Weekender - Hive Bowl I

THE GRAND OPENING
The crowd in the stadium is packed in tight - thousands of residents, gangers, mercs, and voyeurs from every corner of Darkend Springs. A constant noise of many conversations held in parallel dominates the atmosphere. So it comes to many people's surprise that suddenly a small person is standing in the centre of the stadium just as a sharp hiss of static, loudspeakers crackle to life, interrupts the listing of ingredients for aunt Karen’s starch pie recipe. The tiny man’s voice booms out—crisp, theatrical, and laced with menace:
“LADIES. GENTLEMEN. DENIZENS OF THE HIVE. Welcome... to the first season of the most exhilarating, most violent event in the history of our glorious sector - HIVE BOWL!”
The man stopped his speech for a while just as if he expected someone to reply to his nonsense. As absolutely nobody in the ranks does him this favour, he continues; visibly more nervous:
“HIVE BOWL! Where blood meets glory, where strategy meets savagery, and where the question isn’t about who WINS, but who SURVIVES.” Again, silence.
“The rules are simple: locate the payload, deliver it to the enemy’s den, and leave a trail of carnage behind you.
Tonight, you bear witness to history. A new age of sport. A new pillar of unity. A new distraction from your meaningless, grinding lives. Let the first tournament of Hive Bowl... commence.”
A low, ominous chime rings out. Still, the crowd remains silent. No cheers. No chants. Just someone listing a number of cheap food stuff and instructions on how to mix them.

SECOND THOUGHTS
You figured it was just a laugh.
Free drinks. Some decent grub. Jersey with your name on it. Looked sharp, too. KREG printed across the back like you were some kind of champ. Recruiter said you’d be “representing the block in a new city-sponsored sport tournament”. Real civic pride stuff. You didn’t ask questions. Why would you? You had stuff to drink.
Clipboard guy looked official. Pitch was smooth. There was even a team photo. You and the others, throwing fists, grinning wide. Felt like being part of something for once.
…
Now you’re behind a gate that smells like rust and blood, holding a lasgun that hums like it’s got opinions. The walls shake. Somewhere out there, something explodes. You hear screams or cheers, you can’t tell which. You glance sideways at the handler nearby. Face like concrete. Scars in the shape of a fist.
You clear your throat. “Hey, uh… why do we need guns for a sports match?” Bloke doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just hits a switch.
*CLANG*
Gate lurches open. Light floods in. Smoke. Chaos. Sirens. Someone behind you gives you a shove. “You’re up, rookie. Try not to explode too fast.” Laughs like a maniac.
Your boots scrape the floor as you stumble into the arena. Noise crashes around you: metal on metal, screams, gunfire. You try to steady your grip on your lasgun, like that’ll help. You don’t even know what the ball looks like.