#*pats head of mirtala* this small child can hold so much mirtrauma

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 06: do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart

Forced to Watch

2445 Words; Ouroboros AU

TW for violence, exploitation, injury, trauma

AO3 ver

The locker room seemed impossibly large when Mirtala first saw it; a bench in the center more than half her height and ten lockers each as tall as her in two rows on the wall.

Mirtala had only ever heard about the locker room in passing; never from Dion, who hated talking about the arena to her, but from the Wolves and sometimes from Aster and the other kids. Of those groups, only the Wolves had ever seen the locker room, but Aster and the rest just loved to boast about how well they’d do when they were finally old enough for the arena, loved to boast about how they knew so much about it already.

But it wasn’t Aster and the rest who were standing in the locker room, a Wolf’s hand on their shoulder. It was Mirtala, her braids twisted into two tight little buns.

“Your outfit’s in the middle locker on the bottom,” the Wolf said, gently nudging Mirtala forwards. “You won’t be going in right away, but better to try it on now.”

The locker in question was unlocked. Mirtala wasn’t entirely convinced that whatever was inside would fit her—it had only been a few days since Creed drafted a contract for her, only a few days since she’d leapt into the arena with an ill-fitting wolf mask. Surely, with everything that happened in Ouroboros, there hadn’t been time to create a new outfit—every competitor in the arena was an adult or close enough, after all, and none of them were very close to Mirtala in size or stature.

To her surprise, the outfit she pulled out fit her well enough. The pants and boots and black shirt was much like Dion’s, but sized down to fit her. The shirt had the number 054 embroidered on the back in shimmery white thread—did Dion’s outfit have the same, under his vest? Mirtala figured it must have.

Where Dion’s vest was red with gold accents, Mirtala’s was white with red accents. It reminded her of candy canes, almost, or playing cards—there was a red heart on the back. Red-dyed faux feathers lined the collar, soft around Mirtala’s neck. She turned back to the locker for the final piece.

A red and white chickadee mask greeted her, the carefully shaped beak seeming to gleam under the locker room lighting. The paint was bright, unfaded by time, free of chips. It looked brand new. It looked like it’d fit her perfectly.

Mirtala pushed the mask on, reaching back to tie it.

It felt like a damnation.

+=+=+=+=+

The brawl was well underway by the time Mirtala was guided to the arena. She took a moment to peer through the gate, watching. The Opossum was already lying face down in the dirt—was he down for good, or would he get back up later? The Rhino was charging after the Rabbit, ducking around and under the obstacles in her attempts to reach hare. The audience was loud, the resounding din of the cheers and jeers louder than the groan of the gate as it rose.

“Good luck.” The Wolf shoved her forwards, out of the shadow of the gate into the searing light of the arena.

The announcer’s voice blared over the loudspeakers. “What’s this? A new challenger appears!” The audience roared. “Introducing the Chickadee! You may know her from a few nights ago, but this is her official debut! Let’s give her a warrrrrrm welcome!”

Mirtala steeled herself. She tried to imagine the arena before her as one giant jungle gym. A giant game of tag—that’s what she was about to participate in. Just a game of tag.

The announcer continued, “The first challenger to catch the Chickadee wins! Can she evade her powerful opponents? Let’s find out!” The audience was too loud, the lights too bright.

The Rhino snorted. Mirtala wasted no time in somersaulting to the nearest set of painted metal bars and flinging herself up atop them, darting about a monkey bar-like structure that curved up and over and around. The Rhino couldn’t reach her up here, so Mirtala took a moment to breathe.

Thunk. Thunk.

…Nevermind. The bar shook again as the Rhino kicked at one of the supports, and Mirtala cartwheeled over to a maze-like arrangement of metal panels. The Rhino circled around the entire thing—Mirtala had hoped to lure her into the maze entirely. Phooey.

The Rabbit chose that moment to try attacking the Rhino, landing a kick right into her leg. But the Rhino was built like a tank and it showed—she simply whirled around to face the Rabbit, who was quick to dart off.

