Dog Meat
Thursday; October 20
It was an old discovery, or more, at least an old rumor to the Russian of Rhy?Din?s underground Pit. With disappearances that rattled the news now and then, it was questionable - and likely - that the Watch had given up on finding the captives. Of questioning why people would disappear, and one would return at a time. Battered, bruised, even sometimes broken and traumatized. Yet, they didn?t utter a word, most of them anyways.
Back in the day, Zver ran his own underground fighting ring. It was less? well, everything. Less organized, less franchised. There was no bar with a tender working behind it, but a cooler filled with liquor bottles for those that needed something to burn their throats after the fight. There were no benches for spectators, just walls lined with people waiting their turn for the next fight. Even to this day, Zver didn?t know the purpose behind it. It wasn?t to prove himself, it wasn?t for any sadistic reason, it wasn?t to let out anger - at the time, he couldn?t feel it. It was simply for the enjoyment of the fight. The tactical footwork, the anticipating of your opponent?s next move while strategizing your own. The feel of laying a blow was just as good to him as taking one. It didn?t matter as long as eyes turned black, cartilage snapped beneath the impact of knuckles and lips cracked. Nothing mattered until your mouth was filled with blood, and your knuckles were so busted, you couldn?t tell if it was their blood or yours.
Stepping into that building, being met with that impressive cage had him staring intensely at it. ?G?damn, it?s like the ****ing Thunderdome,? he mumbled. He blinked away from the massive cage to studying the surroundings. The people collected was just as impressive. Spectators, gamblers placing bets on the two men in the cage throwing fists at each other in their primal rage. The noise of the Pit was enough to make his ears ring, but even if it made him want to claw at them, it was a pleasant feeling. Stepping further inside, he spotted the bleachers with spectators both sitting and standing alike, shaking fists of their own and calling out cheers for the winning side, taunts for the losing. With absolutely no loyalty to either, they were easy to switch around with the tables turned on the fighters.
He forced his feet to move, further into the deafening crowd. It was the sight of a bar that snagged the liquor lover?s attention, but before he could make his way to it, there was an obstacle in his way.
?Spectator or fighter??
That stopped the Russian in his tracks. Looking down to the girl, he almost questioned it at first. Her short buzz cut and almost androgynous features had him staring at her a moment, tilting his head until he remembered she?d asked him a question. ?Uh?. neither at the moment. More like Drinker with the potential for Fighting,? he snickered, casting a tempted look to the cage that stirred up old, favorable memories. Before. His eyes flicked to the bar and tender. Then to Amanda.
?Name.?
?Well, you?re not one for friendly small talk, are you?? He muttered, snickering about it.
?I have more people to get to.? He turned his head to give a glance to the newcomers that had just walked in.
?Right.? He sighed, turning his head back to face her and the clipboard she was holding. ?....Zver. I did come to fight,? he told her, sparing a glance to the cage.
?Do you have any powers? Any abilities?? She sized him up, then looked to the board.
?Does sprouting fur and huffing down piggies houses count?? Zver lifted a brow to her, the corner of his mouth twitching.
?....Well that answers my next question,? she said, jotting down his name on the board before looking at him again. ?And besides fur and huffing, do you have any other abilities??
She was too serious in the moment to have much fun with, so he answered bluntly. ?No.? It didn?t sound like a happy answer.
?Good. Makes my job easier.? She glanced down to the clipboard, then over his shoulder. ?You?ve got a half hour, Pup. Two fights ahead of you. Drink on while you can,? she told him, almost giving a smile before she slipped past him to the newcomers. ?Spectator or fighter?? He heard her greeting the new arrivals as he made his way to the bar to greet the tender next who seemed just as busy, but much more amiable than Amanda.
