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The rules were clear on the stage: the winner got to live, and live a better life than most humans. They usually got noticed by a powerful family of another species, bought for a heavy price and spent the rest of their lives entertaining the family and their guests. Winners were prized possessions, after all.
In any case, no rule ever stated that the winners had to compete again the next year.
This would be stupid, even; anyone reaching the almost certain pass to a long and comfortable life the victory offered would claim it in the next second. No winner ever took another path.
This was until the winner of the 49th edition of the Alien Stage. He won easily, to be honest, a fan favourite since the selection rounds. Handsome, voice of an angel, the perfect candidate.
After his victory, the biding prices on his head raised so fast it beat all records. Everyone wanted to get his hand (or anything used as such) on the golden child.
On his first mic interview, he stated loud and clear his wish for the future.
He chose to participate to the 50th edition.
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The boy got called mad for that. Some people claimed he lived for the thrill of death blowing air on his neck. Others claimed he was so confident on his victory that he wanted to enter history. Others said he was just suicidal.
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The closest the contest was, the more people forgot about that. He was a contestant like the others, after all. People made prognostics. Studied his technic on the previous edition. Bet on the way he was going to handle each match.
The boy, on his side, was studying his opponents. Watching each match with ravenous attention. He smiled when the black hair and white dress got stained with flower-like red on the giant screen.
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On the semi-final match, he had his strategy. People didn’t need to know that, though; they thought he only trained his voice. They didn’t have to know the hours spent at perfecting each of his words to cut like blades.
Pink hair flowed in the artificial wind when he used his strategy. He cut an already bleeding heart open, ignoring the physical pain he received in return. He watched the girl get taken away with his ever-showing smile, the one that made him win the nickname of angel. The girl understood, through her tears and pain, that it wasn’t only a strategy to win. It was his way of feeling alive, seeing the pain in others.
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The violin cut the guitar’s symphony like a well-sharpened sword, blood staining the screen behind them.
The golden boy already had what he came here for. He was here to start a war, a mind war between weak humans, and emotionless perfection.
No matter how high would he be, he would never fall.