Keep things interesting.

It was Mirtala’s whole job, in this arena—if she failed to do that, then she might as well have lost. She walked along the top of the maze walls, leaping over to another set of metal bars.

The cage bars cast shadows across the arena. Mirtala’s mask pressed against her face. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the Rhino with all of the judgment she could muster. “Are you even trying? My Nona could move faster than you!”

That did the trick. “You—” The Rhino slammed her shoulder into the pole, making the whole thing wobble. Mirtala didn’t fall, though, holding on tight. She focused not on the woman attempting to tear the structure out of the ground, but on the Opossum on the structure behind her, slowly creeping forwards.

“My baby brother’s stronger than you! He’d have knocked this whole thing over by now!” Throwing all these insults didn’t sting as much as Mirtala expected—maybe it helped that they were (kind of) true?

(Or maybe the poison of Ouroboros was getting to her. Mirtala dreaded the possibility, but she couldn’t deny it.)

The Rhino bellowed a wordless cry of rage, stepping back to throw even more force into her next shove—

The Opossum leaped down onto her from behind, arms wrapped around her neck. Mirtala watched as the Rhino stumbled this way and that trying to dislodge him. She grasped at his arms, and even slammed him against the metal panel behind her, but he held fast. Within moments, she went down, the Opossum leaping to the side to avoid being pinned.

The Opossum had hardly a moment to bask in his victory before the Rabbit’s boot was driven into his side, slamming him into the metal panel he’d just leapt off of. The Opossum was quick to get back up, darting between two metal poles to avoid the next kick. Mirtala could see his hands shaking. The Rabbit charged him again, and he yelped.

Mirtala’s whole job was to “keep the fight interesting,” as Creed had put it. So she grabbed the bar she was standing on and swung down, her legs catching the Rabbit right in hare’s shoulder. She wished she could aim for hare’s face.

The Rabbit stumbled backwards. Mirtala swung back up, flipping once in the air before grabbing the bar and landing in a handstand. “Nyeh!” She taunted. There was no time to doubt, no time to stop and think—she had to keep moving no matter what. Mirtala couldn’t stop, couldn’t let herself be caught—

She slid down a pole and dashed across the ground. The Rabbit lunged, and Mirtala ducked under hare’s tackle. She rolled to the side to avoid the next tackle, leaping into the air and slamming directly into the small of hare’s back. Hare wheezed.

Mirtala moved to climb back up, out of reach— 

Her whole world tilted as she was lifted into the air by her ankle in one smooth motion. The Opossum held her up in front of himself. The audience cheered.

Mirtala crossed her arms. The fight was over.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion was going to be sick.

Anxiety was taking a hand mixer to his organs, dread trickling down his spine. He’d never been in Creed’s private box before. He never wanted to be in here again.

Creed’s King Cobra mask glittered in the light, covering the upper half of his face. His dark brown eyes still looked like deep pits ready to swallow Dion whole even with the fake scales. “She’s doing quite well for herself.” He commented, voice light.

Dion receded further into the plush seating. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here, sitting five feet away from this monster of a man, watching his baby sister hop about the arena like it was some kind of playground instead of the awful fighting pit it truly was—

But he wasn’t allowed to leave, either. Creed had insisted, and when Creed insisted on anything it was an incontrovertible order. When Creed insisted, someone else ended up suffering.

“You should be proud,” Creed purred, as Mirtala taunted a woman more than five times her size. “Your sister has more will to survive than half of the roster.” He took another delicate sip of wine, setting the glass down before turning to regard Dion directly. “You are proud, aren’t you?”

Pride was the last thing Dion was feeling. Complete and utter terror, sure, but—

How was he supposed to be proud of Mirtala dancing around the one place he never wanted her to go? How was he supposed to feel anything but a sense of abject failure at his ability to take care of her, to protect her from as much of Ouroboros’ ills as he could? She shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t have ended up in Ouroboros with him—and yet his own idiocy had brought her down with him, and despite his every effort he could do nothing to protect her from his own fucking mistakes—

Dion’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the arena below them, wanted to tear his eyes away from his sister being chased around like something to be caught, like a goal to be grabbed—

But he couldn’t.

