Finally spirited away into an army staff car, he noticed the sun going down. They had lost many hours with the time zone change coming over the Atlantic. The afternoon had gone, and he wondered if they could even do anything with the rest of the day.
"Guess I'm not fighting tonight, Weaver?"
The man responded with a sleazy smile before responding. "Far from it. This evening's fight is prime time television. You'll be fighting at midnight local time. That's 1800 hours back on the east coast, just in time for workers to get home from the commute and have something to watch before dinner.
"Sounds like a great family night in," he replied, not attempting to hide the sarcasm.
"Not like you need the rest anyway. As far as your body clock goes, you've not even done anything all day."
"Two days ago that video went viral, so how can this be going ahead so soon? No consideration given, no discussion, planning."
"No planning or consideration? This isn't the twentieth century, Colonel. Things change on an hourly basis. This is a now culture. They got a taste of the action two days ago. Forty-eight hours of waiting and anticipation."
"Jesus, are people really that bored? Did we fight to save a civilisation whose greatest desire is to watch the next piece of broadcast shit?"
"I can see you’re finally starting to get it now. Maybe having me around isn't so bad for you, after all, Colonel."
He looked out of the window to see a welcome sign to ‘Parc des Princes’.
"A stadium fight? What is this?"
"This is entertainment. The new Parc des Princes was under construction and almost complete before the first war broke out. With a few repairs and changes, it's ideal for our purposes. One hundred and twenty five thousand capacity, and with all eyes on you."
"Just what I wanted."
"To be the World's hero? Any marine would give anything to be in your shoes."
"Not one who fought in the wars," he snapped.
"Cheer up, Colonel. This is your big moment."
They rolled up to the entrance where a red carpet had been laid out for his arrival, and camera crews and reporters lined up behind barriers for any chance of an opportunity get at him.
"Play to the crowd, Colonel. It's what you've been ordered to do, and therefore, what you're paid to do."
He'd never been a fan of actors, and in joining the Marine Corps, it was the last thing he had ever envisaged he might have to do.
"All right, if this is what the people want, I'll give them their pound of flesh," he said spitefully. He opened the door, and his face instantly turned to a fake smile as he threw both his arms up triumphantly, sparking a series of camera flashes and a roar of applause.
Some people might be in their element, but this sucks.
One of the American reporters pushed to the front and yelled their question the loudest, bringing many others to silence. “Bookies are giving you ten to one odds, what do you say about that?”
Taylor was taken aback by the comment.
“I didn’t come here to lose,” he replied with a smile.
Laughter erupted as he turned to Weaver.
“Ten to one? What have you got me fighting?”
“You’ll see.”
Weaver stepped in front of the Colonel to speak.
“That’s it. You all came here to see our hero fight monsters, not hear him talk. Give him his rest, for he has a great challenge ahead!”
They walked through the crowds as the reporters continued to hurl questions at Taylor, and others reached out to touch him as they passed. Beyond the crowd, he could see sparks from welders and construction crews still working away to finish the structure. Chemicals filled the air from flooring which had barely set. He knew this had been a rushed affair. He just hoped it wasn't at the expense of his safety. As much as Weaver's job was to make him a publicity whore, he seemed to want him dead just as much.
The stadium staff led them through the vast unfinished complex and finally through a lavish doorway that opened up into what could only be described as a luxury apartment.
"Welcome to our Presidential Suite," one of them stated.
It was lavishly decorated and ten times to the size of his own home. Screens around the walls were showing video commercials from around the World promoting the upcoming fight.
"Make yourself comfortable. I've got interviews to do, lots of them," said Weaver. "You'll be notified at 11:30 and called for at 11:45."
Taylor nodded and lay down on one of the sofas.
"You will be ready, won't you?"
"Sure," he replied confidently, as if bored by the whole affair.
Taylor awoke to find he was being rustled by one of the local staff members. He reached up and grabbed the man by the throat instinctively as he was torn out of a deep sleep. He could see the look of terror on the man's eyes as he was starved of oxygen. He quickly released his grip.
"Don't you know not to startle a marine like that?" he asked.
"Sorry, Monsieur, but we could not rouse you."
He looked at his watch. 23:47.
"Okay, let's do this."
He was stiff from having slept in his armour, but the rest had done him a lot of good. He was led out and down to the ground floor. Weaver was waiting for him, next to a trolley with the rest of his gear.
"Christ, don't you know how important this is?"
"No, I don't," he replied dryly.
"Millions of people around the World are waiting for you, and you simply can't be bothered?"
"If you're so concerned, you could always armour up and go in there yourself. I know I'd enjoy watching that."
It immediately silenced Weaver, but he was fuming with anger. Taylor paced up to the gear on the trolley, a helmet, an Assegai, and a shield.
"That's it, Weaver?"
"They want a fight, not an execution."
Taylor couldn't help but think when all his gear was on it wouldn't matter who was wearing it.
Do the crowds really want 'Colonel Taylor', or do they just want to see human versus alien? I wonder if many would ever recognise me were I not in uniform as I’m portrayed on posters and videos around the World.
He clamped the Assegai in its sheath to the leg of his exoskeleton suit and lifted his helmet onto his head before lifting the hefty shield onto his arm.
"Ready?" Weaver asked.
"I'll do this fight, but that's it. After this, you find another idiot to be your puppet."
"You just get out there and do your job."
Taylor turned and strode out down the corridor that led to the main stadium grounds. He could hear the roar of the crowds as they yelled and clapped. It was almost deafening. He'd never been in front of so many people before.
"And here he is, the man himself. Welcome the slayer of Demiran, the saviour of the World, Colonel Taylor!"
The commentator was an instantly recognisable voice. An American who seemed to commentate on every big fight he'd seen over the years. He had no clue of the man's name, but his voice was unmistakeable. He rambled on another five minutes about Taylor's exploits and the dangers he was about to face, but it passed through Mitch's one ear and out the other. He was focused on psyching himself up ready for the action.
In the war he had always been ready to fight, as survival had been on their minds every second of every day, but his last fight just days before had shown him his head wasn't in it. He blocked out the crowds from his mind, focusing on the weapons in hand and the thought of what he was going to face.