Quoted By:
>Knife
>Lasgun
You heft the foam knife, its weight surprisingly convincing. Slipping it onto your hip, you sling the replica lasgun across your shoulder. Never actually fired one, but you figure pulling the trigger does the trick, right? Aiming with amateur awkwardness at a dummy in the storage room, you squeeze. A satisfying hiss fills the air as a thin, pressurized beam of paint shoots from the lasgun's nozzle. The knife feels different in your hand - a familiar heft you cradle with a surprising confidence. You had practiced shanking the air several times back home in the hive, but you had never actually gotten into a real fight with one.
Emerging from the storage room, you nudge the door closed with your elbow, tarot deck clutched in both hands as you shuffle frantically. The combat hall hits you - vast, neoclassical, with towering stacks of wooden crates lining two straight walls of uneven height, the lowest parts barely covering your knees, the highest parts reaching about twice as tall than you stood. One of the walls ran right across in front of you, the other was parallel to it, presumably covering another entrance just like yours.
"Anon has entered! Stand in your red circles..." booms Instructor Seflejo's voice from a hidden vox-caster. There was a circle right next to the door, you sidestepped into it. "Combat begins... NOW!"