Hatred rose up Dion’s throat like bile. He turned his ire towards the monster beside him. Venom gathered on his tongue.

(He’d nearly yelled his throat out when he’d first found out about Mirtala’s shiny new contract. Partly at Mirtala, partly at the Wolf watching him on his next dayshift.

He hadn’t had the courage to do anything more than glare at Creed when he saw him. Had almost yelled, only for his words to lodge themselves in his throat and make it sting and tighten with unshed tears.)

“I hate you.” Dion snarled. “You’re awful. Mirtala doesn’t deserve this, nobody deserves this, and I hate you, you figlio di put—”

“Are you done?” Creed’s voice cut through Dion like a knife. All of his fight left him, his whole being coming to a halt under Creed’s gaze.

Creed grinned, the fangs of his mask gleaming. “So you can be smart sometimes.” He commented.

Dion hated him. Dion hated him so much. But he held his tongue, wary of the Wolf guarding the door, wary of the serpent sipping wine barely five feet away from him.

The audience roared. The sound grated against Dion’s ears. His throat tightened and his eyes stung, his view of Mirtala ducking under the Rabbit blurring—

He hated this. He hated Creed, he hated this place, he hated his inability to do anything to get himself or Mirtala out of this hellhole—

But he hated himself most of all.

+=+=+=+=+

Mirtala cleaned herself up in the locker room, trading her arena outfit for nightclothes. Her hands shook, her heart racing in her chest.

She wasn’t sure what scared her worse—the fight, or the thrill that she had felt during it. Mirtala had felt unstoppable up until the point that she was finally grabbed, on top of the world as she leapt and tumbled around. She didn’t need to win fights, just to evade everyone long enough to make things interesting. But she had wanted to win so badly, wanted to push herself further like it really was just one giant game—

And that scared her more than anything. Would she let that competitiveness control her? Would she let that need to win take her over until the Mirtala in the chickadee mask was unrecognizable to her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

The exhaustion in her bones, the lingering adrenaline from throwing herself around the arena like it was one giant obstacle course—

It was satisfying. It was just like home, just like tiring herself out practicing her performance and pushing herself to go higher, farther, faster—

Uncertainty and fear swirled in her stomach. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and kick and shout until the emotions swelling in her heart didn’t seem so impossibly big. She wanted to cry.

But no tears ever came.

+=+=+=+=+

Their room was bigger when Mirtala got back. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, water dripping off onto her back.

Dion was waiting on his bedroll when she returned. His face scrunched through five different expressions in the span of a second at the sight of her, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

(He looked like he’d just cried. Mirtala still wanted to cry, herself.)

Wordlessly, Dion turned away, his expression stone.

Whatever. Mirtala grabbed Francis III and sat down on her own bedroll. Dion could stay mad for all she cared; she wasn’t going to stop. She had finally found something to do that could help, and she wasn’t going to let Dion talk her out of it.

(She wasn’t allowed to, besides.)

She clutched the plushie tighter. When Dion came back from the arena, he curled around her until their breathing matched. So why, when Mirtala came back from the arena, did Dion refuse to look at her? Was he really that mad at her?

(Probably. He’d yelled at her when he found out about the contract, his face twisted into a monstrous snarl of hurt and anger.)

Her eyes stung. Mirtala sniffed, begging herself not to cry. She was strong! She was brave! She had to be, to survive here in Ouroboros. And she was.

She heard Dion move behind her. Felt his hand ghost over her shoulder before withdrawing. “Tala—” He started, only to fall silent.

She didn’t turn around.

(Later that night, when Dion’s breathing had long evened out, she tucked herself against his side, pulling his arm around her and imagining that he’d put it there, that he’d pushed through his stupid doubt and held her himself instead of holding back like a coward—

Mirtala clutched Francis III closer. She hated this place. She hated it so much.

But she was still powerless to do anything about that.)