I have always found that the worst conversations begin with the phrase, "Walk with me." Nothing good ever followed those words. At best, it meant I was about to be conscripted into a lecture about my "attitude problem" by some authority figure with too much starch in their collar.
At worst, it meant execution. So naturally, when Rodrick appeared outside my borrowed suite in the bowels of the colosseum and delivered those fateful syllables with all the gravity of a man requesting his last meal, I considered slamming the door in his face.
Alas, dignity demanded otherwise, so I sighed, squared my shoulders, and allowed myself to be herded along like a reluctant sheep toward whatever grim revelation awaited me.
The corridors beneath the colosseum were less grand than the arena itself, which was just as well, because if I'd had to endure more banners and marble arches, I might have vomited.
