Should I have been eliminated for the move?

Probably.

The judges certainly frowned upon my actions, glaring at me and my raucous fans. Even the other boys voiced their disapproval, with Mason boldly making his case for my disqualification.

However, the Deadlock didn't prohibit hand-to-hand combat. In fact, if a contestant was ever disarmed, he was encouraged to fight with his fists—whatever it took to survive those two minutes.

Laying a hand on a seasoned warrior was in no way foul play. Taking your opponent down with you was another matter altogether.

I watched Gilmore communicate with the judges from his lofty stage, shaking his head, responding in lengthy sentences, shooing their comments away. When he brought the mic back to his lips, he released a long, heavy sigh that hollowed my stomach.

"Number six..." he began, and the stadium quieted, eager to hear the verdict. "Number six remained within the ring for the entire duration of the match. And although he acted with dishonor in his final moments, I believe his opponent exhibited an unwarranted and unparalleled degree of aggression toward this young individual."

The veteran scoffed, and I shifted from foot to foot, holding my breath.

"You've proven your skill, young man," Gilmore concluded. His voice shifted pitch, almost like he was trying to repress a smile. "You've passed yet another round."

I blinked. Uncomprehending.

Wait. I...got away with it?

It would have taken me longer to process the statement if the crowd's cheers and vocal objections hadn't brought the decision to life.

I'd made it.

I'd made it through the Deadlock.

Chest tight, I walked toward the group of finalists on the other side of the stadium. Toward my peers, my equals. Mason scoffed as I passed, murmuring a derisive, "Cheat," under his breath, but the word bounced off my ego like a paper airplane.

Nothing could ruin this high. Nothing could pin me down.

My gaze raked over the stadium, the banners, the people, searching for a middle-aged, dark-haired man. I wondered what he thought of all this. Was he blindly cheering for his daughter? Or did he already suspect me?

I couldn't wait to see the stupefied look on his face when I revealed how far I'd climbed—after the shock and anger subsided, of course. He'd be livid with me at first. Probably try and feed me to the chickens. But he'd come around eventually.

And maybe once he realized how committed I was to escaping our lifestyle, he would finally support my efforts. Talk to his male peers about the idiocy of the Gender Clause and its prohibition of female service. Speak with Gilmore and utilize the man's widespread influence to our advantage. Maybe then we could see a chain reaction in society, even if it hinged on the male species.

That, or chicken feed. 

When Gilmore started narrating the next round of Deadlock matches, my eyes fell upon Will, who sat against the rear wall, arms folded over his knees.

He stared back in my direction, his head tilted curiously to the side.  And despite the metal visors shielding our faces, I found his gaze a little too penetrative.

Before long, we reached the final trial.  Around 40 contestants remained, and to my utter bafflement, I stood among them—weary, drained, and aching. But the fact that I was still here, still progressing, numbed my senses to every scratch, contusion, and pulled muscle.

As far as I could tell, Tooms, Chinger, Potato, and Mason were the only four from our training group who'd made it. Fudge and the others had lost somewhere along the way.

For many of them, that loss had cost them their futures.  Their dreams.

And here I was, basking in eminence I was not entitled to.

My heart sank. I'd taken this too far; I should have deliberately failed along the way, given another contestant a real opportunity. But I'd gotten so swept up in the excitement, I'd forgotten to lose. And perhaps deep down, I hadn't wanted to feign inadequacy at all.

Now, my options for elimination were limited, and exiting this competition on my own terms just got a whole lot harder.

Gritz.

What if I couldn't escape the Revelation? What then?

No. I pushed that dreadful thought to the back of my mind—I simply had to fail this time.  It couldn't be too obvious, or the Specs might think I'd thrown the bet on purpose. I'd have to fight and lose as authentically as possible to avoid a witch-hunt.  There was no alternative. 

On the sidelines, the two Specs from earlier battled the astonishment on their faces. One begrudgingly handed the other a wad of cash, and I resisted the urge to send them both a vulgar hand gesture.

"And now," Gilmore spoke, his voice dropping an octave. "Now we've reached the final assessment. The last trial to determine which victors will be recruited for military service. Let's give a round of applause for the incredible young men who've made it this far!"

Congratulatory shouting fell upon us in voluminous waves.

"You have all proven outstanding aptitude, and for those of you who do not qualify for enlistment, do not despair. Like many of your elders here today, I'm sure you will come to serve our community in other valuable ways." He looked down at his microphone for a moment, then back at the line of competitors, eyeing each of us, one by one. "Gentlemen, your goal for the final round is simple: bypass the guards and ascend this very platform. The first 25 of you to reach this stage will be our champions. That is your challenge."