That girl takes her job way too seriously, he thought to himself before smacking his palm down on the bar. ?Stoli, give me about a half hour?s worth. Estimate it if I was a fish,? he told her. He managed to pull a laugh from her as she nodded, pulling a bottle off the shelf before she poured a couple shots for others asking for the same order - but less. She raised a brow at him, sliding over the remainder of the bottle with a smug, almost challenging smirk before moving on to the next customers. ?Challenge accepted,? he muttered, palming the bottle before he walked away to watch the next fights.
- - - - - - - - -
By the time it came to his round, most of that bottle was toast. His vision was clear enough, and maybe some would consider it stupid to be as intoxicated as he was in a life or death fight. Then again, Zver?s whole reason for being there at all was relatively stupid to begin with. It didn?t matter how much he smiled, joked. On the inside, he was shredded more than grated cheese. Not literally, but dammit if it didn?t feel like it.
Here, he could be the monster that he felt like. Here, he would be cheered on as he became the ironic meaning of his name. He could let go. One way or another? he could just let it go.
By the time the victorious champion stepped out, battered and busted but grinning; when the unfortunate loser was dragged out as no more than limp, lifeless noodle, that was when he caught Amanda?s nod telling him it was his time. He watched her for a moment, his jaw tensing before he gave a slow, small nod back to her.
The spectator next to him clapped, cheered him on to get into the ring. Zver snickered and downed the last swallow of his vodka before roughly shoving the empty into the man?s hands. ?Take care of this for me,? then he charmingly belched before working out of his tee shirt on his way toward the ring. Tossing it at another spectator, he got an unpleasant retort for it but Zver was at the point of not caring.
The warding had dropped when the others were dragged out, giving Zver the ability to walk in easily through the spacious bars. By the time he took his first step inside, his opponent was entering himself. Lifting his chin, he sized the man up immediately. He was bigger, but not by height. There was more muscle definition, but that didn?t mean much to him. Zver was more on the scrawnier side, with a marathon runner?s body. But to him, that just made him more lithe, more nimble. The man was had an arrogant smile against Zver?s blank expression. Dark brown eyes against hazel, shaggy black hair differed from his own brown curly hair. Pale skin, against his own natural tan. They differed in a great many ways, but the look in their eyes were the same. They were ready to fight.
Here, I don?t have to pretend to be okay.
The wards were dropped, and the two fighters were left to brawl amongst themselves. They circled each other, two officially caged animals - the only hint to the other man being something of the furry sort was the scent that radiated off him, off the sheen of sweat coating muscle. But it was more than that. It was the primal stalking, lithe for his size, unnaturally graceful in his steps. Zver?s eyes narrowed as he circled, feeling clumsy in comparison.
?You gonna shift, Wolfboy?? The man asked. ?Or you coming at me with your bare hands? Don?t matta to me, either way,? he chuckled, too calm. Too confident.
He?s been here before. It was clear to Zver. His graceful steps were more than a predator. It was an animal that knew its territory. A survivor. The Russian?s chin lifted as he watched him, circled him as he did the same, the two skirting the outer ring. ?Let?s see just how good you can be on two legs,? Zver spoke calmly. ?Before you bring your claws out,? he snickered.
?Dealers choice,? the man smirked, ticking his head to the side with a quick and audible pop. ?Like I said? don?t matta.? No sooner than the word had left curled, snarling lips, did he rush the Russian whose own teeth bared through a snarl. No words were needed. It was time to fight.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Fists flew. Skin split. Blood poured. Knuckles cracked. Cheekbones, jaws, splintered.
Zver was worse off than the other. With one eye already swollen and turning into a nasty bruise with a possible fracture to the eye socket. His bottom lip was swollen, too, from a cut on the left side. His jaw ached from multiple hits. He was sure he had at least a couple broken ribs, perhaps even on both sides. Or perhaps they were only bruised. He couldn?t tell anymore. His knuckles were swollen, split and bloody. He couldn?t tell whose blood it was at this point. His muscles ached, his bones throbbed. Pain radiated from head to toe and sweat dripped from his brow, stuck his tawny curls to his forehead. His breathing was ragged from lungs that ached.
