“0100000101001010 wins!”
The holographic message scrolled across the sky, flashes of blue and purple reflecting off the millions of metallic bodies below. A lean, dark-skinned man stood in the center of the coliseum, his foot balancing on another’s limp body. In his hands was a sanguine heart, dripping with ribbons of drying blood. 
The man’s callused hand tightened around the heart. He approached a raised platform, on which 3 figures sat. The one on the right seemed humanoid, but taller and thinner than any human should be. An enormous pair of treads, which secured it to the floor, offset its slim figure. The figure on the left was spiral shaped and dense, with the coil unraveling into a pair of graceful legs on the bottom and a set of thick tentacles on the top. The tentacles thrashed around without a beat, except for the shortest, which displayed a screen mirroring the sky above.
The center figure was frightening. In every aspect, it resembled a human being. Its toes were clearly distinguishable. Its fingernails were spotted with white. It’s eyes shown with the unique clarity and intelligence of a human’s pair. Despite its appearance, something about it was distinctly inhuman. Its movements, though fluid, were too sharp, too efficient to belong to something living. It’s fingers creaked and groaned. It’s pupils never dilated. The way the center figure mocked the human race was repulsive, and the man approaching the platform visibly cringed.
As the dark-skinned man stretched out a crimson-stained hand, the center figure mirrored his movements. Dropping onto scabbed knees, the man passed the still beating heart to the center figure, which unhinged its metal mouth and slid the organ down its throat with a faint hiss.
Shrinking away from the humanoid in front of him, the lean man descended from the platform without turning his back. He hit the ground running, and hurried to the open door in the Colosseum’s wall, through which they had dragged the dead body. The door was closing, crashing into the ground. The man turned around, fear in his eyes.
Another door opened across from him, and a woman with the same dark skin was pushed out. She was more beast than woman, with a crouched posture, feral glare, and wicked grin. Immediately she darted toward him, making up for her height by getting in close. Pausing, she let the man react to a fake before driving her heel into his thigh, hitting a pressure point that knocked him onto the ground.
The dark-skinned man was tired, sick of fighting, and ready to go to his steel-walled home to sleep, but giving up was not an option with his life at stake, especially when his life was the only thing he had. His life and his humanity.
As he rolled away and cautiously stood, there were no thoughts in the man’s mind. His movements were driven by instinct: anything else had been beaten out of the human race generations before him. Adrenaline ran recklessly, and the man let himself be carried away by its currents.
Every muscle was tensed when the woman resumed her assault, and the man found his buried energy, dodging every strike with a grace that only comes from practice, practice his opponent did not have.
Her attacks were clean and arrogant; she had not learned the cheap tricks to keep her from death.
The man almost pitied her.
Instead he caught one of her polished kicks, and swept her other leg from underneath her. He flipped her over his hip, catching her before she hit the ground. Ruthlessly, he flung her across the arena.
She hit the opposing wall head-first.
The man sprinted to her motionless body. He stood above her, beating her ribs and throat. After the second punch, she began thrashing her legs, until she caught his head. He staggered, and she stood, but she was shaky and unbalanced. He kicked the back of her knees and she fell again.
There was no hesitation this time, the man stepped on her stomach and snatched her throat. Her screams would not haunt his dreams. He didn’t sleep for long enough to dream.
A knife was thrown into the ring and, he pierced her skin, drawing blood and pulled out her heart. The blood like thick threads. If only it wasn’t a heart he had cut out, but the center of a rug; skin was not a textile.
“0100000101001010 wins!” The message returned.
Dirty fingernails removed any remaining skin. The dark-skinned man returned to the platform, arm outstretched just as before. The figures had not changed, but the center figure’s lips were coated with burgundy coloring, like perverted lipstick. The dark-skinned man returned to his knees, and raised his hands to the central figure again, placing the heart into its hand. After it was consumed, the man hurried back.
  He sprinted towards the breach in the stone walls surrounding him, and was relieved to find that it had not yet begun to close. He slumped through the doorway, but was quickly taken by two characters of considerable size, who managed to hover above the ground regardless. Without compassion, they dragged him through a familiar set of hallways into a steel-walled room.
The dark-skinned man collapsed on the floor, and stared at the wall to his left. He knew that closing his eyes would end the pain, but he didn’t believe he deserved the end. He had killed three people today, of his own race and probably of his own blood. There was no excuse for what he had done, but he had promised himself that he would never lose. He would never lose a battle, so those he fought never had to lose what made them human, what made them different.
It was too late for the dark-skinned man, but they could be killed before it was too late for them. That was a goal worth the guilt.