Bright. So very, very bright. What the hell.....spotlights?
It all comes back in a blur. All doing what you do, out there, in the wastes, surviving. Alone. Like so many others. This world's like a bloated carcass. Nothing but heartless scavengers and merciless bandits taking what they want, like flies taking the choicest cuts of fetid meat from the younger maggots and slower roaches.
So there you were, when they snatched you. Just like that, minding your own business, when the din of the engines and the shrieks and hoots of the ruffians set you off. You fought hard, fought long, evaded, dodged, weaved, every trick in the book, but it was too much. You were struck with a dart, or a syringe, or even a truncheon to the dome, and manhandled into their truck, your fate unknown.
Well, previously unknown. Now you know what's going on.
Because now, you stand in a dirt pit within the ground, spotlights hooked up to each corner, the whoops and calls of a few hundred spectators deafening your woozy brain. Reluctantly, you each sit up, trading glances of shared distaste. What the hell is this supposed to be?
Before a complete explanation conveniently makes itself known some other way, a static-filled loudspeaker pipes up over the holler of the crowd.
"AHAHAHA! GOT SOME FRESH BLOOD TONIGHT, LADIES AND GENTS! The announcer hollers, his ugly, rasping voice quaking in your eardrums. "WELCOME TO THE QUALIFIERS, MEAT! PROVE YOURSELF HERE, AND IT'S OFF TO THE AUCTION WITH YA!"
Wiping your eyes and looking about the pit, which is plenty wide and maybe half as long as a football stadium, you catch sight of a few figures, maybe sixty feet away. Three of them, wiry, tough forms, dressed in rawhide and leather. Not kind and gentle folk, by the looks of it. They appear to have woken up a bit before you, and as the announcer speaks, they raise their fists and advance.
"GIVE US A SHOW, MEAT!"
Combatant 1: Tall, and lean, with a far-off look in his eyes. There's something off about him. [40 ft. away, advancing fast, unarmed.]
Combatant 2: Thicker than #1, all gristle and slabby fat. He looks pissed. [40 ft. away, advancing fast, unarmed.]
Combatant 3: A woman, short and scarred. She's not coming for you, she's running....to the edge of the pit? With a glance over there, you realize she's running to an audience member, who's holding out something metallic, glinting in the spotlights! [50 ft. away, rushing to the audience, unarmed.]