The contestants shifted, glancing at one another in masked bewilderment. Guards?

Before any of us could question Gilmore's demands, the gates at the eastern end of the stadium opened with a metallic shudder.  Three sentinels on city horses emerged from a dark tunnel, hauling a series of wooden crates into the center of the court. 

It took me a moment to register what exactly they contained. Because surely—surely—they did not harbor lions.

And yet...there they were.  

Cougars in cages.

I didn't know how or why they had trapped a mountain lion, let alone three, but these creatures were nothing like the predators I'd seen in our textbooks. First of all, they were huge—the size of quarter tanks—and dark veins bulged beneath their fur, weaving over their sharp, bony spines. They reared up against the walls of their cages, heads stooped and shoulders raised, ready to pounce upon the first man to exhale.

"They expect us to fight those things?" someone choked.

"They're just cats."

Chinger snorted. "Enormous, hungry, devil cats."

"Why are we fighting lions? How could that possibly correspond to fighting people?" another snapped.

We stood in a line, watching as Tournament officials locked the wheels on the low-lying carts and walked the horses off the court. Simultaneously, the armed sentinels unlatched the cages and dashed away as the enclosures fell open on all sides, the metal slapping harshly against pavement.

I wet my lips as the grown men abandoned the court. Great.  Now the only thing standing between the lions and their canned dinner were the chains binding them to the pad eyes of their cages.

The beasts tugged on their collars and stalked the generous perimeter their chains allowed. Off to the side of the court, the judges leaned back in their chairs.

"We've established boundaries in red tape. Step outside the line and you forfeit," Gilmore instructed, and my gaze flew to the markings that ran perpendicular to the platform. In other words, no skirting around the rectangular playing field. We were fresh out of loopholes this time. "Good luck!"

I failed to stifle my incredulous huff. 

Each year, the architects behind the Tournament devised some ultimate test. Some final, nail-biting entertainment that surpassed the previous year in gore and honor and patriotism.  But I wasn't sure how they'd ever surpass this trial.

While most of us were still processing the task or, in Potato's case, backing away from the spectacle altogether, one boy remained undaunted. He darted into the spectacle at full speed, confidence dripping off his figure like spoiled milk.

"Mason," Will and I seethed.

The weed waved his weapon about him threateningly, spitting insults. I'd heard him complaining earlier about the sword he'd been supplied with, that he'd wanted to use his new one. I almost wished they'd permitted it—then the crowd could marvel at something besides his idiocy.

Mason swung the sword around and nipped the first lion to come into his path.  The animal pawed at him, and the teen stumbled backward out of the way, taking a second to reevaluate. A few other contestants advanced as well, trying to appear big and dangerous, but failing to intimidate the beasts. The cats were too huge and too savage to let anyone pass.

Playing predator wasn't working. They didn't have any predators.

"We need a plan," I said quietly, voice muffled by my helmet.  No one heard me, so I repeated myself in a deeper, manlier tone.

It drew the attention of several contestants.

"We?"

I nodded, knowing I'd need to attempt something to convince the crowd of my noble intentions. Sitting this one out would only raise suspicion, but if I appeared to try my best and lose, there was a chance I could leave the stadium pitied and unbothered.

"We need to work together," I decided, and it turned a couple more heads. For my disappearing act to succeed, a large group of us needed to advance as one unit and take on the felines together. Unfortunately, that required a certain degree of cooperation.

"This is a competition. There is no we."

One boy shrugged. "Well, it is supposed to illustrate our war-readiness, right? And there's no such thing as a one-man army."

I eyed Gilmore's raised platform—an obstacle in and of itself.  We'd have to climb it, and that meant we couldn't have feral lions chomping at our ankles.  "We need a distraction.  Some way to keep those lions preoccupied."

Will finally seemed to take some interest in the conversation.  His dark visor scanned the length of the stadium, taped knuckles drumming against the hilt of his sword. "If we split into three groups, two parties can run up the sides while the third draws the lions' attention to the middle of the court. The two groups can help each other scale the platform, and then they can pull the last of us up when we get there."

When no one responded, too skeptical of the half-baked plan, too suspicious of an alliance at this stage in the game, I added, "If we move before the others, we should all make the cut, regardless of who touches that platform first. It's the best option here."

Chinger slowly turned to look at the lions again. "So...who's the kitty kibble?"

The boys held their breaths, hiding behind their masks.  Begging for a volunteer to spare them an early death.

I'd expected as much. 

"I'll do it,"  I said.  "I'm fast. I can make it."

Will turned to me, and I wondered which of his expressions he was wearing now. "It'll take more than one of us."