His opponent was no better off. His nose was broken, smashed off to the side and had oozed blood down his mouth and chin. Splattered his cheek. He had a pretty shiner Zver had placed on him, opposing his own. He?d crushed in his collar bone with a well placed heel of his boot, on the side of the man?s main arm. He was limping from knuckles that had connected to the side of the man?s knee cap. But even limping, he was still on his feet.
Zver was stumbling, barely upright. The other man was a seasoned fighter, and the Russian was rusty. That realization that the Cold Harbor citizen, who?d survived for years under strenuous terrain and murderous psychopaths, was losing. He grit his teeth and winced to the pain that shot through his jaw. He staggered out of the way, almost tripping over his own feet, to dodge a wild swing from the other therianthrope in the ring. His shoulders twisted to avoid it, but it unbalanced him and forced him to teeter. Swinging back around, he sent a weakened right hook to the man?s gut, doubling him over and forcing him back a couple steps.
Panting, breathing was turning out to be a chore as he turned his head to spit a glob of bloody saliva on the floor. A thunderous roar came from his opponent as he charged forward, teeth bared as his arms hooked around Zver?s waist and sent them both down. He landed on top of the Russian in the tackle, a gush of wind leaving him from the connect of his back to the ground and the weight of the man on top of him. Gasping for air, he looked up to the wild beast on top of him. Teeth exposed, lips curled back, but still human in form. He pulled his legs up to be straddling Zver, pulling up just to reel a fist back and sent it to the side of the Russian?s face. His head turned with the impact, bloody spit spraying with the turn. A snarl, another hit that sent his head turning the other way.
His ears were ringing, from the roar of the crowd and the hits taken with his face as the cushion. Hearing the beast?s voice like it was yelled at the end of the tunnel, he felt that curly hair get grasped as he was forced to look up through the blur of his vision. ?Fight back, you son of a bitch! You call yourself a Russian! A wolf?! Fight back!? He spat in Zver?s face.
Zver?s lips pulled back into a Joker grin, further splitting that crack in his lip as it oozed more blood down his chin. ?Fuck. You.? He spat - quite literally - in the man?s face. Smack! His face scrunched with the reflex of pain that radiated through his teeth. He let out a deranged cackle, it was hard to tell if it was Zver or the liquor in his system. But only Zver would know just how sober he was in that moment.
Peeling back those swollen lids, he glared up at the man. The hand in his hair couldn?t hold him down as he lifted his head to get closer. Fists balled, but unmoving, he snarled at the man. ?Do it??
?What? Are you fucking nuts? Why aren?t you fighting back?!? He growled. The man wanted a fight, not to beat a surrendering man.
?Do. It. You sorry sack of shit,? he spat at the man, glaring through the blur. Through the pain. Panting. Smack!
?Get up.? The opponent snarled, releasing the Russian?s hair with a jerk of his hand, sending his head smacking into the floor. He was dazed, but could still move. Zver felt the weight lifted as the other man got to his feet, stumbling back and off him. His hands lifted, curled, summoning the beast on the floor. ?Get the fuck up and fight. C?mon, I didn?t come here for a waste of my ****in? time! Neither did these people! You got in here willingly. You gonna just lay there and take it now?? He spat, gesturing to the crowd surrounding them. Yelling, throwing their fists in the air. ?Get. Up. NOW.? He sent his foot right for Zver?s side.
His breath left him in a rush of air that had him sputtering blood and spit, coughing as he rolled with a groan. ?Son of a c****f****,? he hissed, his legs curling as he rolled to his knees, balanced with one hand to the floor while the other held his side. That one, that one was definitely busted. ?Do it,? he whispered, hanging his head as his fingers curled against the floor. Lifting his head, he looked for the ringleader. The redhead. Jamie. Forcing a strained cackle, he stared right at her with a smirk that didn?t match the broken look in his eyes. ?What about you?! You wanna hit??
