed in my fingertips.

I wasn't great at a lot of things, but being fast, nimble—that was something I'd mastered. It was a learned trait, running from repercussions.

"When the bell sounds, each of you will run to the first red marker, collect it, and return to the starting line.  Then race to the second marker, retrieve that, and so on. This test proves a soldier's endurance, drive, and agility. And we Ell love a good race, don't we?"

My male competitors groaned as laughter filled the ring and echoed off the venue walls.

I examined the length of the stadium. 120 meters or so. Six different markers, each progressively distant.   Suicides, the exercise was called.   A fitting name for a brutal introductory trial.

"There are just over a hundred young men here tonight, and we're proud to see such a marvelous turnout this year," Gilmore continued, his voice blaring through the bell-shaped loudspeakers along the court's perimeter.  "But alas, not every man is destined for war."  He gestured to the panel of male judges at the courtside, a group of war vets and Council members tasked with tracking contestant performance and arbitrating Tournament disputes. "As you know, the true purpose of this event is to evaluate this cohort's skill and athleticism in hopes of supplementing our forces with the most successful candidates.  Therefore, those of you who fall within the lowest rankings of each trial will be eliminated from the Tournament, and those who prevail will proceed to the next round."

My stomach took flight, and I ground my jittery heels into the pavement.  There's no going back, Kingsley.  This is happening.

This is it.

"Let us begin."

A boy in a white helmet cackled in the lane beside me, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his neck. "Watch and learn, rats."

Mason.

I could have detected his presence a mile away. No helmet could hide that pungent attitude and superiority complex.  Granted, he'd also picked the newest and cleanest armor in the bin, and the attire beneath it screamed you can't afford me.  

Will, I presumed, stood to my right in his red helmet, all shadows and taped knuckles.  He appeared perfectly poised, and I wondered if he was immune to anxiousness or just completely unintimidated by his competition. 

"On your marks," Gilmore declared, and I bent to the ground, my fingertips kissing cool pavement. Chest still, body clenched.  The world blurred around me as my focus narrowed on the stretch of red tape 20 meters away.

Slowly, Gilmore raised his arm—a beacon that drew the attention of every man, woman, and child in the arena. A stopper in the lungs of the enraptured.

I breathed out, bouncing on the pads of my fingers, cocking the hammer.

The second the bell chimed, I flew like a bullet.

I moved like a flash flood, a deluge, as if I'd conserved energy for millennia and needed to discharge it all in one race. One outburst.

I slid to a stop at the first red marker and nearly ate concrete, stripping the red tape off the ground in one fluid motion. I darted back to the starting line and slapped the tape down, pushing off again before I could bask in the glory of being the first to do so.

I felt my cheeks pinch from my smile as I pulled ahead of the others, sensing their disbelief and irritation at being left in the dust by the scrawny guy in the blue helmet.  My confidence burned like fuel, and I transitioned to a forefoot strike, becoming faster, smoother, lighter.

I heard Mason curse as I retrieved the third marker.  He vanished from sight by the time I reached the fourth, and my racing heartbeat drowned out his trailing footsteps.   My own feet pattered over concrete, barely audible, hands pumping, lungs flexing.

Someone was keeping pace with me, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the goal. I reached for it, I drove for it, and after several grueling minutes of stinging hands and burning hamstrings, I got there.

With my lungs on fire and the taste of iron in my throat, I skidded across the painted line, taking in the roars of the crowd and my own thundering pulse. Will finished a moment later, but the others didn't arrive for another seven seconds, wheezing and weak-kneed.  Several of them lagged even further behind, jogging back to us with red tape crinkled in their fists.

It really happened. 

I'd beaten them all.  I'd outrun their biologically superior bodies and boyish adrenaline.

I'd won.

"The winner of the first round...the speedy number six! Followed by twelve...." Gilmore's voice fell away as I drank it all in: the cheers, the band, the bursts of confetti.  The push pins here on the floor of the stadium, draftees of entertainment. The Specs who'd judged me earlier staring out at the giant manual scoreboard in bitter silence.  

I cocked my head at them, raising my palms to the sky. Smiling behind the wire mesh visor of my Corinthian helmet.

That's right.

Watch and learn, rats.